Today...

Today is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I did not know such a day existed until yesterday. I am so glad, though, because I feel as if it provides an opportunity for those of us who have firsthand experience to come together.
Today, I want you to read this post from the blog Bring the Rain. At the time I am posting this, there are over one thousand comments. That means there are one thousand women just like you...who know what you are feeling. If you have time, read through as many as you can. Know that you are not alone today or any day.

Kari's Letter

The following is a letter that Kari wrote for the baby she miscarried, whom they named Peace.

August 2, 2007
My Dear Baby Peace,
I still find it hard to believe that you're in heaven and not with us. I miss you so much. You are a part of me and I love you. I know that God works all things together for our good, so that we will be made more like Christ, which means that we will be made more like Christ, which means there is no doubt that God decided to take you to heaven early for a reason. I probably won't ever fully understand why, but I am certainly forever changed and I will never forgets you or any part of your little life.
We arrived in Morocco in July, and Papi didn't want us to have another baby during the year that we were in language school learning Arabic, so I agreed to wait, even though I was very ready for Baby #3.
By February, Papi agreed to start trying. I had conceived your older brothers, Eric and Ben, within two weeks, and I fully expected the same thing to happen again. However, the first pregnancy test March 12th was negative and I was disappointed.
However, I decided to take another test on March 25th, and was ecstatic to discover that I was finally pregnant! Tata Rachel helped me plan a night when I could take Papi out to dinner to an Italian restaurant like I had done with my other two pregnancies, and present him with the card that I made, announcing your existence. He was so happy, too.
I really wanted a girl, and Nana and Tata Rachel were convinced that you were a girl, but I also said, "If God chooses to give me another boy as sweet as the two that I have, that's fine with me, too." Honestly, I was just thrilled to know that you were inside me and that I was your Mami!
Soon after, Papi and I started looking for a house in Dar Bouazza. We made the trip by train the first two weekends of April and in between, while back in Fez, we snuck out to the doctor's office without Nana knowing so that we could find out when you would be born. (We wanted to surprise her and Papa with the news Easter Sunday.)
In that first ultrasound picture, you were so small we could hardly see you. It was too early to see a heartbeat, so Dr. Bentouri asked us to come back the following week. We agreed.
That Thursday we went back to Dar Bouazza for the second time, decided on a house in Jack's Beach, met with the landlord and signed the rental contract, all in a rush so that we could be back in Fez in time to celebrate Easter with Papa and Nana and your brothers.
Sunday morning we sat outside in our garden and Papa read from the Children's Bible and Jesus' death and resurrection. The purple wisteria was in full bloom, hanging above our heads, and it was the perfect place to celebrate Life...and that included your little life, too!
Papa and Papi hid all of the colored, plastic eggs around the yard, and Eric and Ben searched high and low until they were all found, including the empty egg to remind us of Jesus' empty tomb, and the two eggs in which I'd hid little pieces of paper that read, "Is it a baby boy?" and "Is it a baby girl?" Papa and Nana helped the boys open all their eggs, and I took a picture of them laughing out loud when they realized what the little papers meant! They were excited to welcome you, their fourth grandchild, into the world.
Well, Papi and I went back to the doctor's office the next Thursday, excited to finally see your heartbeat. Imagine how crushed we were when there was still no heartbeat in your ultrasound, just you, silently floating inside me. I didn't understand - didn't want to understand Dr. Bentouri when she said, "You're going to miscarry." How could that be? Our journey together had just started! I was in tears and Papi held my hand really tight. Both of us were hoping that we had misunderstood her or that she had somehow made a mistake in what she was saying to us in a mixture of Arabic, English and French.
As we left her office, I was really crying, but trying desperately to hold in the tears as we walked through the waiting area, past all the happy, round tummies of the other expectant mothers who were waiting for their turn to see the doctor. I wanted you so badly!
Unable to talk, Papi and I just started to walk, in no particular direction. He put his arm around me and we both just let the tears freely fall. "Peace," I told him decidedly. "I want to name our baby Peace if Jesus is going to take this baby from us early, because God's Peace passes all understanding." Papi nodded his head in agreement, unable to talk really because his mind was reeling from the shock as well.
Somehow we ended up at Bab Milleh, the place in the old Jewish Quarter where antique furniture is lovingly repaired and resold. A few weeks before I had seen a large square footrest, its comfy cushion covered in rosey velvet, and since no one had bought it yet, we decided to go ahead and buy it. I told Papi, "Whether we get to keep this baby or not, this will be a visible reminder of God's faithfulness to us."
Going home to Tata Rachel and the boys was hard. I just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry, but Eric and Ben greeted us with their usual happy faces and big hugs. That was comforting, but at the same time it just made m want to keep you even more! I wanted to be able to hold you in my arms and hug and kiss you, too!
Papi and I were sad, but still hopeful. Maybe I had ovulated late. Maybe you were conceived late. We decided to proceed with life as normal, pray that God would allow us to keep you, and wait. Waiting has never been easy for me, and the agony of this time was definitely far worse than any previous period of waiting.
I left the next morning for the women's retreat in Aoulouz, down by Agadir. The other two women from Fez, Tata Rachel and I met up with the others, including Nana, at the Casablanca airport. One look at Nana and I burst into tears in her arms all over again. I had called her the night before so that she'd know, but the pain was still so fresh.
By the end of the weekend, I'm happy to say that God's Peace was reigning in my heart. I had called Papi to reassure him that everything was going to be all right, even though I didn't know what that meant, and I returned to Fez confident that God was in control, regardless of whether we got to keep you. Papi and I continued to go to school as usual, and both of us felt Peace.
That Thursday, during the break between my morning classes, I noticed some bleeding. My heart sank with the realization that God was indeed taking you home to heaven. Somehow the knowledge that He wanted you with Him made it easier to get through the rest of the afternoon and whatever lay ahead, even though I didn't know what to expect.
Before Papi and I went to the clinic to meet with Dr. Bentouri, I wrote a quick email to my women of prayer, asking that they be praying for all of us. I'm grateful for the overwhelming response of love and comfort that we received from family and friends, both near and far, over the course of the next days, weeks and months. Papa and Nana even drove down from Tetouan the very next morning. I was thankful for their helpful, encouraging presence.
On Saturday, Papa took Papi and me to pick out a little cedar box for you. As we left the house, Eric and Ben were crying, so Tata Rachel reminded the boys that Jesus had taken you home early, and that you were no longer in my tummy. Eric said, "Tell me more, Tata; I want to hear the rest of the story." And so she talked about how you were in heaven singing to Jesus. With excitement, Eric declared, "I know what song Baby Peace is singing! She's singing..." And with that he started belting out his favorite song: "How Great is our God." Bu partway through he stopped himself. "No. Baby Peace isn't singing like that, she's singing like this..." And he began again in a sweet, soft voice:
"How great is our God,
Sing with me, how great is out God!
And all will see how great, how great, is our God!"
A couple weeks later, a special gift of love arrived at our door: A beautiful bouquet of a dozen red-tipped yellow roses, sent to us all the way from Southern California by dear friends of ours: Jay & Rachel St. John, Nate & Katie Orr, and Jason & Kami Mandell. They wanted us to know how much they loved us and were praying for us. When the roses started to fade, I dried them and used the petals to cushion you in your little wooden box.
Tata Rachel had heard of another family burying their baby in the old cemetery of the Anglican Church in Casablanca, and we were granted permission to do the same. I know you're in heaven, but I wanted the memory of you to be close to me, where we could visit the memory of you often.
So now we've buried your tiny little body, and planted a rosebush above you, a reminder of our little rose who is in heaven right now. I know that when Jesus calls me home, you'll be there in His arms, ready to run to me, giving me the biggest hug and saying, "I love you, Mami." That day we are all reunited in heaven will be a glorious day indeed.
My sweet Baby Peace, I love you and will always cherish the memory of you.
All my love,
Mami

Why I Am Starting This

Today is September 16th. It marks the four year anniversary of my miscarriage. Because I never want to let a year go by without thinking and remembering my oldest child, I always use this day to reflect. Just as I celebrate the birthdays and milestones of my other two children, I use this day to celebrate and think on the baby I never got to hold.
My husband, Tim, and I were so excited as we entered the office of my OB/GYN that day. It was my first appointment and I was twelve weeks along by my calculations. We talked to Dr. Freeburger and asked her questions and then headed into an exam room where I slipped into a hospital gown. She felt around the top of my uterus and said it felt like I was right where I should be for a twelve week pregnancy. Because twelve weeks can sometimes be too soon to hear a fetal heartbeat, we headed into a darker room that contained an ultrasound machine to see the heartbeat instead.
Nervous and excited, I cracked jokes that I later thought, "I can't believe I said that." Laying on the table with gel spread over my lower abdomen and clutching Tim's hand I waited for a picture to appear on the screen. Dr. Freeburger pointed out a little bean and introduced us to the first image of our child. After a very quiet moment I could sense something wasn't completely right. I asked her if the baby should be moving around more. She said that they don't do too much at that stage of the pregnancy and then said that I might not be as far along as we thought.
Sirens and red flags went off in my head as I knew exactly when I got pregnant. We were charting and paying close attention and I could tell her the exact day I ovulated. I knew something was very wrong. We waited a couple seconds longer in silence before she turned to us and said,
"I am so sorry. There is no heartbeat."
Those words changed my life.
Dreams and hopes came crashing around me as I tried to take in what she was saying. Name ideas flew out the window as we would never know if I carried a boy or girl inside me. I looked to my husband...my precious best friend who was anticipating fatherhood for the first time and saw him blinking back tears. I felt as if I had punched in the stomach and I didn't know how to breathe.
Dr. Freeburger gave us some options to talk through and think on and said to call the next day with our answer for how we wanted to advance forward. We mumbled our thanks and good-byes and left.
As we got in the car I suggested stopping at his brother's house to let him and his wife know. They lived close to where my doctor was. Tim wanted to wait a bit since they were just a couple weeks behind us in their own first pregnancy. He didn't want them to worry about whether or not it could happen to them and also pointed out that they had friends staying with them. Their friends had recently lost their firstborn son soon after his birth and we weren't sure how they would respond with their own grief so fresh. Home we went to call people and ask for prayer.
I don't remember too much about the night, just a lot of phone calls and crying. There are certain moments that stand out. One is when Tim finally reached his parents and broke down on the phone with his dad. I have never in my life - and still never have - seen him cry the way he did. The sound was agonizing for me as he let his grief come forth in sobs that I think he had been trying to hide from me in order to be the strong one.
We opted to have a D & C performed that following Saturday (it was Thursday when we found out.) I tried to go to work on Friday for a little bit but was shoved home by my co-workers after they found out what happened. My parents, sister and grandmother came to visit for the day and be with us. My mom had suffered a miscarriage between mine and my sister's births. It was good to be with someone who knew how I was feeling.
My parents came into town again on Saturday to sit with Tim during my surgery. They helped me home, made some lunch and cleaned a little and then headed out when all I wanted to do was sleep. Our pastor and his wife, who had been through multiple miscarriages, stopped by to pray with us and share their own stories.
That night two couples, who we count ourselves very blessed to have in our lives, brought dinner over and visited with us. They let us cry, they let us laugh, they were the best company ever. Not knowing what to say or do, they let us take the lead and followed where we went in our conversations. They didn't try to make any feel-good comments, they just let us be and the loved us through every random moment of it. That night will be etched in my mind forever.
In the weeks following what happened, I felt myself drawn to the women who would hug me and then tell me they had miscarried also at some point in their lives. I wanted to know their stories, wanted to be reassured that what I was feeling was normal, wanted to know I wasn't alone or foolish in grieving so hard for someone I knew so little. They became my support and encouragement, my "Jesus with skin on" if you want to be cliche.
I let myself roll through each wave of the grieving process. Denial? Check. This can't be happening to me. Anger? Big check. I felt so angry at God and then I would feel mad for being angry at God. Finally I just let Him have it. I yelled at Him and told Him exactly what I was thinking and how mad I was at Him. I realized that I believe in a big God. He can handle my anger. He was grieving along with me, I believe that. He loved me through it and when I yelled at Him, He waited for me with His open arms that were ready to receive my collapsed and sobbing body.
I wondered what I did wrong, did I eat something that caused me to lose my baby? Was it because I lost my virginity fresh out of high school and I now was being punished for it? Was it because I had prayed for a healthy baby and maybe this wasn't and so in the end I didn't have to have a handicapped child?
That is the hardest comment to hear people make, in my opinion. The "Oh, it's better this way because there was probably something wrong with the baby" statement. They mean it to be comforting but you know that it's the people who haven't actually miscarried who make this comment. I didn't care. I wanted MY baby. If he or she had been blind or deaf, cerebral palsy or down syndrome - it didn't matter to me. I just felt like I had empty arms.
Somewhere along the way I arrived at acceptance. I had been dealt a huge blow to my plans for life. Miscarriage didn't really fit in to what I had laid out but I stumbled along after realizing I couldn't go back in time to change it. In time I realized that I could take my tragedy, my trial, and use it for good. I had joined a circle of women who had lost. Just as I had been touched by women who had experienced the same as me, I could use my loss to connect with others who had also miscarried.
That is where I am now. Four years later I do not always feel healed in my grief. There are more good days than bad, especially as life has gone on and Tim and I have welcome two children to our family. My arms were filled with their births but there are still times they ache to know my oldest. The night my son was born, I held him alone in the birthing room. I had showered, the nurses had left after giving him his first bath, and Tim was outside making phone calls to friends and family members. As I traced the lines of his face and marveled in his beauty I told him about his older sibling. I shared how he or she had given up their place so that Noah could join us. I became pregnant with Noah just two months after miscarrying and each year is bittersweet on this day. I long to know my oldest and yet am so thankful for my Noah.
I have progressed to the stage of thankfulness. I am thankful that I could have the opportunity to carry a life, even for a short period of time. I am thankful that I can use this hard experience to try to reach other women who might be hurting or confused as to where to even start in the healing process.
This is why I started this blog. I find that it's in the connection of women -the shared stories and experiences - that we can find a level of healing. We can be encouraged and uplifted and we can find people who will cry with us and share our grief. We can take our trial and find healing in it.
If you would like to share your story, or you know someone who might like to, please contact me at: emptybuthealing@gmail.com. I would encourage you to also share this site with others who have lost a child and are in need of a place to start.
Through each other's empty arms, we can find healing hearts.