Real Talk: What Miscarriage Taught Me

You know that initial cocktail of feelings you get when you go on a roller coaster for the first time? You stand there watching the ride, seeing people shriek and laugh with an equal mixture of fear and delight, or throwing up what appears to be their entire lives as they cling to the harness for dear life, praying to make it to the end of the ride. They jettison to and fro, and you think to yourself “Nope. Not doing that”, then “That looks like fun, I could probably do that”, and finally “I’m SO doing that!” You join the line, and wait for what seems like forever, but finally it’s your turn and you strap in. Nervous anticipation building, you wonder “What did I get myself into?” Am I really ready for this? Is it too late to get off?! Frantic, you lock eyes with the attendant, but it’s too late and they simply smirk and wave as you shoot off into the unknown.

This is how I felt the day I found out I was pregnant.

It was a Saturday morning, sometime before 8:00. I glanced over at my husband sleeping peacefully, completely oblivious to the melee of thoughts in my head. I slipped quietly out of bed and made my way downstairs, not wanting to wake him (which is a feat in my household, since he moves like a panther, and I am about as stealthy as an elephant). I wanted to make him breakfast in bed, but instead of grabbing the box of pancake mix, I ran to the bathroom to grab my waiting pregnancy test. Nervous and impatient, I followed the instructions, then paced back and forth waiting for the results. I told myself not to be too disappointed if it was negative. We’d just try again, right? The lines slowly began to appear. Wait…Was that a second line?! OMG, it is!! The perfect mix of elation, nervous joy, and a hint of terror washed over me.

I was pregnant. WE were pregnant! I couldn’t wait to break the news to Wenrick.

I considered planning some elaborate way to surprise him with the news, but that would take time. Besides that, I couldn’t stop grinning like the village idiot, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide it for long. I had to get creative. I sounded the alarm in my girls chat group,  and started brainstorming with my sister Lisa, while waiting for my other siblings and friends to wake up. My friend Marietta and I started a conversation about creative ways to break the news a while ago, but we had never finished it. I ran to the kitchen, searching for something that I could use as a prop. Wenrick stirred upstairs, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before he made his way down. What the heck was I going to do?

Buns! We had buns! I grabbed one and stuck it on a plate and threw it into the oven. (Yeah, yeah. I know it’s obvious. Judge me less).

I hid the pregnancy test under the counter just in time to see Wen come around the corner, still wiping sleep from his eyes. “Babe, can you check the oven for me please?” I asked innocently. He looked totally confused. “What?”

I tried to keep my voice neutral, while suppressing the smile that was threatening to take over my face. “Can you please check the oven for me?” Glancing suspiciously at me, he obliged. I watched as a range of emotions crossed his face. “What are you saying?” He must have asked that question 100 times. I couldn’t contain my joy any longer, so I whipped out the test, showing him the proof: two thin, weighty lines. We spent the next hour crying, laughing, and tearfully calling our loved ones to share the news.

The roller coaster ride had begun.

 Hearing the heartbeat thundering through the doppler, I found myself looking forward to the journey ahead. Somebody was going to call me “mom”. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around that thought, but I wanted it badly anyway. What would their name be? Who would they look like? What would their personality be like? At what point would I stop being able to shave my legs? When would morning sickness stop making me feel like jumping off of the first floor balcony? The thoughts came fast and furious.

By the time my 12 week check-up came, I was finally feeling better, like I had gotten some kind of handle on the whole pregnancy thing. My husband and I bantered back and forth in the small waiting room. I was threatening to cut my hair, yet again, and laughing at his notion that I had conspired with my girlfriends about it. My denial was cut short as the nurse called us into the back. Lying on the table, I readied myself to hear the beautiful sound of my baby’s heart beat. The doctor moved the wand around. Silence. He commented on the size of the baby, concern creeping across his face. It was smaller than he expected. Much smaller. He measured, as Wenrick asked him what it meant. The baby was the same size as the last time he had seen us a month ago. Still no heart beat.

Our roller coaster ride jolted to a gut-wrenching stop.

The doctor turned to us and clasped his hands in the universal medical gesture for “this is not good news”, as he uttered the equally horrifying phrase “I’m sorry to tell you this…” His words passed through my body like knives through a fog, as my mind struggled to comprehend what he was saying. I saw the scan for my self. I heard the deafening absence of sound on the doppler. And yet even as I nodded my understanding, I felt like there must have been a mistake. My baby–our baby…was gone?

As the doctor left the room, the pretense of my brave face left right along with him. In two strides, Wenrick made his way to the edge of bed where I sat. I wanted to say something brave. Or encouraging. Anything. But the weight of the doctor’s words had knocked the sound from me, and nothing intelligible would come. The instant my husband wrapped his arms around me, the sobs wracked my body and I clung to him like a swimmer to a life raft as I drowned in a sea of tears.

Eyes still damp, we sat before the doctor as he gave us our options. I could wait for my body to complete the miscarriage naturally, I could induce labor or I could have a d&c, and he could remove the baby right then and there. In that instant I couldn’t fathom the last option. It seemed so… final. I wanted badly for there to be a sliver of hope, but I knew that there was none. Our baby had stopped growing at 7 weeks and 4 days; this was my 12 week check-up.

Almost five weeks without a hint that anything might even be remotely wrong. I had never felt so betrayed by my own body. Both Wenrick and I were worried about the possibility of sepsis, but I could tell that he didn’t want to push me to make a decision. The doctor told us that we could take some time to think about it and if nothing happened naturally over the weekend, we could come back on Monday to have the procedure done. Before he could take it back, I latched onto the idea. It was Thursday.

The ride home was oddly calm. Both Wenrick and I were silent at turns, introspective at others. It wasn’t until I got home and lay on the couch that the sorrow swept over me again. I couldn’t string the words together to pray. I didn’t know what to say. So I just lay there and wept for the child I would never meet.

Making my way to the kitchen, I wrapped my arms around Wenrick’s neck. I needed to be near him. As he shared the news with his Aunt, I saw the tears welling up in eyes. I felt the emotion building, threatening to burst from his body. I pulled his head to my shoulder just as the wail escaped his lips. I could hear the heartbreak in his sobs, causing a fresh wave of tears to wash over my face as my heart broke for the second time that day.

This was our first real taste of “worse”.

Many tears later, we came to the conclusion that I shouldn’t wait until Monday for the d&c. Wenrick was worried, and my father agreed. My sister in love was adamant and truthfully, the reality that I had carried something dead for so long had broken through the fog of my grief and I couldn’t imagine prolonging it. We managed to schedule an appointment with the doctor for the next evening.

Friday seemed to drag on forever. Was it just yesterday that we found out? It felt like days had passed. As the time for the procedure drew near, my nerves came alive. Was I mentally prepared for this? What if I had a meltdown at the doctors office? I didn’t feel ready whatsoever but I had to do it. As much as I dreaded what came next, I wanted this whole nightmare to be over and done with.

I don’t remember too much about the trip to the doctor’s office. Wenrick played worship music to help soothe my nerves and held my hand while we waited. The doctor gave me two small pills and a shot to make me drowsy. After that, I vaguely remember being uncomfortable, groaning in pain on the table while they removed the fetus. I’m glad I don’t remember more than that. I hope to never have that experience ever again.

This was a chapter that I never imagined would be included in the story of my life. But even in my sorrow, I knew that there was something that God wanted me to take from it. I knew this experience was not mine to hold onto, but something to be shared. In the days following, I spent time really dissecting what had happened and one thing became crystal clear to me:

In my grief, I couldn’t grasp the thought that I would no longer be pregnant. I wasn’t mentally or emotionally ready to accept that fact. I was willing to cling to something I knew was dead, something that could potentially kill me, for just a little while longer, simply because it pained me too much to let go. The pain of separating from something that started off good, but ended badly, kept me from making a decision that would benefit, and maybe even save my life.

My God, what else was I not willing to relinquish even after knowing that it was of no benefit to me? Spiritually? Emotionally? Relationally? Physically?

How many other dead things was I willing to hold onto for just a little while longer because I wasn’t mentally ready to face the pain? Which friendships had stopped growing? Which habits no longer fulfilled me? Which selfish dreams, that I know weren’t going anywhere, was I going to let keep me from moving forward? What hurt did I keep returning to, making it difficult for me to truly forgive?

Clarity, as usual, brought change.

The instant the thought solidified in my mind, I knew it was time to cut my hair; My first act of defiant faith, as I committed to moving forward. See, my hair had become a security blanket. I’ve always been blessed with a full head of thick, long, healthy hair. But over the past few years, it simply hadn’t been the same–it shed like crazy, and it started to lose it’s life and beauty. To the untrained eye, it was quite fine, but I knew better. I wanted to start over. Over time, I found myself holding onto other people’s thoughts and my own insecurities. Maybe I shouldn’t cut it. I have a big head (I really do). I look better with long hair, etc.  Losing Baby Clarke made me realize that it was simply another dead security blanket, serving no purpose other than the comfort of the familiar. So I chopped it off. All of it. It was simply time to prune my life of all of the dead things I had been holding on to.

Just because something starts off beautifully, doesn’t mean you have to continue to hold on to it. Especially when you recognize that it has run it’s course. We cannot create new life while clinging to what has been declared dead. When we prolong letting go, we create an atmosphere that becomes toxic; The longer we expose ourselves to it, the more severe and permanent the damage. You literally owe it to yourself to move forward.

Give your self permission to release the things that no longer give you life.

My angel baby taught me that.