The word I never wanted to type again.
The story I never wanted to have to tell.
Last Thursday I miscarried, again. A second baby lost. Thursday afternoon April 29 there was a flicker of a heartbeat on an ultrasound. By Friday morning the intense pain and amount of blood and tissue made it clear there was no more.
It was a busy week with school stuff every night, ending in a wedding and then Listen to Your Mother. I feel like know I am just finally coming up for air, am just now having the time to process it all.
Wasn’t once enough? Wasn’t a second trimester lost after I had seen and felt the baby enough pain? I can’t comprehend the flicker on the screen one minute and then the flushing of the toilet a few hours later.
I was eight and a half weeks. Only a small handful of people knew, not even family yet. I want to keep it all to myself, pretend it didn’t happen and let the pain be my secret.
At the same time though I want to scream it at everyone I meet. Give me a break I’m shedding the cells of my dead baby! I would think in my head as people gave me the once over with my frazzled hair and sweatpants. Or as I apologized for something not getting done.
This was not the story I wanted to tell.
This was not the path I wanted to walk.
I feel like Jonah, yelling and pleading, But I don’t want to go to Nineveh! I went into my follow up appointment and ultrasound expecting a miracle. Hoping beyond hope that my doctor was wrong. Maybe it was a twin, maybe it was just some freak bleeding and we would see that little flicker.
That was not the path I was chosen to walk.
Despite my pleading and screaming that I did not want to go to Nineveh, God has decided this painful path is mine to walk.
So I type these words and I tell you my story because I grasp to find reason. I cling to the hope that there is a greater purpose and that my lost babies are leading me there.
In the meantime I cry, I scream, I mourn, and go through the everyday wondering how we got to this place and if we can ever go back to where we came.