the one about september 12

Five years ago today, I found out that I had miscarried my first baby.

I was 24. A newlywed. A new homeowner. We had already bought a baby crib.

The weeks and months that followed slowly and painfully passed as I watched other women close to me announce pregnancies and welcome healthy babies into the world. I knew I should be happy for them, but I wasn’t. They had their babies to spite me…to hurt me…to rub them in my face. Of course that wasn’t true, but it sure felt that way.

Even though we had great support from friends and family, I felt so alone. I felt like I was wearing a flashing sign around my neck that spelled, “I just had a miscarriage,” yet people were doing all they could to avoid reading it. They’d make conversation about other, more comfortable topics. They’d give me their best advice. “It just wasn’t meant to be, ” they’d tell me. “There was probably something wrong and this was God’s way of taking care of the situation.” “This kind of thing happens all the time.” After a while, I had almost tricked myself into believing that I wasn’t pregnant long enough to be sad, and there was never a baby to mourn. I felt shame for crying myself to sleep even after months had passed.

It has taken me years to gain back what I lost in the 30 seconds it took my doctor to tell me that the baby was gone, but scars from the miscarriage still remain.

I’ve had two successful pregnancies since then, but the fear of an “empty ultrasound” doesn’t go away.

I’ve restored my faith in a loving God, but the question of “why us?” still remains.

I have two beautiful daughters to love, but I still think about the child I never got to meet.

Time has helped.

Prayer has helped.

Noelle and Charlotte have helped.

Love has helped.

Helped, but not healed.

My heart will always break for the child I never got to hold in my arms. Thank God Heaven is for real.