I hate statistics, I hate numbers and probabilities and all
that kind of stuff. But did you know that one in every five women that becomes pregnant will suffer a miscarriage? I am now, sadly, one of those women.
Last month Joseph and I lost baby Winterer #2. The little heartbeat was there at eight weeks,
I saw it on the ultrasound screen along with our little nugget. But at a follow up appoint, at ten weeks, there was no heartbeat. Joe and I were devastated. The days after finding out were some of the
hardest days I’ve experienced in my 30 years on this earth. The physical and emotional pain is
indescribable and something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I shut myself out from the world for the most
part and didn’t even go outside for nearly a week. There was mostly sadness, mixed with anger and
outright rage at points. I blamed
myself, as any mother would do (despite all the statistics proving that unless
you’re an alcoholic or crack addict then there’s absolutely nothing you could
have done to prevent it). There had to have been something I could have done,
right? Did I eat something wrong, not
eat enough, did I work out too hard or not enough. Did I drink too much coffee or not take my
vitamins? What did I do?
Throughout the whole
thing Joseph was my rock, even though he was hurting too. With his help and the support of my family, we
got through the worst part. After nearly
two weeks, and one failed attempt of returning to work, I picked myself up and
re-entered the world a changed person realizing that it was not my fault. I felt empty, like a piece of me was missing.
I still do. But with each day I have
slowly started becoming myself again. The holidays are a nice distraction and I
am looking forward to the new year.
I now look at Abigail with such amazement and thankfulness
(which of course I did before but now it’s more so). I know how fortunate we are to have a child
when so many people out there try for years and cannot conceive. And I know that, God forbid, I am never able
to have another child that I already know the joy of carrying one. In the weeks following our loss, so many
women have shared their stories with me.
I was shocked to learn from some of my co-workers, family members, and
friends that they have suffered a loss as well. It’s unfortunate being part of
this “club” but it is somehow, strangely comforting to share your experience
and to talk about it. This is far more
common than I ever realized.
So here we are, a month later. We are still hurting and healing. I am finally ready to talk about it. Ready to
“accept” it. (Though I think that accept
is a strong word. I think maybe “come to
terms with” is more appropriate.) But, ugh,
I hate that word “miscarriage.” It’s a
horrible word and I just can’t bring myself to say it out loud. It implies that
you’ve missed something; that something is gone. I know that something is missing. The
physical being of our baby is gone, but I can still feel her, she is still
here. I may not be able to hold her or
rock her, or watch her grow. I will always wonder what she would have
become, what she would have looked like. I will mourn her when her due date
arrives in June and I will mourn her little life that never was. But I will also celebrate her. I have
faith in the Lord that everything happens for a reason and I need to trust in
His plan for us. I pray for her every night. I am sad that we lost our little one but am
comforted that the Lord took her--knowing that something was not quite
right.
Our baby is our guardian angel now and so I have decided
that instead of being one of the 20% that has miscarried, I will be one of the 20%
that has an angel baby-- watching over Joe, Abigail and me. That is something I can accept.
