The M Word

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.