Miscarriage: the Ultimate Emptiness

Two healthy children live at our house.  We have this blessing, mindful that others do not, and also with the knowledge that we have three other children waiting for us in heaven. I miscarried 3 times.

Miscarriage steals from the body, mind, heart and soul.  It ravages memory and creates resentment in the spirit of those who experience it.  Or at least it can.  I have felt it, though I never told anyone about it, and God has delivered me from it.  As it happens in life, God has equipped me to carry a message, to reach out to others, to help someone else, in a way only I can, because of what I have experienced.

Miscarriage creates a quiet camaraderie in those who have shared the experience.  It offers a network of other suffering women (often, men and families, too) who know that a life would have entered this world and lay in their arms, if not for a failure to develop or to thrive in the womb.

Miscarriage is, however, not failure in a sense -- it carries no blame, though its name sounds full of finger-pointing.  I mis-carried?  Who named this?  It does not represent failure of the mother to carry a baby properly in the womb.  It does not represent failure of a father to want a child, or for either parent to have conceived without wanting a baby.  It does not represent lack of love or nurturing.  It does represent failure in genetic transfer, or in steps of development, or possibly a tragic accident that causes loss of that dear little life.

Ultimately, miscarriage creates emptiness.  When a mother-to-be sees the black space on an ultrasound screen where a baby ought to grow, a feeling of emptiness overwhelms her.  Sometimes, all she can see is that empty space, no matter how large or small it appears.  Empty is very large in this.  No ocean of tears can fill it.  No amount of hoping it will turn out differently can change it.  No amount of sympathy or empathy can take the place of what was ... what should have been.

My husband and I conceived our first child "by accident".  We didn't plan to start a family; we had just purchased our first home and had major DIY to accomplish in it.  We had four years of marriage behind us, but did not feel ready for this kind of responsibility.  God had other plans.

For three months, we lived the dream.  We waited to tell our families until Thanksgiving, at almost the end of the first trimester.  They celebrated and cried happy tears and made plans in their hearts for a first grandchild, a first niece or nephew.  We made ready for our first Christmas with a child in mind, and on December 22, I noticed some spotting.  My heart knew what that meant.

I called off for the day from school, called the OB office and my husband, full of anxiety, drove us to the doctor's office.  He gave me a quick exam and sent us to the hospital for that fateful ultrasound test.  The technician, named Shyla, let us know what she was seeing ... or wasn't seeing.  She also shared her story of anguish, which took place at about the same time of year, and explained what might occur as my body learned to reject the baby my heart and mind weren't willing to give up.

My husband and I drove home after a consultation with the doctor.  I remember collapsing on our love seat and sobbing from the depths of my soul.  I couldn't function, I could see only the blackness of that space reserved for our baby.  I could hear my husband's voice, asking me to please stop crying, to tell him what he could do to help.  Then, I witnessed him go through the pain of first calling my mother, then his.  No one could believe the reality that miscarriage rolled our way.

The baby, he or she, had stopped developing at about 9 weeks.  My body, new at pregnancy, didn't know what to do, and kept humming along, allowing us to think all was well.  When the truth showed, we were feeling safe, into the second trimester, and beginning to tell friends and coworkers. 

Miscarriage creates social stress.  It makes friends speechless.  It makes relatives and ministers say things that should sound uplifting, but feel cruel.  It makes acquaintances ignore you, unsure of what to say. 

Miscarriage brings others who have suffered it out of the closet. 

My only solace during the first weeks into knowing I no longer held the title of "Mother-to-Be" came in the form of other women, carefully putting an arm around my waist or a hand on my shoulder and whispering, "I know what you're going through.  The same thing happened to me."  I didn't feel like the member of an elite club, but I did feel less alone, less despair.  I had some people to talk to and to share experiences with, and to allow me to feel miserable as I sorted my thoughts.

Miscarriage creates a lack of intimacy in marriage -- if you can't focus on anything else.  It can make sex feel like a chore, as you try to replace that lost baby with a new pregnancy.  It can bring about stress, solely by forcing sex to happen for reasons of replacement and to fill gaps caused by all the other areas of life and love you neglect.  It can bring distance to a marriage that has never known it before. It can create resentment in a husband, who used to look forward to intimate moments, and make him want to run in the other direction.  It can make a woman focus so much on procreation that she forgets recreation and adoration.

Miscarriage can either break or strengthen a marriage.  It didn't help ours a lot of the time, at least after I had permission to try again.  It didn't hurt our marriage too much, either.  Where it could have drawn us closer, I felt to driven to succeed in conceiving that I didn't focus on my husband and work at growing our relationship the way I should.  I forgot to honor and cherish.

Miscarriage tests faith.  I had none, really.  I knew about God, but I did not know God.  I had no walk, I had only talk.  Long after we passed through this particular refining fire, long after we had children to jostle on our knees and carry in our arms, I discovered who God is and learned to walk with Him.  Otherwise, I was good and numb, spiritually.  I didn't understand how the invisible and, to me, intangible could reach down and fix this mess.  It took years of hindsight and learning to put me on my faith journey.  But, God knew that.  He waited patiently, and guided me all the way.

Miscarriage can bring out good things, sometimes.  It brought out a desire for fatherhood in my husband.  Heretofore, he had repelled the idea of children.  After our loss, he felt distraught, wondering why he hadn't wanted to be a father, and now he wasn't allowed to be one.  His admission made him more real to me, more loveable, more important.  I saw something in his eyes, because we had lost something so pure and part of us, that took up residence there and has stayed all these years.  Miscarriage created a dad, even though he had no child to show for it.

Miscarriage can desensitize a person.  We conceived again about 6 months later, and within a week, lost that baby.  I felt sad, disappointed and as if we weren't ever going to have a child of our own.  But, I didn't feel empty, probably because I didn't have as much time to feel "full".  I knew the fragility of life, and somehow accepted this loss much more easily.  To this day, I wonder why, and I feel some guilt over it.  Why did I have a colder response to a similar situation?

Miscarriage can make a viable pregnancy all the more fulfilling and happy.  We finally conceived again almost 2 years after our first pregnancy.  We tiptoed around this pregnancy, and I read What to Expect While You're Expecting cover to cover.  We took care to do everything right, according to the book.  I gained weight, and kept busy.  We had our nursery ready to go months before the due date, and had clothing and supplies ready to go.  I knew we would have a boy.  I had secret ways of knowing -- no ultrasound to prove it -- but I just knew.

We had a girl.

Eighteen months later, I took a pregnancy test and passed.  Several weeks later, I began spotting.  I felt the same anguish and emptiness I felt the first time.  I hadn't lost my attachment after all. And then, I had a period that outdid them all.  I knew I was losing a baby; no tiny life could survive this.

Our son did.

Miscarriage isn't always total.  The doctor ordered blood work, showing rising hormone levels.  He ordered an ultrasound for the following week.  I worried.  I paced.  I cried.  My husband knew this was bad, called the doctor and asked for an earlier appointment.  They took me in that afternoon. 

The ultrasound showed a tiny little projection attached to the wall of my uterus.  Somehow, that baby, our son, held on tight while, very possibly, a twin did not survive and washed away.

Nine months later, our son came into the world.  From birth, he stayed awake more than 12 hours, held his head up and looked around at everything and everyone, as far as his dull little eyes could see.  We call him our "Happy to Be Here Boy".  And he is, to this day.  He celebrates life like no one else.  He's a little timid at first, and then jumps in and hangs on for all he's worth.  God knew that, too.  He gave him all he needed for this life right at the start.

Miscarriage can bring newness of thought, action and outreach.  Since then, I have had some opportunities to share my story with women who have just suffered this kind of loss.  Some have felt the utter emptiness I felt. Others have felt the guilt of not feeling, the same as I felt. 

Everything happens for a reason.  We may not ever learn the reasons, but sometimes, they're clear as day.  Mine are, and I thank God for them, though I would love to have those other children here with us, instead.  Would they be boys and a girl?  Girls and a boy?  All boys, all girls?  Someday, we will know.  God had other plans, we survived, and we have many blessings to show for it.