That time

It comes every year.

Sometimes it sneaks up on me. Sometimes I am ready and waiting. But every year in March, I remember.

The month I lost my first child.

The way I remember is not the same every year. It's not the same because I'm not the same.

Most years, I write about my experience. Some years I send emails to the people who were a part of my story. Sometimes I dig out the bills and stare at them- the only tangible evidence I have that I was pregnant. I allow myself the walk through all the memories I can muster.

Sometimes it's funny what you can remember. I was pregnant just 14 short weeks. Or long weeks, depending on how you look at it. Two of those weeks were marred in sadness and a sense of impending doom.

A few good memories surface, like thinking of how my sisters oldest and my child would be less than a month apart; how exciting it was to create postcards announcing my pregnancy to family; picking out a name and buying tiny baby clothes for my first. Little did I know.... little does anyone know.

But I suppose what I remember most are the hard things. The loud sobs that rocked my body to its core in my school's rotunda bathroom when my body told me for sure that I'd lost my child. The countless blood tests I went through to confirm, some the doctor ordered, some I asked for just to be sure. I remember pleading in a sense with each professional I met to find some glimmer of hope to hold on to. The ultrasound tech just said "... I'm not sure". And that ultrasound. Oh, that invasive ultrasound. I watched the screen, not quite sure what to look for. I'm so thankful to my friend, who was waiting on the other side of the door.

I remember the hospital, the surgery, the recovery room. The nurse, though she was trying to comfort me, making me cry. Everyone made me cry.

I didn't know what it felt like to leaved the hospital with a baby, but I know what it felt to leave empty.

I remember a friend coming shortly after my surgery to make me soup, because she didn't want me to be alone.

I remember feeling like a statistic. Another friend, sister, daughter, cousin.... who had lost a baby. Just another.

I remember the emotional pain, more than the physical. The pain that never really leaves. It gets dulled, it gets pushed below the surface. It gets covered with happy times and memories, but it's always there.


But it doesn't end there. Thank God, it doesn't end there.

God met me in this deep, dark valley in my life. He pulled me close and held me tight. I felt assured that my child was with Him. I laid in bed, clinging to God's word. Some portions spoke deeply to my troubled heart, which is probably how Lamentations became one of my favorite books. Verses like "My eyes pour down unceasingly, without stopping, until the Lord looks down and sees from heaven" (Lam. 3:49-50) mixed with "The Lord's loving kindnesses indeed never cease, for His compassion never fail. They are new every morning; Great is Thy faithfulness" (Lam 3:22-23).

Sometimes I look at my four beautiful children and feel guilty for my grief. How can I be sad about my one when I have four. But my heavenly Father loves each of His children, lost or found. My child was mine. The child who God formed and knew, who was not secret to Him. (Psalm 139)  I remember and I grieve and I thank God.