I never wanted to be a statistic.
My past experiences volunteering for pregnancy centers and my community of Christian women led me to understand the realities of miscarriage from an early age. And I knew the data – 1 in 4.
My husband and I were overjoyed when we found out we were expecting. It felt so surreal! There’s a sweet little baby growing rapidly inside me and we get to love this baby from now to forever – we were ecstatic.
Week 14 rolled around and I was excited to begin the second trimester, but a few daunting spots made me nervous. A day later we learned there was no heartbeat. Our precious baby was gone. In the climax of grief – time, words, and emotions are all a blur.
I experienced what they call “a missed miscarriage.” Our baby had passed away much earlier, but my body didn’t stop acting pregnant. The physical pain that accompanies a miscarriage truly can’t be described. It was a swirl of dark agony, loss, humiliation, and fear.
Although reeling emotionally and physically for longer than I can count in some ways – the biggest blessing during this time was people. My husband, family, and close friends. Our church family bringing us meals, friends from far away sending flowers, my sister sitting on the couch silently watching TV with me. The sense of presence found with those closest to me helped me grieve.
Two months later we found out we were expecting. This moment was followed by tears of fear instead of joy. I was so afraid. Like with our first baby, I prayed for their life and for God to protect and hold them close.
Week 12 came and there was no heartbeat. A missed miscarriage.
This loss brought on a completely different version of grief. I was angry at God, closed off, afraid of myself and being vulnerable in any capacity. I didn’t experience the physical pain brought with miscarriage because my new doctor suggested surgery instead.
I then felt guilt for bypassing the pain that miscarriage brings. I deserved to coil up into the fetal position with pains, cramps, aches, and shivers. I closed myself off more during this loss than the first. I believed I would be a burden to those who had poured into me so recently.
Each loss was accompanied by very different forms of grief. Which solidified for me that grief isn’t linear and it won’t be a carbon copy each time something traumatic happens. Although grief morphs and changes – Christ does not change.
Through the kaleidoscope of emotions that grief brought – one thing remained constant and that was Christ. Although I prayed angrily wiping away a steady stream of tears; He never left. He never stopped loving me even when I told Him, ‘How could you?’ He never ceased to comfort me when I sobbed all my makeup off in the bathroom at work. He saw every tear, He heard every desperate cry for help, He listened to my degrading self-talk and still HE LOVED ME.
There is no one way to grieve. There isn’t a pretty timeline with a monthly schedule you can count on. You may want to be surrounded by those who love you or you might seek alone time to grieve. The only constant you can depend on when grief is crippling is Christ. He is unchanging.
“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” Hebrews 13:8
by Taylor LeProhon