It is well with my soul

I apologize for being so silent here on the blog this summer. I have many blog posts I've been working on, so stay tuned for these as I get time to put my projects into words.

The main reason for my silence here is due to a whirlwind of life-changing experiences this summer.

We found out in early June that we were expecting our first child. Joy ran rampant in our hearts and in our families.

I had been seeing a doctor for several months, because we discovered that I had a condition that needed to be treated and, until treatment was successful, it made getting pregnant a bit more of a hurdle for us. We rejoiced last winter when my OB/Gyn doctor declared that the treatment had been successful and released me with the words, "Next time, come back with a baby."

We did not expect the "next time" to be so soon, but we were ecstatic!

Once the pregnancy was undeniably confirmed by the lab, my first prenatal appointment was scheduled for 10 weeks. At that time, we would be able to hear the baby's heartbeat.

That morning of July 15th dawned bright and beautiful. My husband drove me to my appointment and we didn't have long to wait before they called me back to the exam room. When it came time for the nurse to listen to the baby's heartbeat, I asked if she would get my husband from the waiting room. We wanted to share this much anticipated moment together. Once he was ushered into the room the nurse began searching for the baby's heartbeat using the doppler. They couldn't find it, but assured us that that was not unusual at this early stage in a pregnancy.

The doctor came in and reassured us also and then he began talking the normal business of how the next few months would play out with my prenatal care, etc.

Then he said they were going to take me in for an abdominal ultrasound to hear the baby's heartbeat. We followed the sonographer into another room and I took my place on the table. She began performing the ultrasound, while my husband and I anxiously watched the screen and listened for that elusive heartbeat.

After several moments, she began to speak. Words I wish she'd never spoken. Words I wish I'd never heard. Words I couldn't believe.

"There is no heartbeat."
"The baby is only measuring 7 weeks."

And then the words that somehow sealed it all.
"I'm sorry."

She wiped the gel from my belly and prepared to lead us back to the exam room that we had left so excitedly a few short moments ago.

I remember the numb feeling that washed over my emotions as I stepped out of that sonography room and entered the hallway bustling with nurses and patients. "This isn't really happening. It can't be."

I was still numb from this unexpected shock as I woodenly resumed my place on the table in the exam room. There were no tears yet, because my brain and my heart were still trying to process what had just happened. It was as though all my emotions had become a GPS system that was "recalculating" after a wrong turn somewhere. The sonographer sympathetically handed me two tissues, probably because she didn't know what else to do. I almost refused them. I didn't need them. I didn't feel like I was going to cry. I was still numb.

The doctor came back into the exam room, sympathetically offering us no more hope than that cursed ultrasound had shown. He began going over our miscarriage treatment options. We could 1) wait it out, 2) take a drug that would force the onset of the labor and delivery of the "pregnancy tissue", or 3) schedule a D&C.

Such dismal options! So many possible courses of action, yet none of them even remotely close to what my heart really wanted to do. I wanted to carry this baby to term, deliver it safely and soundly, and take it home with me. I wanted to put my finger in its tiny hand and feel those little fingers wrap around it and hold on tightly. I wanted to watch its tiny eyelids flutter as it drifted off to sleep and hear those quick, deep sighs as it slept on my chest. I wanted to watch the half smile form on its lips as I rubbed its soft cheek during a nap.

Instead, I was being told my pregnancy was ending when it had barely begun and I had to make a decision.

All this "down to business" talk began to cause the initial numbness to begin wearing off and my heart was awakening from its stupor. My emotions were quickly coming unraveled and the doctor just kept talking. 'I need to get out of here.'

My sweet husband and I were in total and unhesitating agreement about choosing option 1. The "let nature take its course" option.

'Decision made. Can we get out of here now?'

We made a quick exit, hastening through the waiting room full of happy, expectant mommies. 'Why don't they have an alternate exit from this office for the disappointed and crushed mommies that are drowning in the wake of the horrific news that they have lost their precious child?'

The office door closed behind us and we were alone in the hallway heading towards the elevator. My husband reached for me and the dam broke and the floodgates opened. I unclenched my fist to use one of those two crumpled tissues the sonographer had fortuitously forced into my hand, grateful now for her persistence.

We reached the car and sat together lifelessly in the shadowy semi-darkness of the parking garage. We cried. I think we talked, but mostly we cried.

We cried for hours after. Even now, days and weeks after, we still cry. Our hearts will always ache for our missing firstborn. The precious child that so delightfully surprised us by making us parents and caused us to marvel at God's life-giving handiwork. The child that we had welcomed and loved from the moment we knew of its existence, but whom we never met.

We bowed to God's sovereign will, but we chafed under the pain. It felt like a cruel trick to drop so suddenly from celebrating at the giddy heights of a joy greater than we'd ever known to plumbing the depths of the most poignant sorrow we'd ever known.

But we both knew our Father's heart. Even in this indescribable pain, we knew his heart to be ever loving and his character to be always good. We rested, and still rest, in that. This loving Father is the one who formed that child, gave it life, and gave it its fleeting heartbeat. That precious heartbeat that was gone before we ever even heard it.

People say that time heals. I can see that I am already healing, the stinging open wound is lessening to a dull ache. I believe the ache will probably always be present, another deepening layer of experience that richens my character and makes me a fuller, and, yes, even a better person. However, there are, and I believe will always be, days and moments where the ache will unexpectedly sharpen into a twinge of acute pain. In every day, every moment, whether the pain is dull or sharp, I am challenged to continue trusting God. Trusting him with his plan for me and his plan for my darling, precious baby.

The musician, Sara Groves, has a beautiful song out that has encouraged and challenged me through this roller-coaster ride of losing our baby. One line says, "I will open my hands, will open my heart. I am nodding my head an emphatic 'yes' to all that you have for me." The challenge for me on the good days and the bad days, in the good moments and the bad moments when the pain sharpens and squeezes tears from my eyes and my heart, is to keep my heart open to God. Closing it will only make me bitter and unable to receive God's blessings. Opening it will allow me to receive all the good things he has planned for me.

I will write more about the journey of our miscarriage experience later, but for now I'll close with the words to yet another Sara Groves song, "It's gonna be alright." Because of God's grace, it is going to be alright. After it all, it is still well with my soul (check out this beautiful version of "It Is Well" by The Ember Days). My heart has received a saddening blow, but my soul is truly well.