There was a time I didn’t want children and, when we found out we were expecting, Jared told me to think of her as a puppy because I was so unhappy and I love puppies.
Then there was a time I was in denial until the doctor placed Squidget in my arms and I instantly loved her more than myself.
Then there was a time I was so sorry I hadn’t known how much I would love Squidget but was still unconvinced I wanted another child.
Then there was a time I found peace when God told me I would have a girl named Magnolia.
Then there was a time I loved her before I even became pregnant.
Then there was a time I lost her and never met her.
I know the statistics and I know it’s not my fault. I know these things happen inexplicably other than to say that genetically the pregnancy must have been nonviable, which is what the doctor explained to us as we sat in his office, tears streaming down our faces.
I saw the tiny curl of her attached to me. I saw the stillness, heard the lack of a heartbeat, saw the black that is the blood that surrounds her instead of what is supposed to be embryonic fluid.
I know her soul is gone. My mother-in-law dreamed she’s in heaven with her great-grandparents.
Now there is a time I am her crypt instead of her sanctuary, waiting to officially miscarry and lose what’s left of her in this world, fervently praying that God will bring me closure and peace again.
All I want are answers at a time when answers are impossible to come by. Mentally I understand I might never get answers. Emotionally that doesn’t help. I have to trust in and lean on God. (Not my strong suit.) I rationalize that while God promised me Magnolia, He didn’t promise me how long I would have her.
I thought I understood after Squidget was born how much God loves us to have sent His only son to save us. Now I know I didn’t understand that sacrifice at all.
I try to have a grateful heart, and there is much for which to be grateful, including all the small and great acts of kindness I have received from people — some from people who have no idea what is happening, like the bank teller who dug through a bag of lollipops to find my favorite flavor the day we found out.
It’s been two weeks and I still smile and pretend everything’s okay because I can’t say the words without dissolving into sobs. It’s too exhausting to explain to a world in which she never existed. There’s no process to follow, like when someone who was born dies. There’s no obituary, no funeral, no formal period of grieving. In my mind there should be, so I’m writing this.
As we tell the people closest to us what is happening, I am astounded by how real the statistics have become and how many families have borne the same grief we do. And I now understand how hard it is to talk about, but I am so thankful for those of you who have.
Mamas and papas who have been through a miscarriage, we are not crazy for being devastated. We lost children who we loved. The ones of you who have shared your stories, you are the reason I will get through this too. I see you carrying on, loving, trying again in spite of your pain. And I know I can.