Story

Frederick Buechner once said, "A Christian has only two stories to tell. One is the story of Jesus. The other is his own story. In a sense, the two stories are the same story." I believe that God has laid it on my heart to share my story so here goes...

The euphoria I felt in the hours after Clay's birth was a surreal feeling. I felt such joy, such satisfaction, such amazement at what my body had accomplished. Through the pregnancy I had also gained new respect and appreciation for my body as I watched it swell with new life. I had experienced many years of poor self-image and body loathing earlier in life, and some sweet healing in my relationship with my body occurred through pregnancy and childbirth.

During the two years we were praying, hoping, and trying for another baby, I started to feel that my body was letting me down again. Every month I would desperately hope that my body had done its job, and produced a healthy egg, graciously hosted the little swimmers, and gently tended a new life. And every month, disappointment and discouragement. I grew angry with my body and felt like I couldn't trust it to serve its purpose. My body failed me.

After one year of being unsuccessful in our efforts to conceive, we met with a fertility doctor. He ordered many tests that measured the health of hormones, sperm, and fallopian tubes. Everything was declared normal, and he pronounced that we had "unexplained infertility." He said 85% of couples conceive within the first year of trying, and half of the remaining 15% conceive during the second year. Given my age and successful pregnancy with Clay, he thought we had a good prognosis and recommended we keep trying on our own.

Ten unsuccessful months later we visited his office again, ready to start the first step of fertility treatment, Clomid with intrauterine insemination (IUI). So I took those tiny white pills on days 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 of my next cycle, and then started the ovulation pee tests on day 10. On day 12, the test showed the LH surge, which indicates that ovulation will likely occur in the next 24 hours. I called in sick to work, and Justin, Clay, and I headed to the doctor as instructed. Justin made his deposit, the nurse did a sperm wash, and I laid on my my back and had a catheter of my husband's sperm injected into my uterus, quietly mourning the fact that I couldn't get pregnant the old-fashioned way.

Two weeks later I took a blood test, and our doctor called that afternoon and said it was positive. I was pregnant! We were giddy! Our seemingly endless wait to conceive was over. Many tears of joy were shed. I was walking on air.

We saw the doctor in week 8 for a "viability" ultrasound. The name alone should have put my guard up, but I had done lots of reading on-line and knew that using Clomid and IUI did not raise the chances of miscarriage, and I did not have any of the other risk factors for miscarriage. I was feeling hopeful. And surely after trying for almost two years, it would be cosmically unfair for me to have a miscarriage.

After making some measurements during the ultrasound, the doctor let us know that the baby wasn't developing normally, he couldn't find much of a heartbeat, and he did not expect the pregnancy to continue. He scheduled to see us in 10 days for another ultrasound, and sent us home. The shock and grief were indescribable.

After 10 of the longest and most painful days of my life, we saw the doctor again, and he confirmed with the ultrasound what I knew in my heart to be true. The baby was dead.

As I wasn't bleeding, the doctor gave me three options: wait, D&C surgery (which is a surgery where they open your cervix and scrape out your uterus), or pills that would help my uterus to contract and my body to let go of the baby. I chose the pills, and he put them up inside me near my cervix and told me to expect cramping and the miscarriage within a few hours.

I had my girls group planned for that night, and I was scheduled to host. I decided to go ahead with it, and planned to keep these gory details to myself. About midway through the group, I felt strong cramps, and things warm and slippery coming from my body. I went upstairs where Justin was reading, and together we looked at my pad, and flushed the beginnings of my emptying uterus down the toilet. I looked for the little dead baby but didn't see anything. I returned to the group in tears, and asked my dear friend Catherine to share my story with the other girls. We cried and prayed together, as I continued to feel my body letting go of this pregnancy I had so longed for.

My body let go of the main part of the pregnancy that night, but I bled for 7 weeks afterwards. After 6 weeks, I thought the blood was tapering off, but then I started to gush lots of red blood again, with blood clots the size of banana slugs. I was literally dripping blood like a faucet, and was soaking through countless pads. Blood was everywhere despite my efforts to contain it - all over my bed, my car, my clothes. It was disgusting and terrifying. I was panicking and crying, though I was scared to call my doctor because it was the weekend and I was afraid he would recommend a D&C. I did eventually call, and was told by the on-call doctor that unless I was feeling signs of anemia, like dizziness and fatigue, I was probably fine with all that blood loss.

I saw my doctor two days later, and the blood was finally tapering off. He said my blood tests showed that my HCG, which is a pregnancy hormone, was finally back to 0, and we figured my body had still been somewhat holding on to some of the lining of my uterus until all of that hormone was gone, and then it did a final, and terrifying, sluff.

Through this experience I felt a soft tenderness for my body. Even when the baby was dead, my body didn't want to let go of the baby. And even when the baby was gone, it still didn't want to let go. My poor body had fought so hard to hang on to this baby.

So now I hold on to this tender feeling toward my body, and I feel like my body is my partner. I feel sad that it had to go through all that pain and fear with the miscarriage, and I want to pat it and reassure it that I know it did the best it could. I no longer feel let down and angry with my body, and I try to be kind and gentle with my body, knowing that we both long for new life.

And so I travel forward, one day at a time, trying to savor all the good gifts God has given me. I am learning what it means to trust without feeling betrayed when things are hard, and to hope without feeling despair when my hopes are dashed. I am learning about authenticity and vulnerability, about community, and about sharing my story even when I want to hide. I know that God is using this experience to transform my heart, to deepen who I am and how I relate to others. I am learning more about love; how to be loved and to love. I somehow feel more real, more alive, and more connected than I ever have before. And I am confident that my God loves me and is holding me tight, and I could talk for hours about the ways He has shown up in this dark night. So I wait and hope and trust and cry, trying to stay by my Shepherd's side, and to be faithful to what He has given me each day.