One mother endures countless miscarriages in order to birth two beautiful daughters. But she finds herself doubting her ability to create a third.
Christy Hiniker shared her story of multiple miscarriages earlier this year with her essayses Too Many Miscarriages To Count and After Five Miscarriages, Maybe The Sixth Pregnancy Will Work Out. Here, after two successful pregnancies, she updates us on her third.
I've walked the same path so many times (both literally and figuratively) to those mirrored double doors, behind which house dozens of women in every stage of fertility, that I'm certain you could blindfold me and spin me 'til I'm dizzy and I would still find my way in record time.
Here we go again.
I fully expected a Cheers greeting ("Hi Norm!") as I walked up to counter of my OB's office. The familiar faces merely nodded and smiled a generic welcome, waving me over to the row of empty waiting room seats. I chose one near the back, a perfect post for people watching.
The room was a buzz with new mothers quietly consoling their newborns, heavily pregnant mothers not-so-quietly consoling their rowdy toddlers and clusters of couples huddled together pouring over their freshly taken ultra sound pictures. I protectively rested my hand on my belly and smiled thinking that those moments might not be too far off.
The minutes ticked away until it was finally my turn to venture behind the swinging door. An ultrasound first, then Dr.F--the reason for my two little success stories. It seemed surreal to be starting this process all over again.
The ultrasound showed we were right on target for our newly discovered pregnancy: just over 4 weeks. The size of a sesame seed. It's quite amazing that you can fall in love so deeply with something the size of a sesame seed.
And yet, mothers do it everyday.
When the mighty Dr.F entered the room he gave me even more reassurance that "The Seed" and I would have a successful journey together.
"I know you're scared given your history, but we've done this twice now," he said excitedly bobbing his head up and down, "there's no reason this won't work a third time."
No reason.
I carried his words with me and held tightly to them, convincing myself that we had found the answers. That this time would be different.
And when things began to fall apart--when I began to feel my body painfully ridding itself of my little seed of a dream, all I could think about was stomping up the stairs to my childhood bedroom and screaming.
The heavy, dark gray clouds that lined the sky reflected my mood as I returned to the office to "officially" hear what I had spent days trying to deny. I laughed bitterly to myself thinking of the black bag overflowing with "new pregnancy" goodies--prenatal vitamins, formula samples, diaper coupons, all of which sat unopened on my dining room table. The generous gift that made me giddy with excitement just one week earlier was now a painful reminder of what wouldn't be.
Was this really happening again? And not just the miscarriage, but me. Was I really right back where I started? Scared, angry, my faith shaken and my world turned upside down? Have I learned nothing?
How could I have gone from a place of such gratitude and contentment--so thankful for the miracle of my two daughters--to this place of darkness and grief?
When my loss was confirmed and the necessary follow-up appointments were made, I wandered back through the lobby. Though a few tears had begun their escape down my pale cheeks, for some reason I resisted the urge to hurry to the door and instead took my time, scanning the faces of the waiting women. I'm sure now that it was a divine intervention, because just before I reached the exit, my eyes locked with a pair of equally moist, dark brown eyes belonging to a young women sitting in a wheel chair.
I recognized the look of despair and heartache that furrowed her brow and twisted her mouth. It was only seconds of a stolen glance before she buried her face into a pile of tissues and I ran for the elevators, but the image as stayed with me.
She was a complete stranger and I knew nothing about the trial she was experiencing, but in that moment she helped me remember that I'm not alone. That this anguish isn't reserved solely for me.
Loss touches us all. And with our individual losses we become better equipped with compassion and charity to comfort those who are suffering from the fresh wounds of an earthly battle lost.
This past week, I have been tenderly cared for by the hands of friends who know the power of a silent hug, a good meal and a "thinking of you" phone call.
I have been blessed by the thoughtfulness of my beautiful family who continue to give selflessly of themselves to ease my burden.
I have been humbled by the sight of a woman and her teenage daughter standing on my doorstep with an armful of flowers meant for me. It was only months before that she was laying similar flowers on the grave of her stillborn baby girl, and yet, here she was concerned for my grief.
We will never escape loss. So many people are struggling to reconcile the anger, confusion, and seemingly endless heartache that accompanies bereavement--and yet they make the decision to carry on, to use the searing pain for good...
....to show up on the doorstep of another in need and offer what's left of their broken heart.
I hope to continually carry these memories and moments with me through this unpredictable journey. I pray for the strength of those who courageously face each day and fight the understandable urge to scream and shout and curse their misfortune.
I long for the bravery of those who choose instead to seek out others who are mourning and help them, to begin again.
No comments:
Post a Comment