Five years ago, I joined a camp of mothers that I had assumed I’d never join. It was a camp that many of my friends—even my sister and my own mom—were already in, yet I had understood it little because I hadn’t been there… until I was there….
It had been a subject I didn’t want to touch. Women close to me had suffered it, some of them more than once, but I had kept myself distanced—not because I didn’t care but because I didn’t understand.
I had no idea what miscarriage is like until it happened to me.
Miscarriage is more than disappointment. It’s more than bleeding when there should be no blood. I found that out at the instant it physically happened to me.
Three weeks I had waited, knowing intellectually that my miscarriage was pending; but not until it physically happened did my heart and my body realize the loss that had until that moment been mere head knowledge. Gut-wrenching, body-racking sobs instantaneously and involuntarily issued forth from me in a manner that evidenced not a mental grief but a deeply physical one.
For weeks my heart grieved in a way that even I couldn’t fully understand. I knew only that my loss was real—maybe not to anyone else, but certainly to me.
A few months later, my heart still tender from the pain of miscarriage, a feeling of dread overtook me. I was eight weeks into another pregnancy, and I was spotting….
The nurse had said I could come in for an ultrasound to make sure everything looked okay, and I was relieved that she would care to allay my fears. My scheduled appointment wasn’t for another week, and I didn’t want to have to worry for that long.
I laid my anxious self down on the ultrasound table, halfway expecting to see on the screen that same empty black spot which was still so fresh in my memory. But what I saw was nothing like that.
What I saw was two black spots, neither of them empty.
Nothing was wrong at all. In fact, everything was perfectly right. I was having twins.
I had gone in prepared for a repeat of bad news and was leaving awed at the revelation of doubly good news… news that, on the heels of a miscarriage, was even sweeter.
It wasn’t that another baby—or even two babies—could ever “replace” the little life I had loved and lost just a few months prior; but the double filling of a womb emptied too soon was like soothing salve to an aching wound.
To this day, I look at my twin daughters and shake my head in amazement that such a blessing could possibly be mine. Any child is a gift, to be sure; but there is something about having twins that is indescribably special.
And to think that this joy could not have been mine unless the pain of miscarriage had also been mine leaves me in a state of wordless wonder and humbled gratitude.
Not a summer goes by that I don’t remember the events surrounding my loss nor a January that I don’t think about a due date that once was. I shall not ever forget something… someone… of such significance.
But time goes on and brings healing with it. Miscarriage was dreadfully real and deeply painful; but five years down the road, I can say that I wouldn’t have it any other way. After all,