The Weeping Prophet: Pregnancy After Miscarriage
I talked a long time ago about something terribly personal to our family. I did it because someone told me that others needed to hear it. I did it because I needed to process it. I did it because I ran out of things to watch on Netflix that numbed my brain. And since I did it, I had a lot of folks reach out to me about it. A lot of folks who had gone through the same thing. A lot of folks who felt much similarly or much differently than I did about it and it felt good for all of us to get it out. This was not a platform or a cause that I chose; rather one that chose me. So, for the first time, I'm going to address how it was for me to carry a beautiful child full-term who lived directly after the loss of one who didn't.
The doctors tell you not to get pregnant right after miscarrying for good reason. Pregnancy hormones are the things of science fiction. In short, you are an insane human being. It takes several months for your hormones to adjust to a normal level after a miscarriage. One of the worst parts is that your body still functions as though you are pregnant, long after you have lost the child. As was mine when I got pregnant with Ellie.
I hate all of those terms that parents jokingly use to describe a child that was unexpected. She wasn't a "happy accident". She wasn't an, "oops, surprise!" She was perfectly timed, perfectly planned, and her life perfectly orchestrated to fit ours and our family. But that doesn't mean it wasn't very difficult.
Because of how close my pregnancies were, and because of how the first one had ended without the actual delivery of a baby, my pregnancy with Ellie was emotionally, physically and spiritually taxing. I lived in denial and refused to go to the doctor until I was well over two months because I simply didn't believe I was pregnant. I just couldn't. I felt like if I believed again I would never survive another loss. And I was convinced I would lose her.
Every doctor's visit was terrifying. I would have the same nightmare over and over again the night before of the ultrasound revealing an empty womb- no heartbeat; no baby at all. It was hard to feel connected to her, to relate to her and yet, I would count the minutes in between her kicks and hold my breath. If she was slow to move, I would stay in bed, unable to breathe, my whole body clenched as if I could keep her inside by the sheer force of my will. Even in my helplessness, I still tried to hold onto the reins of control.
And then, late one night when I couldn't sleep, I took out my Bible. Not because I wanted to. Because I couldn't sleep and I felt guilty re-reading Chocolat for the hundredth time. I turned to Jeremiah because he's my favorite. The Weeping Prophet. And in my sixth month of pregnancy, this is what I read:
"For I will restore health to you, and your wounds I will heal, declares the LORD, because they have called you an outcast: ‘It is Zion, for whom no one cares!"And I began to cry. Which isn't really unusual for a sixth month preggo. But I really began to cry hard. Because I was wounded. My body was wounded, I was sick the entire time. And my heart was wounded and conflicted with the joy of this new life mingled with the grief of losing a child. I felt like a pariah. An outcast. Here I was, this woman who should have been radiating with joy at the fact that she was about to give birth to a healthy child and all I could do was wonder and fear if she would die, too. If I was worthy of being a parent at all. And sometimes, wish it would all go away because there was too much emotion. Too much strain. Too much stress. Too much heartache. I felt bound to those feelings. Like I could never voice them or no one would understand. They would all judge me. Think me a terrible person. This verse was for me.
Something in me changed that night. It was still hard and I still cried a lot and I still had nightmares before all of my doctor's appointments. But I believed that God would heal my wounds and restore my health- my physical, spiritual and emotional health. Because God's not afraid of the pariahs. In fact, he loves them. Looks for them. Seeks them out. Just like he sought me out.
When Ellie was born and placed in my arms, for a brief moment I wondered what my first child would have looked like. And then, as my little girl looked at me with wide, open eyes I was filled with thankfulness that I was able to hold and love this little one. That she was present. That she was given to me.
I am still sad sometimes, but I am more often thankful. I've been given much in my daughter. She's our joy.