Warning: many might find this post a tad bit depressing. Feel free to skip it.
I had a miscarriage in March of 2008. It was the most devastating experience I’ve ever had to go through. I was working at the Attorney General’s office in Salt Lake City when I started spotting. I remember as I was driving home I prayed, crying to God that he couldn’t do that to me because a miscarriage was the one thing I couldn’t handle. I loved that baby so much and losing him or her was unfathomable.
Before that day, I thought that I could deal with a miscarriage. My mom had a miscarriage and she explained to me that sometimes things just aren’t working right and a miscarriage is nature’s way of taking care of it. I hadn’t realized until then that she could talk about like that because it had been over a decade since she lost her baby.
The next day, when I started having intense contractions at 11 weeks, I wondered why God would do this to me? To us? Why would he make me think I had a baby on the way, only to take it away from me? With every other trail I had experienced, I found a way to make sense of it: I learned an invaluable lesson, I came out of the trial with more empathy for and understanding of others, I was a stronger person, etc. But I could not, and still can’t, understand the good in losing a pregnancy.
One of the most difficult things in losing my baby was that people downplayed it. No one was rude, but comments that were meant to be helpful like “You really need to rest more,” and “That sucks. Well, at least you’ll have more time to study,” and “Maybe you weren’t really pregnant,” hurt. Most just pretended everything was the same, even thought I had already told everyone about the pregnancy. Some people were wonderful. My mother said, “I don’t know what to say, but I just really love you.” That was exactly what I needed to hear. My gastroenterologist, of all people, was also very validating. He left me a voicemail saying, “I’m sorry about your baby.” He didn’t say “Sorry about what happened,” or “Sorry about the miscarriage.” He recognized that I had a baby and the baby died. A woman from work gave me a hug when I returned and said, “No one really understands until they’ve been through it.” Nathaniel, of course, was wonderful. He just let me cry on his shoulder and cried with me.
One of the worst things about a miscarriage is blame. That’s why well-intended comments like, “Next time, you need more rest,” can hurt so much. Women who have had miscarriages constantly second-guess their every action, wondering whether or not a different decision at some point would have saved their baby’s life. This morning, I read a blog post about how the author miraculously avoided miscarriage, through prayer and faith and the grace of God. I am so glad she didn’t have to go through the loss of her pregnancy, but I do hope no woman reads that post and wonders if an extra priesthood blessing or more faith would have resulted in a different outcome. Well, I hope no one aside from me feels that way.
I spent a long time in the temple and although I cannot understand the reasons for losing a baby, I made my peace with what happened. But I have to renew that all the time. It’s easy to go back to being angry at God, but prayer helps the peace return.
When I was 7 months pregnant with Summer, I was chatting with a friend from high school about the bar. He mentioned something about my being a mommy, and I replied that I wasn’t a mommy yet. “I’m Catholic,” he responded, “and for me life begins at conception. So you’re a mommy in my book.” I liked that. So in a way, I’m a mommy of two.
I said I don’t understand why God would let me loose a baby, but perhaps I’m starting to make sense of it. Soon after the miscarriage, I was listening to a radio program about caring for trees (not something I would ordinarily do, btw). In response to a question from a listener, the host of the show explained that in order to properly care for a fruit tree, the blossoms should be plucked for the first couple of years so that the tree can grow strong and be prepared to bear fruit. When I heard that, my thoughts immediately went to the baby I lost. But I shoved aside the notion that God would let my baby die so that I could grow up a little more before I was charged with caring for one of His children. I’m still not sure that that’s the answer, but every time I think of the little one I lost I think of that experience. So maybe that’s part of it. I’m not sure. And now, that’s okay.
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