I was sitting at the side of my bed when I first heard the news that something was wrong.
The previous day I had gone in for an ultrasound that left me so excited. The nurse had shown us the little white dot that she would indicate was our baby.
This phone call came with a deep voice from the doctor that wasn't there the day of our ultrasound, but was relaying the news... "they were unable to hear the heartbeat..." He calmly informed me that there is a high chance that we were miscarrying our baby, but he scheduled me for a second ultrasound that would confirm the news.
As my heart sank into a deep place that I thought had no ending, I cried out a scream and begged God for everything to be alright. I just wanted it all to be alright.
The following week I found myself hunched over a blue plastic chair that sat in the cubicle desk of the ER doctor that read to me the results of my dropping HCG levels and lack of heart beat in my third ultrasound. She put her hand over mine as she told me, "I'm sorry, you are having a miscarriage."
It pierced my heart. A dream in me had died that night.
I saw my husband's face outside the window of the ER office in the waiting room and he knew. I saw him receive a group hug from the friends in our marriage group that were there with us that night. I remember thinking how glad I was that he was in the comfort of those he cared about, but I wasn't sure if I was ready to join them. His dreamed died that night with mine.
We went home and I remember how we sat on our bed and prayed. We asked God for His glory to be known, in our hearts, and in the hearts of many through the loss we were feeling over the brokenness.
And as days went on, I battled over the lie that I failed my first job as a mother to carry a baby correctly. I battled over the lie that "it was meant to be". I battled over the lies that I was just another statistic.
I was only 10 weeks along according to the pregnancy calendar, but my Doctor would later tell me that he would believe it to be a "chemical pregnancy", meaning, that my body only thought I was pregnant, but I never was.
The news none-the-less left me with a miscarried piece of my heart.
We would try for the next year only to give up when one pregnancy test after the other showed negative. That is, until the day, after we stopped trying and sold our belongings and headed out east to becomes parents to 7 hearts. 12 weeks into my next pregnancy, I would see those pink lines again that would forever change the course of the way I viewed life.
And this Mother's Day, although I celebrate those in my life as well as my own experiences in child rearing, I can't help but Thank My Jesus for promising to be with me through the entire heartbreak, and even that miscarried piece of my heart ended up right back in His Hands!
To the mother's out their, Congrats on your hard work and dedicated Love!