Miscarriage (Part 3)

I've been writing lately about our loss. 

You can start at the beginning, when we first found out, by clicking here.  And to read about my heart in all of this, click here.  To read about how some of our kids are doing, click here.
And then the physical loss. 
To read Miscarriage (Part 1), click here.
To read Miscarriage (Part 2), click here.

Now, a final post:

* * *

And then I was in recovery.  It's so hazy, that time... waking up, hearing voices, people talking to me, and though I could hear them and was somehow conscious that they were talking to me, I was not fully coherent yet and certainly wasn't answering them.  It's all so strange.  I tried to pay attention to what what was going on around me but I was woozy from the anesthesia, drifting in and out, hearing snatches of conversation or hearing Michelle, my nurse- repeatedly say, "Stacy?  You're out of surgery.  I'm right here with you as you wake up.  Do you need anything?"  Until I was finally awake enough to answer her.

I faintly remember Dr. Mora, stopping in to say he was done, that things had gone well, that he hardly had to dilate my cervix at all because things were starting to happen on their own. 

I sipped some juice.  My mouth and throat felt numb and weird because of the tube they'd inserted during the procedure.  I talked to Michelle for a bit, she asked if I'd remembered Dr. Mora's conversation with me, and I repeated back what I'd heard him say.  I stayed for another half-hour or so, and then bid Michelle goodbye as Caitlin was there again to wheel my bed to another wing of the hospital.  Caitlin stopped in the waiting room doorway to beckon to Mark to come with us, and I saw my sweet husband and asked him what he'd eaten.  (Salad.  From the cafeteria.  With chicken and lots of toppings, and he drank water.  Good man.)  He'd also updated friends and family via text, and tried to call our Ella.

Then we were at our final location, with a sweet nurse also named Michelle, who offered me food (I said no), and took care of us  We spent maybe an hour in that wing... we mostly talked by ourselves, Mark and I, while Michelle did our paperwork at her desk across the way and down the hall.  She'd check in every ten minutes or so to see if I needed anything or check my vitals.  And she was our only nurse (with the exception of Sereta, who I mentioned in the last post) who acknowledged why we were there.  At one point she rested her hand on my arm and said how sorry she was for our loss, and spoke some words of comfort about how difficult it was.  I nodded and cried.

At around 6 o'clock I got up, went to the bathroom and changed back into my clothes, and then Mark went out to get the van and Michelle wheeled me to the exit.  We got into the van at 6:30.  What a long day.  We drove to the pharmacy to pick up my prescriptions (our final nurse had called them in for us) and then we drove to pick up our kids.  I cried when they all climbed into the van.  They had been worried, of course, and had held in their emotions all day long, and all of it tumbled out when we got home.  Home.  Where so many hours before I had been in so much pain.  We had a nice evening, sitting on the couch, talking.  Mark lit a fire and made it all cozy, and we just comforted the kids and talked with them about their day and our day.

* * *

As I write this, is is Friday again.  Almost a whole week has passed since I began having contractions.  I feel very fragile, and cry often throughout the day.  Not big long sobbing sessions, but tears, here and there- when it comes up.  It usually comes up with one of the kids.  Or with Mark in the evenings.  Or when people stop by with a meal or call.  Basically, every time I talk about it, I cry.  I know the sorrow will ease, and I'm surprised the grief is as raw as it is.  I thought I had already grieved; and that now that we were on the other side of the physical part of this, I would be fine, and we could move on, so to speak.  And we are, I know.  Healing, moving forward.  Just gradually.

Two nights ago Audra sat near me and asked how I was feeling- was I hurting?  I said yes, and then said, "My tummy hurts, mostly, where the baby used to be." And then I cried, realizing all over again that the baby wasn't there anymore.  (And then of course she cried, because she is the most compassionate four-year-old, ever.)

I know it sounds crazy, but there was a sort of comfort these last few weeks, knowing the baby was still inside of me.  Even though I knew the baby was no longer alive, somehow I still had a connection to our little one.  Now I just feel empty.  This morning Ella climbed into bed with me and we talked for awhile and she chatted about another baby, someday, and I quietly and achingly said, "We'll see."  And then, I couldn't help myself:  "But I wanted to know this baby."  And then I cried at the sorrow of that and also the realization that there IS no longer "this baby".   This baby is no longer with us; no longer in me.

We are overwhelmed at the kindness and tenderness of Jesus, who shows up every time someone comes to our door to deliver a meal, or brings flowers or sends us a card in the mail, an email or a comment on a post.  Or just comes to sit and listen and cry with us.  Or calls to check in.  Or prays for us.  Or just acknowledges the fact that we're hurting.  I have felt His presence so keenly through the presence of His people, and I am so very grateful. 

He has ministered to me deeply through the love of my own children, who speak openly of it all and tell me how sad they are.  He has ministered to me through the children of others, too.  An acquaintance brought us a meal last week, and some of her children had made me cards.  After she left, I looked through that little pile of cards- from children I have never even met- and I was comforted by their sweet little pictures and wobbly lettering.  And when I read words like, "I hope you feel better, Stacy" and "I'm sorry your baby died", I cried again at the comfort and tenderness of my Jesus, expressing His love for me through this little stack of letters.

I am reading and memorizing some Psalms, and His words have brought me comfort and I am still resting in them, and in Him. 

I am learning, too, through the example of others- what it looks like to care well for people in their grief.  (Now that I look back, I don't think I was very good at this... and I feel like I'm a student, taking mental notes; learning.) 

God is good.  He is gracious.  He is sovereign.  He is near to the brokenhearted. 

Our heartfelt gratitude goes out to you who have cared for us or prayed for us from afar.  He is using you to reveal His deep love for us.  (((Thank you.)))