Thursday, August 15th. This was supposed to be a joyous day. My son's second birthday. And it was joyous, briefly, but the majority of my day was spent anxious. I sat in a waiting room wondering if the reception desk would honor the doctors offer. I spent 15 min, bleeding sitting on an exam table waiting for the doctor to come in. He came in, I explained my history to him. And he understood. Finally after medical history and current symptoms, the ultrasound screen lit up. I knew exactly what I was looking at before he even said anything. A beautiful, wonderful, little fluttering heart beat. The doctor said, "this is where your new journey begins. Do you know what that is?" I did, and I said through tears, our baby's heartbeat. He was thrilled, I was crying. Shaun was thrilled. I walked into that office thinking I had already lost the baby. But no! There he was. Fluttering away. The doctor took a couple pictures for us. And explained that sometimes, even with a heart beat, things don't go well, and the pregnancy results in a miscarriage. He told me he wanted to draw blood for progesterone levels and see me again in two weeks. He left the room telling us to "think positive thoughts, I want you guys to think about bringing a baby home from the hospital."
Went and had my blood drawn. And went home to wait to be told what to do. I got a call back three hours later. My progesterone was low. Very low. 4.2 when it should have been in the 20s. That coupled with the bean measuring a week behind, immediately had me worried. I was given a Rx that I was told to pick up and start taking immediately. It was supposed to start working instantly, and it did, sort of. My symptoms improved. For 24 hrs. I felt hope. For the first time in days. Hope. Maybe everything will be ok. Maybe we WILL leave the hospital, with a bouncing baby. It was a very short 24 hrs. All hope faded. I texted my doctor, (yes, texted, after hours on a Friday, this guy, is seriously a saint) and explained, asked for suggestions, for hope. He told me that it was most likely a miscarriage. And that he would pray for me.
As the hours and days past it became evident that he was right, and that I was going to be losing a second baby this year. Devastated does not even come close. I cried ugly, angry tears, for days. I was so angry at God. I could not understand why, why he would say "trust me" when I wondered if it was right to try to have another baby after losing Emmaline. I didn't understand why, why I would have to lose another baby, what was the lesson I failed to learn the first time around. I didn't understand how I could have a normal pregnancy, resulting with a healthy happy baby, and then lose two. I didn't understand who, who would choose this life. Was this really the life I chose in the pre-existence? Who was that crazy girl that chose this life for me? And where is she now? Needless to say, I was angry. Soo so angry. I didn't want to pray. I didn't want to read my scriptures. I didn't want to go to church. I wanted to sit and be angry. And I did for a while.
I don't know what changed. I don't. I think one day I just got exhausted from being so angry all the time. And I think I decided, you know what Lord, YOU can carry this burden, because I'm not any more. You're the one who gave it to me in the first place. So here ya go, take it. (Not in a grateful, using the atonement, kind of way, but in an angry spiteful, kind) but you know what? He did. He took it. And I cried from the relief I felt. I had been carrying this huge burden for a long time, and it was literally weighing on my soul. My heart was then changed.
I wish I could say that's been rainbows and butterflies since, but that would be a lie, and completely unexpected. There are days that are so hard, mostly Thursdays, where I sit around and calculate, at this time, four weeks ago, I heard my sons heartbeat for the first and last time. And I cry ugly tears, and make sounds only grief can make. And I lie around waiting for it to end. For the day to pass so I can move on for a little bit. There are days where eating is too difficult a task. Days where I am so overwhelmed, and storm out of the house at the first hint of criticism. Because I. Just. Can't.
My two week appointment came, and I debated canceling it, but decided I ought to go. When they
called for the reminder I asked if I could still keep the appointment, and just not do the ultrasound,
because I didn't see the point. Apparently, I was supposed to call the office and confirm the miscarriage with them, because they knew nothing of it, and I was immediately transferred to a nurse. I assured her that I was no longer cramping or bleeding, and that I was positive it was a miscarriage, and that I was doing ok. The registration lady said that I should keep the appointment and that they would still do the ultrasound because the office needed proof for my file. The ladies both expressed sorrow. And wished me well.
The next day, I sat in the same waiting room. Full of pregnant bellies. Trying not to cry. Trying not to have a panic attack. Trying to remember to breathe. (Shaun could not join me, I was alone.)
I walked back into the same room I was in two weeks ago, the same room where I saw and heard my sons heartbeat for the first time. The nurse was very kind, and took my blood pressure, it was through the roof. She came back to talk to me after she wheeled the bp cuff into the hall. She noticed on my chart my miscarriage. I told her that that was way my blood pressure was so high, I could feel my heart racing. She and I talked for a moment. And she and I shed a few tears together. Compassion. I didn't experience any of that last time. It was refreshing.
She returned with the doctor a few minutes later. He came straight over and hugged me. Compassion. He said things like, this sucks. And I know this is not fair. And that he would continue to pray for me, because medicine only goes so far. He said that this is not how it's supposed to be, your supposed to get pregnant and bring home a baby, and not lose the baby, especially not twice in one year.
He did the ultrasound. Seeing my empty uterus was sobering. I think I held on to some hope that I was wrong. That he was fine. That I was wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. But I wasn't. I was right. I didn't want to be right. I wanted to be wrong. But I was right. My baby was gone, and no medicine in the world could have saved him.
My doctor took me by the hands and talked to me for a while. The thing that stuck with me the most was about the difference between strength and courage. He told me, I didn't have to be strong. That it was ok to not be strong for a while. But he talked at length about my courage. He told me he knew how difficult it must have been to show up the the appointment that day. That it took courage to come, when I knew it was going to hurt. Courage to sit in the waiting room with the pregnant mommies. Courage to sit in the same room I sat two weeks ago. Courage. Before that day, I would have said that strength and courage were the same thing, but now I know the difference.
It has not been easy, I will not lie about that. I am collecting names of babies, dead babies, with what feel like are empty arms. I have more dead children than alive. The statistics are staggering. The odds are officially against me.
Grief is so strange.
Baby, sweet baby boy. I miss you. I knew from the first time I saw you, how much you loved your sister, how much you wanted to be with her, and how much sorrow it brought you to be apart from her. I understand sweet baby boy. I get it honey, I miss her too. Baby, I have tried to tell people about your connection to your sister, but words fall short, but honey, don't be afraid, I understand. I get it. Take care of each other, sweet babies.
Grayson Wyatt, you were a fighter, as your middle name suggests, a little warrior. I will forever miss your bright green eyes, just like your Grandpa V's. They were beautiful. One day, little fighter, little warrior, my Grayson, I will hold you again. And for that day, I pray, and I wait.
I believe Grayson and Emmaline where meant to be twins. I know the color of their eyes, but I only believe they were meant to be twins. I know I will see them again one day. I know of their love for each other, and for us.
While I wait, I'm going to work on not shrinking.
"I could finally stop looking for the magical answer to my grief and simply sit still with it."
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