The End

I lost our first baby. A baby that we'd waited for and prayed for and wanted long, so long, before it ever existed. I knew about the baby for 25 days before beginning to think that something might be wrong, for 37 days before all hope was declared gone. The end.

In early September, Angel was so surprised when I woke him up at 6:30 in the morning with the good news--so surprised that he thought I was trying to prank him. Because early morning pranks about baby news after reluctantly beginning the process of infertility-related testing are totally plausible?

My family was so happy. His family was so happy.

For 25 days I felt like I was in a constant state of wonder and thanksgiving.

Most people will say, "Oh, that's not long."

I can only say, "It wasn't nearly long enough."

I wanted more days, more months, more years. We were so excited. Yes, I knew the risks, I knew it was early, but little dreams and little names and little plans were already growing in my heart as the baby started to grow. 25 days of such joy.

The first day we knew.

We got to see the baby once. Just one ultrasound, of a tiny speck, and the doctor said, "There's the baby! You're definitely pregnant."

One picture is all we have. We didn't buy anything for the baby. We're not really the type to buy stuff in general, let alone buy stuff for a baby that's a long way off. There's practically nothing to remind us or anyone that the baby existed.

Faith is a key component of my life. Because of that, I don't blame God. I don't ask why? This world is fallen and broken and evil and sometimes things that are really, really wrong happen. Death is wrong. Problem is, 4 years at Calvin College weren't enough to turn an Arminian into a Calvinist, and I don't believe that everything that happens in life is a direct result of God's sovereignty and will. I've already heard, "God's plan is perfect and this is just all part of His perfect plan." Nope. That's not part of my faith, anyway. I can't comfort myself by trying to imagine God wanted this to happen and that in the end, it's a good thing. I don't believe it. It's a bad thing. Death saddens God, too.

Though I'm not tempted to blame God, I am tempted to blame myself. Not on a level of what I consciously did. I was overprotective, probably to the point of being ridiculous, if anything. I didn't even drink a coke, or eat a sandwich with a piece of bacon on it. I didn't paint my nails, I didn't dye my hair, I even stopped exercising until I could get an 'okay' from a doctor. I didn't even complain, not a little, about how I felt during the weeks I knew about my living baby. But on an unconscious level, somehow, my body failed to help this baby grow. I feel terrible.

I always wanted to be a young mom. When you get married at 19, you pretty much think it's a given, right? But here I am--25--still not a mom, at least not to anyone's perspective except maybe inside my own mind, and bereaved of my first child. If it were up to me, that would not be the case. I should have already had a baby, living and on the outside, by now. But it's not up to me.

This is hard. Part of me wants to cry for hours every day. Another part of me wants to eat ice cream and paint my nails and watch silly tv shows to distract myself from the pain. I've tried a little of both. But when I find myself laughing at Uncle Si while watching Duck Dynasty, I feel like a traitor. I want to be the kind of person who handles everything with grace and fortitude, who's strong no matter what and emotionally stable...but I've failed completely at that. I'm so, so grateful for my 25 days of joy without fear, but it wasn't enough. I wanted my little May baby. I loved her. Even after only a month of dreaming of a future with her in it I don't quite know how to accept a future without her. I know I will be okay again, but I'm not okay yet.