Posted in deep thoughts, life, mortality, sadness

A bittersweet Father’s Day

On May 2, we found out that we were going to have a baby. On June 18, we found out that we were not.

We were shocked and devastated. Until earlier that day, neither  of us had a clue that anything was even remotely wrong. Even in the car on the way to the ER, we tried to remain positive, reassuring ourselves that it was going to be okay, that the baby just didn’t like what I had for lunch, and talking about what features from each of us we hoped it would have when it was born in January.

When I checked in at the desk, the nurse assured me that a lot of women bled when they were pregnant and it turned out okay. I believed her because I had no other choice but to believe that everything was going to be okay. Even when I had to go by myself with Edward the ultrasound tech who knew that I was scared but couldn’t tell me anything, I tried to think that his silence while moving the wand around meant anything but the worst.

Around three hours after we arrived at the ER, they finally had a room ready for me. My husband, mom, and I went back there, and I got hooked up to an IV while we waited for a doctor to come in. When he came in, his face said it all. We had lost the baby.

The word miscarriage is so bizarre. It almost seems like you’ve misplaced something. In no way does it sound like your body rejected this tiny life inside of you for reasons that you’ll never know. It needs to be called something else. It needs a word that will describe the shock, horror, and pain that you and all of your loved ones feel when you find out that it has happened.

The doctor explained everything to us as best as he could. It’s a more common occurrence than I realized. He told us not to blame ourselves because these things just happen. It’s hard not to blame myself. I catch myself thinking that maybe if I had taken better care of myself and not eaten so many sweets or drank coffee or eaten gummy vitamins or skimped on eating vegetables or any number of random things, that maybe we would still have a baby. But, thinking like that doesn’t help anything, and I have to stop myself when I start down that path.

We have received such an outpouring of love from our family and friends. We have cried and laughed and cried some more and will continue to do so. We have written a final entry in our baby journal and then left our house just to escape the heavy sadness that we felt after we closed the book. We have talked about how it may have been better that this happened rather than having a baby born who was in pain because of genetic abnormalities. All of these things have helped, but they still don’t erase the pain.

We are relatively private people, and I debated about whether or not to share all of this with such a wide audience, many of whom didn’t even know that we had ever seen that little plus sign on a test. I finally decided to write it and hit publish for a few reasons. First, just to thank everyone who has been there for us. Whether it was staying in the ER with us the entire time, bringing us food the next day, or just texting, emailing, or calling us to check in, please know that all of those things meant so much to us. Second, since we had told several people about our happy news, it seemed like the easiest way to share our sad news. We have been talking about it to each other and others, but we feel like to start our healing process, it will be easier not to talk about it as much. Third, we are of the age where there will be sweet but misguided people asking us when we’re planning to have kids. Trust us, we would give anything to be having this one. Finally, since I know several other women who have gone through this trauma, I just wanted to reach out and say that I love you all.

Will and I have talked a little bit about what our future plans are. For now, we just want to get through this week and the doctor’s appointments that I’ll have to determine how my body is healing. We do want a child or children, and we will have them, but it’s to be determined whether they will be carried by me or another woman. Either way, we will love them, spoil them, and someday, tell them about their older brother or sister who is hanging out in Heaven waiting on all of us.

Parents, take a minute and give your children an extra hug for us. I know that sometimes you may think your children are terrors (okay, we’ve met some of your kids and they really are…), but know that the fact that they are here where you can hug them is such a blessing. For any of you who have lost children, either before or after they were born, know that you’re in our hearts and prayers. To our families and friends, thank you, thank you, thank you. This will eventually get easier for us, but just knowing that you are there means the world to us.

Tomorrow we will celebrate Father’s Day, and although we are not celebrating it for the same reasons we had planned to, I know that someday we will, and for that reason, we have hope for the future.

Author:

I am Amber. Amber I am. I like to write things that sound like a Dr. Seuss book, evidently.

11 thoughts on “A bittersweet Father’s Day

  1. I’m so sorry, Amber. It’s amazing how the word [miscarriage] takes the breath away and silences the soul.

    Wishing you peace and love as you both heal.

    Under the same sky,
    Dani

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  2. I am so sorry. Unfortunately, I can totally relate to you. We lost our first baby on Father’s Day, 6 years ago – June 21, 2009. This year, the 21st fell on Father’s Day again, so it was extremely difficult. We had been trying for a few months, when my wife finally became pregnant. Things started fine. But some numbers weren’t climbing as fast as they should have. So, we were hoping for the next month and a half that things would start working out. Then at 10:00 on the Saturday night before Father’s Day, we had to go to the hospital. The hospital was awful. We had to wait for a while. Then they brought her in the back alone so they could question her, and make sure I wasn’t beating her, causing the miscarriage. Then they just left her alone back there, taking blood samples every hour. I was bugging them to let me back there with her, and they finally let me in. Then the doctor officially called it. Then we drove home, crying, at 6:00 in the morning. We waited a few months. Then my wife got pregnant again, right away this time, in September. We lost that baby on October 4. Then we had to go to a fertility doctor. We went through treatments for a couple of years, and she never got pregnant again. I’m 45 next week, and she just turned 40. So, we have come to terms that we are never going to have children. I still struggle badly. It also doesn’t help that my wife told a couple of friends that we were going to try to have kids, and they decided to do the same, and got pregnant right away. And, she also has a lot of younger cousins that were popping out kids, left and right. And some of them have no business having kids.
    We had looked into becoming foster parents, leading to adoption, and even took classes in order to get licensed. But, our marriage has pretty much fallen apart. I have good days and bad days.
    I wish you the very best, and hope that everything works out for you guys, and wish you all the happiness in the world .

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    1. Oh Paul, thank you for sharing your story. I don’t know if we’ll ever understand why some people go through these situations while others seem to have no problems at all. I appreciate your kind words, and please know that I will be thinking of and praying for you, your wife, and your marriage.

      Liked by 1 person

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