Healing After Miscarriage: My Story of Grief and Hope

To grieve something is to honor it. —Pat Stark

I have had the painful privilege of loving and losing two babies this year through miscarriage. Miscarriage is a hard topic. My first miscarriage was in February of this year, and it happened almost all at once, around week 9. Having no grid for it, I was pretty numb at first. I didn’t know how to process it. I kept calling it “a strange loss.”

My Heart was Grieving, My Mind was Catching Up

Something that felt bizarre to me was the fact that even though I have always believed in and advocated for the sanctity of life from conception, this loss had me feeling confused and questioning whether or not the baby in my womb had been a real person. Because I didn’t feel much either way. I had never met this baby, and I wasn’t feeling sad about the miscarriage, or at least not as sad as I thought I should feel. I was, however, really teary at random times about other things. My heart was grieving, but my mind was still trying to figure it all out. How do you miss someone you’ve never met? How should I think of this baby? Do I name it? Was it a boy or a girl? I didn’t know.

Hearing the Truth

About a week and a half after the miscarriage, I sat with my mentor and listened as she shared with me about her own experience. As she spoke, the tears that had been waiting for me to stop thinking and just listen—they came, and they kept coming. I was hearing the truth about my baby: that this tiny life in my womb had been a real person— a very real, very small human being; that her life had purpose because every life has purpose. This was truth, and it brought comfort and relief to put some solid words to the emotion and the teariness I had been feeling. She is an eternal being, and she will grow up in heaven—pain-free. And someday, I will meet her.

Understanding My Loss

This conversation helped me so much. I needed to understand my loss before I could even begin to grieve it. After this, I was able to spend some time with my own thoughts and prayers and tears. Shane and I had not really discussed any names before we lost the baby, though I had some favorites tucked away. But that day as I stared out at my garden through my tears, I heard a name in my spirit. Celeste.  I had never considered this name, so I felt like it was from God. I looked up it’s meaning: Heavenly. Of course.

Pregnant Again

We were pregnant again in July. I was hopeful and not really worried, because I had read about how common miscarriage can be, and how very possible it is to have healthy subsequent pregnancies following a miscarriage. I’d also known several friends who had experienced miscarriage followed by healthy pregnancies. But around week 9 I started bleeding. Everything seemed nearly identical to the first miscarriage, and so I felt sure—at first—that I would miscarry again. But hope started tapping at the door, and I reconsidered. Maybe it would end up being nothing. Maybe this time would be different. 

Waiting

The midwife could not hear anything when I went for my first appointment, but they said it might be too early to hear a heart beat (my dating might be off). An ultrasound would tell us more. From the first sign that something might be wrong, to the day of my ultrasound, there were about 4 weeks of not knowing. I wrestled with God. He knew my heart, and my desire for more children; He knew of my loss and my sadness, and of course, my hope that this time might be different.

A big television screen was mounted high on the wall in front of the table I was laying on so that it was easy to see what the ultrasound technician was seeing on her screen. I saw the baby immediately as she moved the wand across my belly.

 “Is that my baby?” I asked her.

I Loved This Baby

It was. Seeing this baby with my eyes, my heart welled up. Seeing his little body on the screen confirmed something for me. I loved this baby.  When the technician told me that there was no heartbeat, I covered my face as quick, hot tears ran down my temples and into my hair. I had known there was a good chance this would be the case, but I had also been hanging onto hope—the smallest ray of hope—whenever I thought about the baby, which was often. Hearing it with such finality took my breath away. It hit me so much harder than I had expected.

Grief

I lay in bed later that day while my son Ezra lay next to me, asleep. Overwhelmed with grief, silent tears soaked my pillow. I cried until my eyes were all puffed up and my head throbbed. Again, we had not officially named the baby, but in my heart, I had named him. This time, it was a name I’d thought about for a long time and decided on many months ago. If we had a boy, I wanted to name him Koda. And something happened when, in asking Jesus to hold him, I mentioned him by name. The moment I said his name, a great sob climbed up from somewhere deep.

Our Little Bear

When I had first known I was pregnant, I imagined what it would mean and how it would feel to have a brand new baby in the house again. I daydreamed about what this baby would be like. Would he be a boy? I had imagined this little boy running through the house, laughing and chasing his big brother, Ezra. This little boy would be cuddled and kissed and doted on and read to by his sweet sister, Yona. This was our Koda—our “Little Bear.” Koda also means “Ally” or “Friend” and I felt these words described him— though I hadn’t met him.

 I have felt overwhelming gratitude for my two beautiful children. In the weeks that followed, I found myself “soaking them in” a little more deliberately. But I have still felt an aching emptiness where my two heaven-born babies left this earth.

We Lose A Lifetime

When we lose a baby, we don’t just lose a baby. We lose a lifetime of loving someone face to face. We lose all of the joys and tears their life would have brought. We lose all of the ways life would have been richer with them in it. We lose all of the relationships that would have been born out of their love for others. Would they have married? Would they have had children? It is an inestimable loss.

Embracing Reality

My mentor told me once that to grieve something is to honor it. For me, acknowledging these babies as real, eternal beings, whose lives carry purpose, has been so important. This is what is true. It is not an imaginary story—it is the truth. It is reality. And embracing the reality of it has allowed me to embrace the emotion that comes with the reality of loss. Welcoming tears lets my heart know that I see her pain. My tears mean I would rather love someone and feel pain, than feel nothing at all.

It is out of self-protection that we build up barriers against the painful reality of loss. We don’t want to hurt or cry, so we make up a less painful story. But here’s what I know: we can’t pick and choose what is real and true without becoming less real inside—trading the Real Me for a less true version of myself as I dwell in a pieced together, half-made-up reality. Denial of what is true and real means I am disconnecting from my own heart. Denying the truth—we think—will keep us from pain. But it doesn’t work that way.

What We Do With Our Pain Makes All the Difference

Pain comes to each of us without our consent. All we get to decide is what to do with it. We can acknowledge it, grieve it, release it, and keep living.  We can also choose to ignore, deny, or numb pain. But when we do, it doesn’t go away. It just stays inside, and we carry it around with us.

 So for me, it has been a good thing to find words and tears because in this, I feel more myself and more at peace than ever before. Heaven has become a little more real to me. Eternity is a little bit closer to my heart and on my mind. I am more sure than ever of what I am here to do, and I know that I will see my children again someday.