Category Archives: pregnancy

Walking A Gracious Road

Pregnancy after loss: the day Joanna was born

It was just after 2:00 in the early morning of May 7, 2018, the day that I had a C-section scheduled for 11 a.m.  I woke up to light pains just like I had had many other nights. They never lasted long, so I picked up my ipad and began passing the time lettering a Bible verse.  I sometimes struggle to find the right verse to letter. This time I picked the last verse that showed up on my facebook feed, and I don’t even remember which friend had shared it.  So I lettered and created until I reached the point where I had to break during the contractions. I decided to get up and use the bathroom to see if that would help lessen the pain.  

And just after 4:00 a.m., my water broke.  

How do you know when your water breaks while going to the bathroom?  I don’t know. You just do. So I gently called to Blake, “Hey, honey, I think my water just broke.”  Wow, did he shoot out of bed! This wasn’t the plan. There was a schedule. Not because I wanted it, but because that is what the doctors thought would be safest for me and this baby.   And by only a miracle, this sweet baby had waited patiently inside me through six weeks of hospital bedrest for preterm labor and then nine weeks of home bedrest. Nothing else about this pregnancy had gone as planned so why should the birth?  

I was thankful my water broke.  I didn’t want a C-section, because I wanted this baby to be born on God’s timeline, not a day I chose.  I had put everything about this pregnancy in His hands when it all had gone awry, and I hated the idea of picking a day for this baby to be born. So I was thankful that May 7th was also the day God chose.  

I was calm that morning.  Too calm. Maybe I didn’t quite understand the urgency of everything.  I told Blake he could take a shower–we had time, and maybe I should do my hair.  He decided not to be calm. He decided we still needed to be urgent. That was a good decision.  We were out of there in twenty minutes.

4:22 a.m.

We had made it.  We had made it full term.  We had made it to the day this baby was to be born.  We have made it so far and yet, while driving to the hospital, the idea of holding a baby in our arms still felt so far away.  Pregnancy after loss was one of the hardest journeys we had walked. It had wreaked havoc on our marriage, on our emotions, and our family.  There were so many possibilites of heartache around every corner. We knew that heartache all too well, and what we didn’t know was if we could survive it all over again.  We were still fragile. We were still broken. We were so unsure if our hurting hearts could bear the weight of leaving a hospital without a baby in our arms again.

God has promised us many things but a baby is not one of them.  Many times when I was so afraid and I confided to those around me, I was given a response of “you just need to have faith.”  Faith in what? That is what I wanted to ask but never did. Faith that my baby will be born healthy? Faith that this pregnancy will not end in loss? Faith that everything will be ok?  None of that is promised to us. My faith would not bring me a healthy baby. My faith is in God and His promises, but that did not mean that I would end up holding a crying baby in my arms.

So what should I put my faith in?   Where do I turn in the moments of fear and doubt?  How does one survive nine months of anxiety that grips at a heart?  His promises are written in His Word. He keeps His promises. I can have faith in that.  What were God’s promises to me?

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;  
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
 when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,  
and the flame shall not consume you.”  Isaiah 43:2

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-30

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted    
and saves the crushed in spirit.”  Psalm 34:18

“We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair;  persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed” 2 Corinthians 4:8-9

 “And if I go and prepare a place for you,
 I will come again and will take you to myself, 
that where I am you may be also.” John 14:3

He does NOT promise good things, happy days, or healthy babies.  

He promises that we will not be consumed by the flames that might threaten us.  He promises to save our crushed spirits. He promises to give rest to our souls. And He promises a place for us that He will take us to Himself.  

My heart may be fragile, but it will not be crushed.  I WILL NOT BE DESTROYED. He promises that. He promises to be with me no matter what this day holds.  

Joy or sorrow, He is with me.  

So we walked into maternity triage, and it wasn’t long before bells began to ring and anxieties were flowing.  There was meconium in my water. They were not going to take their time getting this little one out. We didn’t even wait for a wheelchair.  I walked straight up into the O.R. and sat down on the table. Then the alarms went off. The heartbeat had plummeted.

I had listened to the heartbeat so many times.  The sound of a baby’s heartbeat is so comforting and beautiful.  During my six-week stay in the hospital, they had monitored the heartbeat three times a day, and I always asked them to leave the volume up.  I have listened to a monitor before and not heard a heartbeat. I do not take the sound of a heartbeat for granted, and it is always beautiful.  

So I know what a heartbeat is supposed to sound like, and, oh, how the heartbeat in that O.R. on the morning of May 7th sounded so very wrong, so slow and faint.  I remember the lump forming in my throat. I remember the nurse screaming to the anesthesiologist, asking what was the right code to call. Then I remember the alarms going off.  I remember the nurses and doctors running in. I remember them asking if I was numb yet so they could begin cutting. I remember reminding them to go get my husband out of the hallway.  Blake walked in at 6:04 a.m. I told him the heartbeat was low. And he said, “Ok.” I told him I was scared. And he said, “I know.” He walked in at 6:04, and she was born at 6:06. A beautiful baby girl.  


Joanna Grace.  

A name we had settled upon when I was first admitted to the hospital at 23 weeks.  Joanna, after one of the women who had gone to the tomb. One of the women who accompanied Jesus on his ministry.  A woman forever written on the pages of the resurrection, associated with the good news of the Gospel. A name forever tied with the grace, love, and the forgiveness of our God.  

Joanna walked a road, a good and gracious road, laid ahead of her by our Father.  She walked the road with her Saviour as He cared for the lost and hurting. She walked the road to the tomb preparing for sorrow and heartache, preparing to care for the body of her Lord.  She walked with a heavy heart expecting pain but instead she received joy. She received the good news. She was in His hands the entire journey even when she thought all was lost, even when she was filled with grief.  Our God is gracious. There is joy at the end of this journey no matter how painful each step may be.

"Restore to me the Joy of your salvation." Psalm 51:12

The doctor held her up and she made the slightest little cry.  Then they whisked her away, and we waited.

The silence felt like it would never end.  I couldn’t think or speak. I just kept breathing.  Not panicking. I knew that panicking when all your insides are exposed is not a good idea.

God is good.  

No matter what.  God is good. All the time.  God is good. Nine minutes. That is all it was.  That is how long we waited. Nine minutes normally flies by, but it didn’t then.  Nine minutes after the pediatric team took her out of the room, a nurse came back in and said, “Tell mom and dad the baby is doing great.”  

That was the first time in nine months I could breathe a sigh of relief.  The baby was ok.

There was extra monitoring the rest of the morning, and it took us a little longer than normal to make it out of recovery, but the baby was ok.  She was in my arms. Finally. She was going to be ok. We were all going to be ok.

We soaked in those first moments we had with her, marveling at every tiny feature.  She was perfection–created by a loving God. Created by the same God who had placed the stars in the night sky, who had created the towering redwoods, who had created the wings of a hummingbird, who had created her sister Ella two years before.  Fearfully and wonderfully made by a good and gracious God.

I firmly believe that every child is a perfect and precious gift from God.  And I was overjoyed to meet and hold each of my babies the day they were born.  But there is something different in the hospital room of a baby born healthy after a family has experienced the loss of a baby.  There is a joy that runs deep, an appreciation for the gift of life that isn’t promised, an awe at the sheer handiwork of the Creator.  The joy and appreciation in that room was so palpable you could almost scoop it up and hold it in your hands.

My most favorite moment from that day was when Joanna’s two big sisters walked into the room.  Their excitement and anticipation to see if they were about to meet a baby brother or a baby sister and their chance to experience a hospital room full of joy instead of sorrow or fear are memories I will treasure forever.  Their lives the past two years were shaken as well. They had experienced grief in all its rages. They had experienced the loss of a little sister, and they had been living with parents who were broken and hurting. They, too, knew that a baby was not promised at the end of a pregnancy.  They, too, were worried, anxious, and cautiously hoping to bring home a baby this time. There is something extra special in a hospital room of a baby after a family has grieved the loss of a baby before. You might know firsthand or you might have to take my word for it.

We did get to bring a baby home from the hospital with us this time.  That privilege was not lost on us. Too many parents do not. I did not know why we got this privilege, but I was grateful.  We had the privilege of late night feedings, messy diapers, newborn cries, sleepless nights. All of it treasured. My arms were full, my heart grew, and my smile, finally, was genuine.  I was so grateful, but a baby born does not replace a baby lost.

My heart will always long for Ella, to know her, to hold her, to watch her grow.  I wonder what her personality would be. Would she be soft-spoken and thoughtful like her big sister Abby? Or would she have spunk and love for life like Rachel?  I long to watch them all play together. Four girls. The giggles, the squeals, the frills and the fun the four of them would have had together. Another baby, another baby girl will never replace the baby I did not get to raise.  A mother’s love never fades over time. Ella taught me of the love and faithfulness of our Heavenly Father, and Joanna taught me of His grace.

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

Pregnancy After Loss: How You Can Show Support

 

Dear Family and Friends,

I know you love and care for me, and these past several months may not have been easy for you to show me love.  I am a new person and walking a difficult journey.  Since losing my baby, I am broken.  I am still navigating how to live in this world.  I know this means showing me support is not easy for you.  There are times I need to be alone, and there are times I need a friend, and I am not good at understanding my own needs–let alone expressing them to you.  

Now that I am expecting another baby, my mind, emotions, and journey have grown even more complicated.  Because you love my family and me, I know you want to be there for us. So this letter is my attempt to show you how to best support me in this pregnancy after loss.

I am still grieving.  Another baby on the way does not replace or wipe out the baby I had to say goodbye to.  I am still very much grieving and trying to process my grief.  I miss my baby.  I will always miss my baby.  I could have a hundred more babies, and I will still always miss my baby who lives in heaven.  A new baby does not take that pain away.  A new baby does not wipe away my grief.  Blake and I recently began a grief class with some of our fellow missionaries.  This has been good for us.  This has made us examine a lot of our habits, emotions, and responses.  While this has been good, it has also been hard.  I have learned a lot.  I have learned that many times the second year of grief is harder than the first.  I also learned that it is helpful to write family and friends a grief letter to explain how they can support me in my grief.  That is what this is.  This is my homework from grief class.  

My emotions are complicated.  I am excited to have another baby, but I am also terrified.  I never experience one emotion at a time.  They are usually all tangled together.  So when I feel the joy of my new baby kicking, I also feel heartache.  When I look at my growing belly, it makes me smile, but I want to hide it all in the same moment. It is so complicated inside my head I don’t even know how to explain the why of it.  When there is eager anticipation, there is also fear.  Nothing is simple inside my head.  So when you ask how I am doing, you are likely to get an unclear answer.  Truth is, I usually don’t even know myself.  It is simply complicated.

Trust is gone.  I have lost trust in the process of pregnancy.  I have lost trust in my body to successfully carry a baby to term. I have lost trust in my ability to interpret how I am feeling.  Every little aspect of this pregnancy causes me to doubt and to question.  Every twinge, every moment of calm, every slight discomfort brings fear.  My most recent experience with pregnancy ended in loss.  That is what I know.  That is what I know I can expect.  I don’t know how I am doing.  All I know is that today I am pregnant, and tomorrow is not promised.

There will always be an IF.  Life on earth with this baby is a maybe.  Pregnancy does not always lead to a living baby.  So when I talk about the future, I will often use the word “if.”  That is my reality.  Maybe it is morbid or negative, but it is reality.  I need the freedom to be able to acknowledge the IF in my conversations.  There is a saying in Spanish:  “si Dios quiere,”  basically translating to “if God wants.”  That is how I feel about pretty much all plans in my life right now.  The simple “can the girls come over to play” or the bigger “what day do you return to the states?”  I can give you an answer or a plan, but I will add “si Dios quiere.”

Plans.  On my bad days making plans sends me over the deep end, and on my good days making plans gives me an increased anxiety.  This could be because our life changes so drastically with a delivery and a baby.  We fly back to the states to have the baby, IF we make it that far.  Any plans back in the states then are a maybe.  This may be because the day we learned Ella’s heart stopped beating we were supposed to board an airplane.  Buying plane tickets, booking reservations, even just making plans for dinner in the future gives me anxiety, and sometimes I just can’t.  Even if I want to make plans with you, it may just be too hard.  So if you want to make plans in the future, it would really help me out if your proposed plans started with “if you are able,” or “if you are up to it…”

Appointments.  Doctors’ appointments and ultrasounds are no longer exciting.  They are life-changing.  They are where you go to hear bad news.  Days leading up to these appointments are difficult.  The days of these appointments are often unbearable.  I need extra patience and grace on these days because I am usually anxious and irritable.  I can’t help it–I am anticipating the worst.  ALWAYS.  Sometimes I would like someone to go with me.  Sometimes I would like to be alone.  Please don’t get upset if I do not want you there.  This needs to be about me.  I need to take care of myself on these days.  I need to do what I think will make that day easiest for me.  

I need to dream. I know that.  I need to picture the happy.  I need to dream of a delivery room with a crying baby.  I do this privately and usually look up birth pictures on Pinterest.  Know that I do allow myself in the safety behind closed doors to dream of a different, happy ending.  An ending that does not bring heartache and funerals and grieving.  This is a different baby and a different pregnancy and has the potential for a different ending.  I know that, and I remind myself of that.  But please know that it is too hard to acknowledge this out loud.  

Safe zone.  There is no safe zone for me.  Statistics are not comforting.  Only one percent of babies are lost in the second trimester.  When you are part of the one percent, no odds feel very comforting. No time feels safe.  I will battle fear (and I battle fear hard, on my knees many, many times a day) at all stages of this pregnancy.  Statistics and milestones are not comforting.  No time feels safe.  EVER.

Shopping.  I love shopping.  In many ways shopping is my therapy.  But not now.  I do not want to buy maternity clothes.  I do not want to buy baby items.  Please do not give me anything.  If you would like to buy baby items please give them to me after there is a crying baby in my arms.  I know the pain of staring at them in my closet months after I had said goodbye to my baby.  I know the agony of packing up unused baby items and maternity clothes that were never worn.  So if you see me in clothes that are way too small because I can’t bear to buy anything that will actually fit, just smile and pretend like I am not embarrassing you. I am just trying to survive.  Please don’t try to convince me I need anything before the delivery.  I have worked it out, and I don’t.  We have a plan once the baby is here, and we will be fine if we do not purchase anything ahead of time.  

Plan A and Plan B.  There are always two roads in my head.  From this moment on, I will always have a plan if all is ok and a plan if all is not.  Maybe this is because either way life will change drastically for us, and then flights may be canceled.  We are living with one foot in one country and one foot in another.  Whatever the reason, having two plans is comforting.   Less than two years ago, my life changed in an instant, and I had to readjust all my plans when I could barely breathe.  The only way I know how to survive going forward is to have two plans in place—plans that are ever-changing and evolving as the weeks go by.  

Delivery.  IF we make it to a delivery and we are expecting a healthy baby, that experience is still scary.  There are no guarantees.  I am not sure what I will need on that day.  This road of grief has been difficult for the four of us.  A hospital room where a baby is not crying is what we know.  We need to heal.  We need to heal together.  That might mean we ask you for space after our new baby is born.  We may need time, just the five of us, to welcome our new baby and grieve the fact we didn’t get that same joyous experience with Ella.  I don’t know what that day will look like, but I appreciate your understanding and patience as we navigate our emotions to come during the delivery.  Thank you ahead of time for the space and time we will need from you before we can celebrate with you.  

Ella.  Please don’t forget her in the excitement of a new baby.  We are a family of six.  I have four children.  This is important to me.  Ella was a life created by God and given to our family.  She is, forever and always, a part of our family even if she is not here with us. When you mention her by name, or tell me you miss her, or ask me about her, my heart is warmed more than I will ever be able to say. I want you to know that. I know it is often awkward for you to bring her up, and I appreciate it even more that you still do.  I have never ever wished someone didn’t bring up Ella in a conversation.  I have only ever been thankful to hear you speak about her.  So even with the excitement of this new baby, please still say her name.  


What can you do?  Check on me.  Send me notes, emails, texts, and let me know you are thinking of me. I may not reply.  Please don’t hold that against me. Sometimes I just can’t, but keep checking in.  I appreciate it so much even if I don’t reply.  If you want to give me support,  send me a Bible verse or Starbucks card.  Letting me know you love me and are there for me without words is sometimes easiest for me.  Check on Blake.  This journey is difficult for him, too, and he spends too much energy worrying about me.  This causes me to worry about him.  It  is a vicious cycle.  So I ask you, for my comfort, support him while he is supporting me.  Take the girls.  Play with them.  Let them have fun.  Some days all my energy goes toward taking care of their needs, and I don’t have a lot left over for fun.  They need fun.  They need carefree.  Their hearts are scared, too.  Death is a reality in all our minds.  They need moments to escape the worry and just be children. Lastly, pray for us.  Pray for all the needs we have that we can’t even begin to tell you about.


Thank you for your love and support of my family during this journey.  Thank you for understanding how complicated our emotions are as we wait for this baby to arrive while still grieving the baby we will never get to hold again.  We love you all so much even when we don’t know how to tell you.

love always,

lizz