It was supposed to be a great day. We hadn't seen our little sweet potato since she was 8 weeks old, when she was too small to see anything but an assurance that this was all real. (An assurance that looked more like a kidney bean at the time than a baby).
The day was FINALLY here for our 18 week sonogram. We'd get to see her moving around and check all of her organs and see her little arms and legs.
But, then. That look.
It's the look a doctor gave me and my mom when they told us there wasn't anything more they could do for my dad.
It's the look the hospice nurse gave us when they told us just to make my Papa comfortable.
It's the look my dad gave me when he told me my Uncle David took his own life.
And it's the same look my doctor gave when she came into the sonogram room, after the sonogram tech was gone way too long.
'There's no heartbeat.'
'She's only measuring 15 weeks.'
'You see this tissue here, it's what happens when, I hate to say it, but decay sets in.'
'I'm so, so, sorry.'
All these phrases, these horrific memories, keep bouncing around my head like something I watched in a movie, or something I read in a book that was so vividly written, I got sucked in and lost in it.
But, how? I followed so many rules. We took the extra prenatal chromosome tests. I had no symptoms of a miscarriage. We made it all the way to nearly 19 weeks. And now? Is it something I did? Is it something I didn't do?
And now, it's not just her heart that's broken, it's a trail of hearts. My heart. Her daddy's heart. Her grandparents' hearts.
It just seems so unfair.
Ironically, just last week, I was having a conversation with a coworker about life not being fair. And what age you come to realize that it's just not sometimes. He's trying to make his kids understand that, and it's tough. (Of course, we were talking about something stupid like overtime or comp days that seems utterly insignificant now, but hey. Two lessons for the price of one.) But it turns out, I'm still learning that tough lesson.
But, I have quickly learned, as lonely as this feels, we are not alone. Within hours of our loss, I found out some of the people I'm closest to in the world have experienced this same loss. Some of them personally, some of them have parents with these stories, friends, or siblings. I would have never known. Miscarriage is not something people talk about. It took me one Google search to realize that.
I have always been a big believer in fate and God's master plan. And, what I keep circling back around to, sometimes, there just aren't any answers to the questions you need answers to most. And that's where your reasoning has to let go and your faith has to pick up.
So that's what I'm doing. I'm letting faith step in. I'm letting myself be sad for a while. I'm leaning on my friends and family and letting them help when they ask if we need help.
And, most of all, I'm amazed at the power of love. How much love I could have for someone I never even met. How much love I could be blessed with coming from friends and family.
And most of all, the love I couldn't even fully understand yet when I married my best friend.
I'm reminded of that love about every five minutes during this grief process.
I will never forget being in a puddle of tears in my doctor's office, about ten minutes after we got the news, looking at him, wondering how he could even look at me. Asking how he could ever look at me the same again after this?
Austin looked at me and said, "I'm so in love with you. And we are going to get through this together. And we are only going to come through this stronger. The only outcome is me loving you even more."
It's the kind of love it takes to be the rock when I know he feels like going to pieces along with me. The kind of love it takes to never leave my side through a delivery neither of us ever dreamed we'd have to endure.
And, now as we piece this broken puzzle back together, it's knowing how much love we will have to give when the time is right again to grow our family. Because we know this is not the end. It's just another new beginning.