I was sitting in church this Sunday listening to others share their joys and concerns. A woman stood up and wanted prayers for her granddaughter and grandson in law. Her granddaughter had just suffered a miscarriage last week and she was concerned for them.
While she was talking and sharing the news my mouth went dry. My stomach hardened. I remembered going to my first church service after my miscarriages and wanting to get up and share what had happened, but I couldn’t. I just sat quietly with tears running down my face. It was hard being there, but even harder to not be there. All of the memories around that time are difficult to remember. During that period in my life, there was no peace for me, not even at my beloved church.
I also remembered either reading or being told some advice after losing my babies. The person told me that the only way to relieve the stress of a miscarriage was to get pregnant again. And I believed them. Each time after my loss, the only thing on my mind was to get pregnant again as fast as I could. I looked to this piece of advice like it was a light at the end of the tunnel.
Well, the advice didn’t work for me. After a successful pregnancy and birth, and a successful adoption, the miscarriages still hurt. The pain isn’t jagged anymore, it is more soft and normal. I don’t think about them everyday, yet there are times when I am reminded of them and it knocks me off of my feet again and again.
I’m thinking of contacting the woman and possibly sending a card to her granddaughter, although I’ve never met her. I know that any type of positive acknowledgement was appreciated while I was going through that time.