Another Miscarriage?

[Baby shoes, source]

16 years ago, I had my first child, conceived on our honeymoon, even though we figured we'd wait a bit before we'd be ready to add a third party since we were both older when we got married. We wanted a little time together first. God had other plans, and my boy joined the party. 

[Girl booties-source]

14 years ago, I had my second child, conceived the very first weekend we even tried. I was giddy with delight the day I found out I would get my girl. It seemed our plan of having four beautiful babies in a row was right on track. Even though my husband was 38 when we had our first, and I was 28, we looked forward to joy with our armful of little ones. 

[Rose-Colored glasses fading-source]

12 years ago, we had our first miscarriage, and our glossy, rosy-eyed view of this baby-making process faltered. Devastation set it. Loss apparently COULD happen to us. Then, we tried for 11 months to have another baby. It was a struggle and a bit disappointing. But no worries. Everything would still be fine. 

[Miracle baby booties-source]

11 years ago, we welcomed our second daughter, precious Alamanda.  Her life was a miracle because we found out with her we were homozygous for Kell antibody, which kills through anemia almost every pregnancy it touches. All of that waiting and praying was worth it. She was tiny and honked like a gosling. But she was our little miracle, and we loved her. My little girl was beyond delighted to have her very own baby sister born just after her birthday. Our boy was mystified by our weird taste in pets because he didn't quite register babies as people. We were back on track. 

[Loss with a capital L-source]

Four months later, Alli was gone. I'd rearranged my life, our lives around her, and she rolled into a pillow that was nowhere near her, with unexpected and inexplicable actions she hadn't shown herself capable of before. She suffocated, and the doctors couldn't save her. And just like that, she was gone. My perfect princess number two went Home to her Father in Heaven, and we were left reeling. Not only could loss happen to us, but it was becoming a pattern. 

[Angel statues-source]

For the next several years, I dreamed of completing my perfect family. I yearned for that perfect rainbow baby, so I could once again count fingers and tiny toes. Instead, time and time again, no sooner did I get a positive pregnancy test than I'd also get a still, silent ultrasound or blood to show my dream of a rainbow had fallen into darkness again. Two or three years ago, we prayerfully decided we were done trying for a rainbow. We had 15 little angel statues representing 15 miscarriages on our angel shelf but only our first two children to hold.  

[Only babies allowed are cats-source]

I've come to terms that we won't hold any more babies until the Lord comes again. Once, my kids would have been delighted to pick out a name for a new little one. Now, they would vote me off the island if I even suggested the idea. They're teenagers with no interest in little ones unless they have four legs and fur or scales. 

[When the body is broken-source]

I missed a period recently, and when no symptoms came, I decided it must be the beginning of menopause. I actually viewed it with a kind of relief. I know symptoms pretty well by now. I've been pregnant 19+ times. After the second month, I even took a test, just to bring myself peace of mind. But the next day, I had what I'm pretty sure was yet another miscarriage. I'm not even sure how to feel about it. I don't feel the devastation I once did. Just a hollow echo of the melancholy I used to have every time. I'm more numb than anything. Too much loss is too much. 

[Through the glasses darkly-source]

I'm thankful I can feel empathy for those who bury a baby or have a miscarriage. But it's a hard thing when rose-colored glasses become sunglasses, where darkness is all you see. I am also thankful to mostly have peace with the whole situation. I remember the pain of fresh loss and can reach out to those who are new or at least newer to the empty arms club, also called parents of angels. I'm also thankful to know I will be able to hold my little ones again, thankful for the knowledge that families will be reunited again and that loss is not forever. In the meantime, the wound is still there. The pain is less acute, but I will always, at least in this lifetime, be a mother in mourning.