The hard truth of pregnancy is that sometimes babies die before they are born. Some women are more affected by miscarriage than others. This article is for those who have struggled to cope– maybe it’s you, or your wife, or your co-worker.  My first miscarriage was a release from an unexpected pregnancy; I didn’t see it as the death of a child. But the second miscarriage, while physically the same process, not only took my child, but nearly took my faith.

In the Wall Street Journal recently I read a review on ‘H is for Hawk’, a memoir by Helen MacDonald. The point of the book is that grief is a personal experience: while it happens to everyone, it is felt alone. I understand this concept. Grief is universal– of course it is– and yet profoundly personal. This is why some women suffer deep depression after a miscarriage and some blithely move through it and on to the next menstrual period. Grief and coping are individualized.

Here is my story. Maybe in sharing it, others can understand: #1 You (or your wife, friend, sister) is struggling with a lot of pain. #2 Other women have similar stories and encouragement for you; FIND THEM and GET HELP. #3 This suffering is unbearable now, but it will not last forever. #4 God is with you. He may be silent, but he is there.

I had gone to the OB/GYN for a routine prenatal appointment.  Today was the day that they would listen to the heartbeat! I had just passed the 11 week mark and was struck by the fact that my morning sickness had suddenly vanished. (One of the hallmarks of my pregnancies was constant nausea from 4 weeks through 30 weeks, except for child #2, who continues to be an exception in all things. Yes, that is a compliment.)  In the room with the nurse practitioner, she listened for a heartbeat. None was heard and so we moved to the ultrasound room. “It’s easier to pick them up with this,” she explained. A few minutes more and still nothing. She excused herself to get my doctor.

At this point, I was starting to feel a bit unnerved, so when my OB came in and confirmed that there was no heartbeat, despite the fact that I could see a small being on the ultrasound, I was at a loss. The first thing I asked her was, “Will you pray with me?” It was all I could think to do. Tears began to flow and rational problem solving skills were gone. David was at work. The children were in school or the babysitter’s.  My mom and dad were at work. I was alone except for this doctor who I barely knew except that I trusted her with my body. So I asked for her help. Not hesitating, she took my hand. “Of course,” she said, and she prayed for me. (Thank you, Doctor B.) I cried. She stayed with me and quietly opened the door to call another staff member to attend me while calls were made. And my thinking was, this was just a complication; the baby’s not really dead. We would need some medical care, maybe the heartbeat was just really quiet, but things were going to be OK.

My doctor didn’t want me to wait at home while my body naturally aborted the baby. We lived 2 hours from the hospital, and sometimes there can be dangerous, uncontrollable hemorrhaging during the process. She recommended that I come into the hospital in 2 days to have the baby medically aborted.  “But should we wait?” I asked, hopeful. “What if there IS a heartbeat and we missed it? Maybe it is there and we should wait to see.” But no. I was in denial. There was no fetal movement, no heartbeat. My doctor knew. She gently explained to me the truth once more. There were more tears.

I can’t remember who I called first, maybe David, maybe my mom. All I remember is wanting my mom. I must have called Dave, though I don’t recall the conversation. I remember calling my mom, telling her what was happening. She asked me a few questions and said she would come get me, since David was getting the kids and heading down the hill. I sat in the waiting room and waited. I am sure the flow of pregnant mothers and babies around me was painful, but I don’t remember. I can’t remember my mom collecting me from the doctor’s or the drive to my folks’ house either. Sitting in my parent’s dining room I tried to wrap my mind around the situation. My dad looked me over and announced, “Kristin, what you need is a drink.” That clarified it for me. “No Dad,” I wailed, “what I need is my baby!” and I began an anguished keen of pain and loss, wrapping my arms around my stomach, my dead child. I saw my mom and dad glance at each other, and my mom put me to bed.

Sometime later David arrived and came upstairs to the room. He had taken the kids to his parents to stay until after the procedure. I should have had more of a mind for our children. After all, they were grieving too. David was taken aback by their reaction. He had told them “the baby died in mommy’s tummy” as he drove them down the hill, and was unprepared for the amount of grief they felt. They cried, asked what happened, and wanted to see me. He didn’t know what to say.

I have vague recollections of the next 36 hours. I slept a lot, I think. My dad put some lilac flower cuttings in a vase and placed them at my bedside with a card. David came back from visiting the children with handmade notes from each of them, pictures and hearts and Get-well Mommy! wishes from our 7, 6 and 4 year old. David called our friends and pastor, shuttled back and forth to the children at his parents’ house.  I’m sure my mom stayed near, but I don’t remember. On the morning of the procedure I went with David to the hospital. When my doctor came in, I asked her one more time if there might be a heartbeat. She shook her head at me, sadly. We prayed together, David and my doctor and I, for our dead child. I had a funny surgical cap put on me and was wheeled away into the OR where the anesthesiologist told me to take a deep breath and count down from 100. I got to 98.

I was asleep. There was nothing bad here in my dreamworld; I wanted to stay forever. Why didn’t I want to wake up? Something was wrong, but what was it? In a flood it all came back to me, starting the tears again. My heart was ripped fresh with the loss of the baby. The recovery room nurse called my name, looking down at me. Reaching for her hand, I croaked around my raw throat, “Pray with me?” as more tears coursed down my cheeks. She gripped my fingers and prayed. (Thank you, nurse.)

In the day that followed, heartache and pain opened a chasm between me and my God. I was bereft. My husband tried to understand. My children tried to cope. We all walked the razor-edge margin between death and life where you encounter the death of a loved one and the life that you must keep on living.

There is another installment to this story, one of tottering faith, of recovery and healing, and ultimately of faith renewed. It took a long time. If you are here, in this place, my heart cries with you. I am standing with you as you ask, “WHY?!” The answer is the same as my answer was. Silence. But in that silence, God is still near. He holds you in his hands, cradling you in His palms tenderly, like a bird with a broken wing. No words can answer your question, so He simply holds you here, broken and bereft.  But He is with you.

Though I’ll never know in this lifetime, I think it was a boy. His name was William.