I wasn’t very far along when I miscarried. It was only my 7th week of pregnancy when I first started bleeding. I remember the moment very clearly, I was in my political science class at U.C. Davis when I first noticed the blood, and immediately my heart sank. Deep down, I knew I was losing the baby, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. I left class early and once I reached my car, I began to weep uncontrollably. I even went to Inn & Out and bought my favorite cheesy fries, because I saw no reason to continue eating healthy, since I was no longer pregnant. And I bitterly cried into the fries as I ate them, completely devastated and heartbroken. 

Afterwards, I pulled myself together by wiping my tears and telling myself not to believe the worst. I decided not to tell anyone, not even my husband, because I didn’t want to jinx it. After all, I rationalized, it was only a tiny bit of blood and that didn’t necessarily mean that I’d lost the baby. So I assumed it was a false alarm. I did my best to convince myself that I wasn’t having a miscarriage and went back to eating healthy and avoiding fried food. But over the next few days I continued to lightly bleed and my hopeful resolve began to wear thin. After a few days of telling myself I was fine and frantically searching the web for answers, I finally told my husband what was going on and he pushed me to see a doctor. 

So I went to the Emergency Room, praying desperately that everything was okay the whole drive there. Begging God to make sure that my baby was still alive and well, but fearful of the worst. You see, for the last two years I’ve had what I can only describe as a deep, painful ache to have children. To start a family with my husband and become a mother. I’d always known I would have a family, but had never put much thought into it… that is until two years ago. Suddenly children were all I could think about. Almost daily, I would cry to God that I desperately wanted a family, along with a home to raise them in. 

But we were still living in an apartment and I was still in college, determined to graduate with my Bachelors rather than dropping out. My goal was to be able to get a good job so that I could afford to give my kids an even better life than I’d had growing up. And so after two years of what felt like an eternity, my self-appointed perfect timing finally arrived. I was only a few months away from graduating college, so being the planner that I am, we decided to start trying. Surprisingly, we got pregnant right away and it felt like my biggest prayer was finally answered. After confirming it with the doctor, I spent most of the time that should have been spent on homework, building a baby registry, dreaming about the future and researching baby names.

 I was so certain I would have a baby girl, and at one point even prayed for twins. What’s better than one adorable baby girl, I thought to myself, why, two of course! I was over the moon with joy, babies were all I could think about, would it be a girl, a boy? I wondered, what would he or she be like? 

Those first two months felt like I was walking on sunshine. And while I experienced plenty of morning sickness, that wasn’t the only change in my body. My entire being felt different, for the first time in my life I felt I had a clear purpose. I felt honored to be carrying new life inside me, and for the first time I began to treat my body like a temple. I stopped eating junk food, ate healthy and it was surprisingly easy, because it was all for the baby. I wanted my baby to have the best and I felt honored to finally have a child in my womb. 

I felt, as cliche as this sounds, whole. It was as if my existence finally had meaning. And while as a christian I believe my life is significant, this was the first time I had finally felt it in my heart. I was so happy to be holding a miracle in my womb that I didn’t even mind the infamous morning sickness and many food aversions I was experiencing.

But the day I walked into the Emergency Room, my nails were digging into my palms, my heart was in my throat and all my hopes were clinging to a desperate, silent prayer. I was terrified as I begged God to make sure the baby was alive. As soon as I told the lady at the front desk what was happening she gave me her full attention and immediately began to process me so that I could be seen right away. After filling out a few forms, I was then shuffled into a room with a perky ultrasound technician. I was relieved to be made a top priority, but my relief quickly turned to anxiety, when the technician told me she wasn’t allowed to disclose what she saw on the monitor. 

Then I had my blood drawn and the medical assistant told me that I needed to come back the next day so they could run the same tests. They told me that they needed to compare my blood samples so that they could see if my HCG levels were going up or down. If they were going down it would mean that I was indeed in the midst of a miscarriage, if not then it meant I was still pregnant. The next day I rushed to the ER as soon as I woke up, and this time after they drew my blood and did a second ultrasound, they put me in a small room to wait for a Doctor to explain the results. I continued to fervently pray that my baby was still alive as I waited. 

Finally, an older man with a kind demeanor came in and sat across from me. He introduced himself as the head doctor, his expression full of compassion as he gently explained that the fetus was gone and that I was no longer pregnant. Immediately, my heart sunk into what felt like a bottomless void and I had to clamp my mouth shut, in order to keep from crying. “It’s not your fault,” he cautioned. “This happens to about 75% of women on their first try, it’s just not something that people talk about, so most women don’t realize how incredibly common it is.” He gently reassured me that it wasn’t caused by anything I did, and suggested that it could be because my body detected something was wrong and aborted it. He explained that I would have a lot more bleeding and severe cramping for a week, and that I should watch for a tiny (empty) fetal sac to be passed. And he cautioned me that if I don’t see it, I may need a D&C procedure to remove it. He then prescribed me a painkiller and sent me on my way.

I walked out of the hospital in a stunned daze, as if the floor had been pulled out from beneath me. I drove home in shock and just sat at the counter staring stupidly, totally crushed and bewildered. My 8 months pregnant roommate came out to ask how the ER visit went, but before I could even answer, I burst into tears. She held me gently as my heart burst into a million shattered pieces. I could hardly breathe, as I tried to push back the waves of gut wrenching grief that threatened to drown me. It took all my strength to not feel jealous that her womb was full and mine was suddenly empty. 

I called my husband, who was on his way home and mournfully gave him the news, he was absolutely crushed. The following week was far more difficult than I’d ever imagined. Even with my husband waiting on me hand and foot and trying to cheer me up, things only got worse. The cramping I’d been experiencing went from mild to extremely unbearable, as I bled more heavily. I spent the week in bed sleeping as much as possible, eager to escape both the physical and emotional pain. 

I felt empty, cold and broken. I was certain I would never feel whole again, it hurt so much that I was beginning to feel dead inside. I cried constantly even as my husband tried to encourage me to eat. And when I finally passed a small sac about the size of a quarter, I knew the pregnancy was officially over. My baby was gone. I was no longer a mother. 

I cried as I disposed of the sac and crawled back into bed, as my world turned grey. And a heavy cloud of depression began to set in as I grieved. It took about a week and a half for my body to recover and stop bleeding. At which point I was supposed to return to school. But I didn’t. Instead, I stopped leaving my room, stopped going to class and every time I thought about it, I’d cry inconsolably. I was so overwhelmed by disappointment that I couldn’t get out of bed. I hadn’t just lost my baby, but I’d lost all the possibilities for the future I’d been dreaming of.

Thankfully, my husband saw that I needed help and came up with a holy spirit inspired plan to help me move forward. He bought some baby balloons and we both wrote short letters to our unborn child. We wrote about our hopes and dreams for the baby, how we felt about losing it and that no matter what, it will always be in our hearts. We expressed regret for never having met her, and reassured her that she will never be forgotten. We even named the baby Carmen, if it was a boy and Carmina if it was a girl. We poured out all our previously unexpressed love for her onto paper, and then we tied them to the balloons.

 After ensuring that it was light enough to float, we drove up to the mountains and set it loose. As we watched the balloons holding our two letters float off into the clear blue sky, we imagined them sailing all the way to heaven. Imagining that our love letters would find its way to our baby. My husband and I cried, and held each other, following the balloon with our car until we could no longer see it. And with that, we took a deep breath and said our goodbyes. Goodbye to our darling baby, and goodbye to what could have been.

Then I had a dream that I was in heaven surrounded by a lush beautiful garden with Jesus in the center. God has often spoken to me through dreams, just as He does in the bible, so even in my sleep, I knew that this was from Him. I watched in awe as Jesus stood in this flower-filled garden as if he was waiting for me, holding a smiling baby girl. Instinctively, I knew that this baby was my unborn daughter and I was overwhelmed with joy knowing that she existed in heaven. In that moment, all my remaining sorrow melted away as a huge weight lifted off me. My aching heart began to swell with happiness, comforted by His peace. Seeing my unborn daughter alive and well in heaven gave me an overwhelming sense of relief, because I knew  that she was in good hands. 

When I woke up, it was as if my whole perspective had shifted. I no longer felt heartbroken over the loss, but instead focused on the vivid dream, hopeful that one glorious day, I would arrive in Heaven and be greeted by my beautiful daughter.

Ultimately, it was being able to say goodbye and experiencing hope in the place of sorrow, that helped me move on. I stopped crying at the drop of the hat, I went back to school and was able to get out from under my cloud of depression and began to feel normal once again. Yes, I had experienced a loss, but I was no longer held captive by its grief. Yes, there was sadness there, but it was no longer dragging me down, instead I felt lighter and hopeful for the future. And everytime I think of my lost baby, my thoughts return to my glorious dream and I once again feel the overwhelming joy and assurance that Jesus is taking good care of her in heaven. After all, who better to raise her than Him?

If you have experienced a miscarriage, I encourage you to find some outlet for your feelings for the lost baby. It can be a love letter or something like a piece of art, or song or even a box of keepsakes. Anything really that allows you to express your feelings for the unborn baby. It doesn’t matter if you were far along in your pregnancy or not, a loss is still a loss and deserves to be mourned.

Also I want to encourage you to get some time alone with Jesus and ask him to show you something that you can hold onto, whatever that looks like. He knows exactly what will change your perspective and replace your mourning with gladness. He can fill your baby-shaped hole with hope and joy, so that when the sorrow and pain return, you have something positive to cling to.

I know that everyone’s journey through grief is different, so this is not meant to be a formula or cure-all. And although I will never forget my first daughter, this story has a happy ending as I am now the mother of a precious 4 month old daughter. In fact, as I write this my rainbow baby is next to me, wiggling and babbling to her heart’s content. My sunshine came about six months after the storm, but I know for others it can often take much longer. 

I hope by reading about my experience, women can be more encouraged and glean from my experience. It is my hope that we can create an honest dialogue about miscarriage and help women to open up about what is considered taboo in most societies. Women should be allowed to express their feelings of loss due to miscarriage without shame.

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