Our miscarriage

The night before my 10 week ultrasound, I rubbed Palmer’s cocoa butter onto my belly and whispered to my child, “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow!” 

Early on in this pregnancy, my doctors found a subchorionic hemorrhage which had resolved around 8 weeks. During that 8 week ultrasound, when I saw a squirming jellybean and a strong heart rate (162 beats per minute!), I cried tears of joy and relief. I immediately gave myself free reign to dream about this baby who would be joining our family in May. I bought a few maternity outfits, started a baby registry, and created a note on my phone with name ideas. Nausea was my constant companion, though a surprisingly welcome one. It felt like daily reassurance that my child was healthy and growing.

The nurse was chipper at my 10 week appointment. “This will be short and sweet and then you’ll be on your way,” she told me. I was excited, anticipating another black and white baby photo to add to the growing collection on our fridge. 

I saw the baby immediately, and briefly wondered why they weren’t moving. The nurse probably just didn’t have a good angle yet. “Hmm…” she said, moving the gel-covered wand around my stomach, “It looks like the baby is measuring small.” As soon as she said it, I knew. But I didn’t want to know. The baby could just be on the smaller side, right? I had seen the heartbeat, felt the nausea. Just yesterday I had bought a pair of maternity leggings from Target. 

“I don’t see the heartbeat anymore,” the nurse told me. “I’m so sorry.” My mind tried to process what she was telling me. “Can you check again?” I asked. “Please?” She moved the ultrasound wand around a bit, but I knew she was doing it only for my benefit. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, and handed me a box of tissues while I cried great, heaving sobs on the exam table.

I spoke briefly with a doctor—reassurance that it wasn’t my fault, logistics about the D&C—and then they let me out the side door. Afterwards I went to Walmart to get diapers and detergent, in disbelief that such a mundane need could exist in the middle of such grief. All I could think about was how this life that had become so precious to me was now gone. Tears clouded my vision as I drove home on autopilot, and when I parked I realized I had forgotten to put my glasses back on for the drive. 

Somehow, I stopped crying long enough to pick up the boys from their morning preschool program. I was almost surprised to see them still existing, walking around wearing tiny shoes and backpacks, like it wasn’t such a miracle to be alive. I hugged them tight to my chest and felt their hearts beat against mine, the steady cadence of life. Grateful as I was to hold my sweet and wild boys, it somehow seemed to magnify the silence I heard in the ultrasound room just two hours earlier.


I had my D&C on a Thursday afternoon, a full week after finding out our baby was no longer alive. It was an incredibly difficult week—walking around with this little being inside me, still feeling nauseous, knowing I was carrying death when I should have been carrying life. When the surgery coordinator called to ask if I wanted to know the gender, I gave an adamant no, a decision I hope I won’t regret later. I just didn’t think I could bear it to specifically picture our baby boy or girl. 

The D&C was quick and physically painless, thanks to anesthesia and two different painkillers. Emotionally, it took a heavy toll. I was able to keep it together until I got into the room and the anesthesiologist placed an oxygen mask over my face. I immediately started crying as the reality of the loss sank in. The last thing I remember before going under was the nurse—an actual angel, I swear—holding my hand while I cried and telling me, “You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.” I will never forget her kindness. After the procedure my heart felt completely shattered, but at the same time I was grateful that it gave me some closure and a starting point for physical healing to begin.

As I’ve navigated this loss, I’ve been meditating on these words from Psalm 23:

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

I don’t want to give any illusions about how these last couple weeks have looked. I’ve been deeply sad much of the time, crying off and on (mostly on), and feeling like an emotional ticking time bomb. But I’ve also been trying desperately to hold onto the good that is all around me. To trust that, even here, my cup overflows. That goodness and mercy are still following me. That I have nothing to fear.

I’ve been savoring rare moments alone—reading books (Carrie Soto is Back), watching TV (The Great British Baking Show), listening to music (this song), and sometimes just sitting in the stillness and letting myself be. I’ve also never been more thankful for the chaotic moments of toddlerhood that remind me our house is so very full of life. The boys are such a delight these days. CJ has clearly inherited Josh’s silliness and also his love for meat—he asks for hot dogs and “hannaburgs” (hamburgers) at just about every meal. Kyeler strums his plastic guitar constantly, singing everything from “Farmer in the Dell” to “Jesus Loves Me” to little songs he made up on his own. Josh has been so loving and supportive as we’ve grieved together, and I feel our marriage getting stronger for it. Friends and family have carried us through this time, praying and bringing meals and letting us know they’re there for us.

My heart goes out to anyone who has gone through a miscarriage, and I want to say loud and clear: you are not alone. You are loved, your babies are loved, and I hope and pray that new life will fill your homes again soon.

I know this season will pass eventually, and that the pain will soften around the edges. For now though, while I’m living it, I’m letting myself rest and grieve and feel what I need to feel. I’m mourning this loss of life while keeping my heart open to all the goodness to come in the future. I’m trusting that this pain will not be wasted, and that this season has a purpose unfolding as we speak, even if I can’t quite see it yet. 

6 responses to “Our miscarriage”

  1. Crying with you, friend. Wish I could take away your pain. It never ceases to amaze me how you can tell such hard stories with such beautiful words. Your little one has already left such a precious legacy.


  2. Been a silent reader, my son was born at 25+5 and I stumbled on your blog and beautiful words that pointed me back to hope and faith in my darkest times. Will be praying for you and your family in this season.


  3. I’m so so sorry. I also just wrote about my recent miscarriage a few days ago. I could feel every word of your grief while reading this. My hearts goes out to you. May God comfort and heal us both.


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