our pregnancy after loss

pregnant.

December 12, 2018

It’s been 4 days since I found out I am pregnant.

Pregnant. 2 days later that word seemingly sat there with an ease on that stick not seen, felt or known yet on my journey.

I never expected to be pregnant again so quickly.
I hoped for it, but I don’t believe I actually expected it.

Why?
Or why not?

Do I not believe in the power of my God? In His ability to perform miracles? To create life?

He holds the world in His hands.
And yet I doubt, dream small… fear to dream at all.

For I have dreamt and had my hopes deflated, heart shattered, breath knocked out of my lungs.
And yet the entire gospel message is that of a call to hope. It’s that of expectancy…

. . . . . . .

fear.

December 13, 2018

Tonight I spotted.

I worry.
I wonder.

Will this baby make it?

“I know that I’ll be okay and God will carry us through if we miscarry again,” I told Clay as my throat tightened. “But I just really don’t want to go through that again.”

It’s a scary thing to hope.
For when we hope, there is the chance that we will be let down.
And I don’t want to be let down into that pit.

The pit is a scary place to be.
It’s dark there.
My eyes are puffy there.
My cheeks are wet and my heart is heavy there. Like a millstone.

Pastor Drew says the word “glory” means “heavy.” And well, tonight, God, I’m asking that Your glory be heavier than my worry and heavier than my wondering. And so much heavier than my fear.

As the song goes,

“There’s no depth You have not seen,
and no pit You have not been to.
And though I’m moved and afraid,
God, Your purpose remains.
I am Yours now and forever.”
{WYLD, Ever Deeper}

Thank you for holding me, for forming me, for calling me.

Please hold my heart in all of this… unknown, blessing, glory.

. . .

Monday, December 17, 2018

Each cramping, each twinge of pain causes fear to rise up within me. Is the baby alright? Is something wrong? And the ever-looming Will I miscarry again?

Two nights ago I awoke from a dream — nay, nightmare — that I was, in fact, miscarrying again.

To say it was awful would be an understatement.

It was treacherous. Horrific. Utterly devastating.

As Clay consoled me, I kept repeating, “I just can’t do it again. I just can’t.”

To think of going through such loss again overwhelms me. I truly cannot even fathom it. And then my mind and heart go to those I know who have had multiple miscarriages. Friend, if that is you, I have no words. There are no words. Just my heart reaching out to you and my soul crying out on behalf of yours.

This morning I awoke due to some intense cramping. I cringe, I pray, I wait for it to pass. It does. Then it returns. This time I wake Clay and ask for him to pray a miracle over me. He does.

And then it passes.

I know the fear won’t go away completely. For as a good friend reminded me, “it’s because you love that baby so much.” And yet, I must surrender the crippling fear to God. Despite the fear I have felt a peace about it all. For I know that my God will carry me through, that He has plans for my life that are good.

Just this morning I was reading Jeremiah 29. It’s funny the verses that become the “famous” ones that everyone knows. So often we don’t even know or remember their context. Jeremiah wrote a letter to the exiles of Jerusalem to Babylon. After a long list of instructions from the Lord comes the promises:

… I will come to you and fulfill my gracious promise to bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

And it is immediately followed by more instructions of sorts:

Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.

It is immediately followed by another promise:

I will be found by you, and will bring you back from captivity.

Oh, how fear is a captor of our hearts. I have felt enslaved by it at other times in my life besides this one. I’m sure there have been times when you have, too. And yet…

I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you, and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.

Notice, though the Israelites have been placed in exile, the Lord makes clear that it is He who has carried them there. And thus I remember that even in the darkest places of fear and despair in my life, I have never been alone, abandoned or forsaken. For my God has carried me there. And He is promising to bring me back.

He promises to bring us all back. To deliver us from fear to freedom. From exile to return.

A homecoming.

We just moved into a new home. We learned we were pregnant with our new blessing in this new home. And I want to make it my every effort to allow my God to be the head of this household, to be a covering of protection over this place, to drive out all fear that is not from Him that we may sing praises to our good and generous God all the days of our lives here… and all the days that we are blessed to share with this baby He has given us.

. . . . . . . .

the scare.

December 30, 2018

I bled on Christmas morning.
Of all days.
Of all times.
On Jesus’ birthday.

Why?
Why is this happening again? 
I was 6.5 weeks… the exact day I miscarried our last pregnancy.

It was a rush of blood. I was almost certain I was miscarrying again.

I did my best to be present on Christmas with family, but it felt as if I was in a fog, a haze.
The day went by in a blur.

Liz brought me my gift as I was curled up on the couch. Clay had just prayed over this babe.
It was a $52.00 donation to Hope Mommies.
“He has prepared a city for them,” the verse read.
Tears filled my eyes as I put the paper aside. It was too much.
I picture this child joining the others in Heaven.

Why? Why is this happening again?
And when will it stop? 3 miscarriages? 4, 5, 6?

As the bleeding subsided, my hope grew.
Maybe I wasn’t miscarrying after all.
I looked at my Hope Mommies Facebook group and lo and behold stumbled across something about an “SCH”–a subchorionic hemorrhage or hematoma.

Sure enough–it’s what I have.

4.5 hours in the ER the day after Christmas gave us that answer.

I had read that the smaller-medium ones generally absorb/self-correct. The larger ones could continue to grow and lead to miscarriage. It was considered large if it was 50% the size of the amniotic sac or greater.

Mine is 100%.

I know God calls us to hope in times like these. It’s just so difficult to do after losing our other babies.

I want to hope for the sake of this babe.
When I think of her or him, I am able to hope more.

I read in Jeremiah this morning a passage that grew my hope even more:

“See, I will bring them from the land of the north and gather them from the ends of the earth.
Among them will be the blind and the lame, expectant mothers and women in labor;
a great throng will return.
They will come with weeping, they will pray as I bring them back.
I will lead them beside streams of water on a level path where they will not stumble…”
– Jeremiah 31:8-9

Uprooting.
Replanting.
Returning.

A new beginning.
New life.
New home.
New start.

Growth.
Life.
Light.
Joy.

I believe, but help me with my unbelief.

. . . . . . .

bitterness.

December 31, 2018

I barely slept. As hot tears flooded my cheeks, I told Clay of the long night last night of fear I would lose this baby. “I just wish I could be excited and joyful about this baby. But instead, I’m absolutely terrified.”

At any moment, my time with her or him could be gone. At any moment, I could lose her or him. Just like that.

Clay hugged me and kissed my belly and spoke truth into my moment.

I then thought of those I know who are pregnant who never had a miscarriage, those who seem to celebrate the life growing inside of them with ease, and I stared bitterness directly in the face. I called it out. I named it.

Pregnancy after loss is not easy. It certainly isn’t always pretty

I know–I know, I know, I know–that God doesn’t want me to be bitter, that He wants me to be joyful and celebrate this life and trust Him with it. But it is so difficult to do in the wake of devastating loss.

I opened my Bible today to find an excerpt from Jeremiah 31 that read:

31:15 Pain in Redemption…
In deepest grief, God is not absent: He is planning redemption.*

Talk about a gentle slap on the wrist. Talk about a reminder straight from the mouth of God.

So often I don’t feel His presence in my moments of uncertainty, doubt and grief. So often I don’t allow Him to come into my moments of bitterness, anger and resentment. And then there’s times like this when He sneaks His way in and I almost have to smile and laugh — because who did I think I was fooling thinking He wasn’t already there.

Friend, are you struggling with bitterness today? Maybe you haven’t been able to get pregnant again after loss. My heart sinks into the pit with you. Maybe you are pregnant again but are experiencing all of these feelings I am. My heart is there with you. Wherever you are, we must remember to look up, to open up–our hearts and our Bibles–in order that His truth can shout into our darkness, drown out the lies, and bring us to a place of hope again.

I love these lyrics Ellie Holcomb sings. They are such a great reminder of who our God is, especially in times of trouble:

We’ve got this hope. We’ve got a future. We’ve got the power of the resurrection living within.
We’ve got this hope. We’ve got a promise. That we are held up and protected in the palm of His hand.

The God of the Universe, the Author of the greatest Redemption Story ever told, is holding us–holding our story, our lives, our babies–in the palm of His hand.

The same power that raised Jesus from the dead is living in us. And if that is true, then I can overcome and conquer these feelings of bitterness. When I let go of it, I have open hands to receive all that God is longing to bring in this season — redemption at its finest.

. . . . . . .

eight weeks.

January 8, 2019

Eight weeks.

A week and a half longer than I had with our twins.

Eight weeks.

So many emotions–joy for the blessing, fear for the unknown.

Eight weeks. And we’re still holding on. We’re growing together — me and this baby.

After our scare on Christmas Day, my heart aches for those who have had multiple pregnancies end in stillbirth or miscarriage. My heart pleads with God to not let that be my story.

Let this one be different, Lord. Please, let this one be different.

Pregnancy after loss is no joke. It truly is “all the feels.” I feel guilty that I haven’t celebrated this baby with the fullness of joy and awe and wonder that I did our first–up until that heart-wrenching first appointment, that is. And yet, my broken heart is still in the process of mending.

I am doing my best to hope. I am doing my best to trust. But these things are more easily said than done when a heart has grieved such losses as we had mere months ago.

Oh, how I long to hold this baby in my arms.

I long to celebrate this life. I long to survive this morning–er, all day–sickness! Y’all–it’s been rough! Truly I am so grateful to be pregnant with this life, but I have never felt so utterly sick for so long. It’s been over three weeks of nausea, and I’m told I’ll likely have another six.

One day at a time, I remind myself. Daily bread. I know my God will carry me through. I know You, God, will carry me through. Please, my God, carry me through.

Thank you for this blessing. Thank you for this gift. This most precious gift You are knitting together in my womb–that one day I will be called mama.

Eight weeks.

. . . . . . .

the heartbeat.

January 3, 2019

We saw the baby for the first time and heard the heartbeat.
That moment.
That sound.
It was like waves. Wave after wave. Quickly flowing.

After the waves after waves of grief, my heart’s been in a fragile place. With our Christmas Day scare it’s difficult to hope. At any moment my time with this baby could end.

But for now. There is a life growing inside of me with a heartbeat.
And oh, what a miracle that is.

The sonogram technician had left the room for a moment before returning for our ultrasound. As soon as the door shut behind her, I turned to Clay and my eyes welled with tears.

I was terrified.

The last time we sat there staring at the screen, we were met with devastating news.
And this time we already knew there was something to monitor, to fear.
And yet, good news–not great, but good–the hematoma had not grown but had also not shrunk.
But Baby Collier has doubled in size since! In just one week. Heartrate is at 157 up from 122 one week ago.

Oh, what a miracle it is.

. . . . . . .

the miracle.

January 21, 2019

“So it’s gone?” I asked the ultrasound tech.
“I don’t see it,” she replied.
A tear streamed back across my face from where I lay on the table. I couldn’t believe it.

“So it’s completely gone?” I couldn’t help but ask again.
“I can’t find it.”
I looked over to where Clay sat in the chair next to me, eyes wide in awe and wonder, completely overwhelmed by gratitude.
I truly couldn’t believe it. God had answered our prayer.

But why was I so surprised? Scripture tells us that if we ask for anything and believe we have received it, it will be ours {Mark 11:24}. And yet my shock reveals my disbelief–my distrust in God.

Maybe it’s because He didn’t answer our other bold prayer–to bring life and health to our babies with a mere 5% chance given.
Maybe it’s because I wanted to protect myself from hurt, pain, disappointment.
Maybe my faith is just small. Maybe I’m that “ye of little faith.”

Regardless of my doubt and unbelief, God worked a miracle and answered our bold prayer (that it would be completely gone by our January 21 appointment).
There is no longer a hematoma.
After 4.5 weeks, I am off bed rest.
And I finally–for the first time since Christmas Day, and if I’m honest, maybe ever–I feel permission to be excited for this baby.

God, you are so good.
“Praise you, God,” I prayed as I smiled through the tears looking at our baby–who actually looks like a baby now–head and hands and all.
“Thank you, Lord.”

Thank you, Lord.
Thank you, Lord.
Thank you, Lord.

. . . . . . .

redemption.

It’s been a long road leading to this pregnancy. It’s been a hard road, but it’s been a good road. It’s been a road of redemption.

Ours is not a redemption story simply because we are pregnant again after loss. For we were walking a road of redemption even in our most painful moments of heartbreak. Because we are living within the pages of the greatest Redemption Story ever told.

And so are you.

From Genesis to Revelation, from the beginning of time and to the end, God is telling one great Redemption Story–one great Love Story. It’s a story in which He’s paved the way as such that no matter what pit into which we fall, He has provided a way to lift us out.

No matter what end we might face, He has provided a way for it to be a new beginning.

The way is Jesus.

Through His life and death we have been gifted the ultimate happy ending that awaits us all. In Heaven. When we are united with our true Bridegroom. When we will get our happy ending.

We have no idea what this life will bring. Clay and I have no idea what will unfold with the rest of this pregnancy or with the life of our child. But we trust the One who has entrusted us with her or him.

Even in the midst of doubts and fear and unbelief.

We praise Him and we thank Him for this wonderful gift along the road, for this joyous chapter in our story.

Baby Collier,
I can’t wait to see the world through your eyes.
I can’t wait to teach you all about the One who loves you perfectly, who knit you together in my womb, and who holds you with His good and capable hands each day.
And I can’t wait to tell you all about the great Story of which your life is a part.

{All photos: Apple Rose Photography}