I haven’t written much (blogging or otherwise) since my miscarriage because I have been focusing more on breathing and finding joy again. I am astonished that so many drink the cup of child loss and carry on with such strength—and often in silence. I have hardly functioned even while speaking about it.
After months of prayer and therapy and work, I had found that I'd grasped again a semblance of sanity. (Please feel free to contact me if you are interested in ways I found healing, especially if you’re in a similar position.) I approached Easter so thankful I was more myself. And the very week that would have been my due date for baby John, I discovered I was again pregnant.
Even my daughters looked doubtful when we told them the news. It was as if in their silence, the words hung unspoken between us: We’ve done this before. We know what will come.
And then came my favorite part: finding out the sex. I absolutely love finally knowing something about the alien growing inside me. We were shocked (all of us had assumed it to be another girl), and celebrated the surprise with a family party.
But Therese, my 4-year-old, was madder than a hornet. She finally eased into the idea when I explained she would likely see him spray me at some point.
Small consolations, right?
I am now 18 weeks. I cannot hide the growing life in me anymore. The little boy and his movements become stronger daily. He is here, and I hope to stay.
Therese no longer asks when the baby will die, but when the baby will come. I have greater peace now, and hope.
I think we all do.
Regardless of what does occur, I am thankful. I am grateful to have been given this life, a chance to love for this season. Despite the nipping fears, I know that all will be well in the end. I take consolation in that.