Saturday, April 30, 2016

The story I don't want to tell

This is the story I don't want to share.

The story I want to tell you is the story where I was on a retreat, grieving Lily and still hurt and angry that she wasn't in my arms. But in the midst of all of that I heard God say, "I have a baby for you."

The story I want to share is how I found out I was pregnant, finally, after nine grueling months of negative tests and 15 months of missing my girl.

The story I want to share is how I found out I was pregnant on Good Friday...and the Feast of the Annunciation. Two feasts that will never coincide again in our lifetime. And that I read this sweet blog just after I found out. And that finding out on this day filled me with unspeakable  peace I haven't felt since I held Lily in my arms.

The story I want to share is that this baby was due around Thanksgiving, just two weeks after Lily's second birthday. What normally is such a hard time of the year for us, was going to be filled with redeeming grace as we welcomed Ted and Lily's little sister or brother. We were going to have holidays we could look forward to.

The story I want to share is where I tried and tried to put up a shield and not love this baby with all my heart, but failed instantly. A story where I was already making plans and dreaming big for this little love of mine. A story where I could already envision Ted sharing sweet moments with this sweet baby when we visit Lily.

The story I want to share is I was almost starting to feel normal again. The story where the eight week ultrasound wasn't on my radar because those always go as planned

The story I wanted to share with you includes a cute announcement on Instagram of Ted and Lily sharing they were getting a new brother and sister this year.

But this is the part of the story I don't want to share.

A story that is once again filled with despair instead of hope. A story where we were once again left with a stranger telling us we don't get to keep our precious child.

A story where I couldn't even look at my husband because I was so afraid to see the hurt in his eyes. Once again we had to beg the question WHY? And this "why" cuts so much deeper than the first.

This is the part where people tell me how brave and strong I am, but honestly, I've never felt more broken or more weak. This is the part where people tell me how my faith will carry me through things and all I want to do is scream and cry at a God who could allow this type of loss to happen twice to anyone.

This is the part where I had to once again put on a brave face to celebrate my son's birthday, all the while feeling like I am dying inside. 

This is the part where I have to learn to silently forgive every single person who says the wrong thing because they have no idea what to say. The part where I want to burst into tears whenever I hear a sentence that begins with, "At least..."

There is no at least. There is no "at least you weren't far along" or "at least you didn't get too attached" because the truth is I was...I still am. I love this little person with all of my being the same way I love Ted and Lily. 

There is no "you can have more babies" because honestly no one knows that any more than I do. Rainbows are not a guarantee of any storm, let alone the storm of child loss. And more importantly, I wanted this baby...this sweet and perfect child. This irreplaceable, and unrepeatable, unique soul. 

But even harder than forgiving an ignorant comment is forgiving silence. The painful silence when you see someone for the first time after you lost yet another child. A silence that screams you weren't that far along. A silence that screams your child doesn't matter. The silence hurts so much more than any ignorant comment. Because the truth is, if you are eager to celebrate a new life growing inside of me, then you need to be willing to mourn that loss with me too. 

A week ago I was pregnant and today I am not. It's so surreal. Usually people say that with a smile on their face and a baby in their arms. I have said it now twice with tears in my eyes and empty arms.

I wish I had some positive spin for this post to turn on, but the truth is, right now, I don't. 

I have nothing. I am empty. I am broken.

I am without two of my children.

I miss my babies.


  1. There is nothing else to say, except that I am so sorry. Prayers for for peace and healing during your time of grief.

  2. Oh no, my tears are for you, your broken heart and twice-emptied arms. For Ted, growing up without knowing Lily and now this baby. For your family with two empty places *hugs* xx

  3. I am so sorry for this loss and will keep you in my prayers.

  4. Praying for you, dear Kellie.