The monotonous tone of the ultrasound machine was deafening as my husband held my hand tightly. Full of anxiety, we both stared at the screen and waited. The technician was silent. Time seemed to be moving backwards. I finally mustered up the courage to ask, “Is there a baby there?”

“I see what looks like an embryo,” she said, pausing, “but it’s measuring much smaller than it should be.”

“Is there any heartbeat?” I said, with my voice nearly breaking.

Hardly audibly she spoke, “No, I’m not seeing one. I’m sorry.”

Two debilitating heartaches

I could barely walk out of the clinic. I felt as if sorrow was roped around my neck, weighing down my every feeble step. Tears came unending for the next three days. I eventually made them stop around my other two children because it was noticeably bothering my three-year-old son.

Later that evening I stood in the shower trying to ease the pain and discomfort from the unpleasant process that a miscarriage is. I found myself wanting the utter sadness, hurt, frustration, anger, and disappointment to wash right down the drain. I wanted to scream out to everyone, “My baby is gone, and there is nothing I can do about it.”

During the next days, I saw myself living a wounded existence. Trying to be “normal” for my children. Trying to smile and mean it. Trying not to break down crying in Wal-Mart every time an adorable baby was wheeled by. Trying not to stare at my children every waking moment, wondering if their sister would have looked like them. Trying not to burst into tears when others would seem to treat my loss as a minor circumstance that I should just get over. Trying to refrain from shaking my head and blurting that I have heard more people pour out sympathy to another after losing a pet than I heard after losing my unborn child.

I wrote my lost one a letter to ease the pain.

Dear Grace,

I [trust that God has you safely in his care] and I needn’t be concerned, but I have a mother’s heart. Even though I have never beheld you with my eyes or held you in my arms, you will always be such a part of me. I hope you have found your sister, Lillian, up there. I know God is gracious and good, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she was waiting for you upon arrival. I know it may be strange to some, but I imagine you both in heaven sitting by a stream. In the end, I leave that to God. I know you are safe in his hands covered by his grace. We name you for his grace.