I wrestled forever with what to call the title of this post. After a family friend of our suggested I listen to this song, one word stuck out – Lighthouse.
“So if you’re ever like me
Daydreaming how different this life would be
If the ones you loved most hadn’t take their leave
And wishing your babies could know your daddy and me
Know that I’m still your lighthouse, yea I’m still your lighthouse
And I’ll be your lighthouse, You’ll be one for me”
You hear statistics all the time. “1 out of 4 women” this and “one third of all women” that. But what do you do when it’s you who is the statistic?
What do you do when you are the one laying on your back waiting for the sound of the heartbeat to come through on the doppler like it has your past appointments?
What do you do when you are the one who has to take the long walk from the exam room to the ultrasound room and wait?
What do you do when you are, again, laying on your back in the dark ultrasound room holding your breath and praying there was just something wrong with the doppler?
Then, what do you do when you are the one to hear the words, “I don’t hear a heartbeat, guys?”
This was me. This is me. In that moment on November 28, 2016 my entire world went black. Darkness. There was total silence in that ultrasound room except the sound of me weeping. I was 2 days shy of being 12 weeks pregnant and the baby had stopped growing at around 9 and a half weeks. I had been celebrating the baby’s weekly milestones for two weeks unbeknownst to me that they weren’t happening inside. Without going into too much detail, we scheduled the D&C procedure to remove the baby as soon as possible. Immediately my “to do list” ran through my mind.
I’m supposed to sing at church Wednesday.
I have rehearsal tomorrow.
What am I supposed to do about work?
How am I supposed to pick up my daughter from the nanny today and keep it together?
I thought I was just saying those things to myself in my head, but then I heard my husband say, “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it” which snapped me into realizing I was talking out loud. By the way, the theme of my husband saying, “Don’t worry about that, I’ll take care of it” became and still is ongoing theme throughout this and it is the most incredible gift.
That day, that night, and the next morning were some of the most silent times in our home we have ever had … And we have a very vocal (precious, amazing, incredible, beautiful) little 19 month old girl. Yet somehow, my ears could hear nothing. My eyes could see nothing. I felt crushed under the weight of my emotions and the weight I felt I had somehow caused this. Not only did I feel the Lord had abandoned His protection on me and our family, but that I had subsequently abandoned our baby by doing something I shouldn’t have or omitted something I should.
Now, immediately here came my hyper sensitivity to noticing what felt like everyone announcing pregnancies, gender reveals, and “counting down weeks to hold their bundle” all the while complaining over hurting backs, exhaustion, hunger, and pregnancy annoyances. Meanwhile my countdown came to a screeching halt and now I’m more like proverbially counting down days until the Lord decides He is ready and we are ready to get to be blessed with morning sickness, cravings, and a baby kicking my bladder and ribs.
I didn’t (and still don’t) know where I wanted this post to go. I wanted it to be real. I wanted it to be encouraging. I wanted it to be Christ centered but I didn’t know how to throw those all together so I prayed. The best thing I think I can do with this right now is to explain my real emotions, things anyone experiencing this can relate to but also providing hope to anyone reading, mostly me. Because if I’m honest, hope is distant. Hope is there but quiet and seemingly very far away.
Darkness is interesting. You know when you first turn lights out in a room, you see nothing. Yet once you’re in the dark for a while, your eyes adjust and you can start to make out shapes and maybe even feel your way around but you still might step on a Lego that might make you cry out in pain because you didn’t see it coming. That’s the best way I can describe where I am right now. Some days I feel it happened forever ago, some days I can still see, hear, feel everything as it happened yesterday.
I feel like everybody knows, but nobody knows. I feel like I wear it on my face and people can look at me and just know, yet the reality is only those I have told (and now those reading this) know. In the mirror, I actually look different to myself. I sound different to myself when I talk. For a little more than a month, I’ve been a part of this secret, underground club that so many women are a part of, so many women keep quiet about, yet none of us have signed up to be a part of it. I’ve felt like I’ve been hiding this deep, weird, painful, lonely secret and I have to act like nothing happened because on the outside, nothing is different – I wasn’t showing yet. Nobody knew how tired and sick I felt; yet inside, nothing could be further from the truth. I’m empty. There is this weird void of having something once living and moving inside to something just not there. In talking to someone who experienced a miscarriage with his wife almost 15 years ago, he was still emotional as he described to me that it’s like you experience the death and the grief with no happy memories to relive. That could not be more true.
I feel so much guilt. With everything. EVERYTHING. If I laugh, I feel guilty that I’m not sad. If I’m sad, I feel guilty that I should be “thankful for the blessings I have.” Let me be brutally honest. I love the Bible, okay? Like I really do. I love and truly believe to my core its promises. At the same time, the Lord does not promise children to Carmen and Jordan Smith in the Bible. In the same breath, let me also tell you that it is VERY hard to see the good in this. VERY hard. If I didn’t have SUCH a strong group of Godly, praying women surrounding me to hold up my arms, there is no telling where I would be emotionally or physically right now but when it comes down to it …
I’m angry. I don’t know that I’ve felt this kind of anger before. At everything. There are days where I feel like I very much hate everything and everyone and if anyone else talks or breathes in my general direction, I’m going to lose it. “Self control is a fruit of the spirit, Carmen.” K, well, sure it is. Remember when I said I loved the Bible? I have been so, so mad with God and I even told my therapist I started seeing through this that I just don’t feel like talking to Him or reading the Bible because I’m just so mad so I’m avoiding him instead. He so lovingly reassured me that I actually am connecting with him but right now my connection is a fight. It’s a wrestle and that’s okay.
I never had a father figure growing up but in almost 31 years of living, almost 6 years being His daughter, I truly feel this is the first raw father daughter moment we have had. We’ve had our moments. Trust me. But this is the exact thing I picture in my head with us right now: Me. Slamming my door in my room as a teenager because He told me that I couldn’t have something that I asked really nicely for and thought I was ready to handle so I got angry. I’m sitting on my bed weeping and screaming, “You suck! You don’t love me! Why didn’t you trust me enough? I thought You trusted me” and what I’m doing is hoping He does not try to come into my room, yet looking up through my tears to see if I can find the shadow of His feet at the bottom crack of my door. I am secretly waiting for Him to turn the handle, come sit on the bed with me, and gently put his hand on my leg and let me yell at Him and cry even louder.
I feel intense fear. Intense. I’m paranoid over everything. “Fear isn’t from the Lord, Carmen.” Yes. I know that too. It’s not that I don’t know these things. Again, these are my raw, month-out-from-my-miscarriage emotions. I know what I’m supposed to feel. I could tell you exactly what I should feel versus what I actually feel but grief has a way of taking over and putting you in survival mode. If you’re in the same boat as me, do what you need to (legally and safely) do to grieve and survive and like a sweet friend told me nobody can tell you how to grieve. Your grief is yours. Just some advice? This is already a really lonely thing. Don’t grieve alone, too.
I’m jealous. This is a struggle of mine naturally anyway but I’m jealous over everything. I’m jealous of those who can get pregnant naturally and have healthy pregnancies and deliveries without even blinking because that’s not going to be our story. I’m jealous of women with a normal period, cramps and all, because I don’t have one without medicine. I’m jealous of those who have more than one kid because we were celebrating with Charlotte that she was going to be a big sister and now that celebration has quieted. I’m jealous of those who have even gone through this type of loss and are like, “The Lord! It’s going to be fine because He’s that good! Fluffy things and clouds and rainbows!” I’m also jealous over stupid things. Things that aren’t eternal and things that don’t matter.
In the Bible, James tells us to draw near to God and He will draw near to us. The reality is He already is near. I know He’s here. To be honest, I can try to say all I want that I haven’t heard Him speak since that day but from day 1, even through my “I’m not talking to you” days (which I’m still kind of struggling to get out of) all I heard over and over when I was begging Him to tell me where He was were the words “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.” I heard nothing else but that. The reality is, that has to be enough.
Let me also throw this in here before I go. Our daughter, Charlotte has been the most tangible form of the Lord for me during this. It was like all of a sudden, this brand new personality has been coming out of her and even through tantrums and days she doesn’t want to nap, it is unbelievable how much more of a gift I see her as. “Don’t idolize your kid, Carmen.” Right. I get that. But when she pitches a fit and I’m looking at her, knowing that the reason she is pitching a fit is because I took something that may hurt her or that she doesn’t know how to use, I pick her up, squeeze her and just tell her I love her and lately, she calms and lays her head on my shoulder and calms down. I WANT TO LOVE MY FATHER LIKE SHE LOVES ME. She’s actually teaching me how to love right now. The Lord gives you what you need through other people and sometimes those people are little people.
What’s next for us? Moving forward because it’s what we have to do. It’s what I’m called to do. What that looks like, I LITERALLY have no idea. Some days I’m “fine”; other days I cry over any and everything. This is all really new to me still and this is something that has forever changed me as a woman, as a wife, and as a mom. It’s nearly impossible to describe what it feels like but as I look back on my word of the year of 2016 which was “fruitful” and think of what I want my word of the year to be in 2017, all I can think of is that His grace is sufficient.
See how my needle is starting right at my other stitch? Hopefully that makes more sense.
The Smitty's Bittys 