“This is your son.”
The orderly rolled my bed into the hospital’s NICU and I groggily stared over at the tiny bird-like creature lying in an incubator. His three and a half pounds was composed solely of skin and bones. The ventilator was breathing for him, his tiny body dotted with tubes and wires–and I looked at him and wondered, “Are you really mine?”
I’d gone from pregnant to not pregnant in what felt like mere minutes, and I was struggling to wrap my head around the sudden change.
Dear Pregnant Mama,
I saw you at church the other week. You sat with your belly blossoming in all its third-trimester glory and I couldn’t help but sneak peeks at you. You may have wondered if there was something on your shirt, some snot residue left over from your toddler with the nose cold. But it wasn’t you I was staring at, it was me.
I miscarried a baby last December. Eleven weeks along, I was fully expecting to be in your shoes this time of year. I didn’t expect to be sitting here, aching hearted and empty-wombed. Looking at you, I see my hopes and dreams. I see everything that I cannot yet have but so desperately wish for. And as painful as it is for me to admit, it still hurts to look at you.
It feels like it’s taken me a long time to get here. To arrive at this in-between place where I’m finally ready to entertain the idea of ‘trying again.’
Another pregnancy. Another baby.
The thought volleys around in my head. Back and forth I debate whether I’m ready to get pregnant again – whether I even want to. Maybe we have already reached our family’s final number; maybe we will find new ways to grow, just the three of us.
But I know in my heart that I’m not satisfied with this ending.
Not that this wouldn’t be enough. Not that I wouldn’t be perfectly happy leaving things the way they are. But there’s more to this story – it’s not finished yet.
From the start, our pregnancy was classified as high risk simply because we were carrying twins. Truthfully though, since the beginning of our pregnancy was so smooth, I really didn’t pay much attention to this label. Until one takes a quick glance at the statistics regarding twin or triplet pregnancies, it’s easy to forget just how delicate a multiple pregnancy can be.
Compared to singleton pregnancies (one baby), multiples are almost 17 times more likely to be born prematurely, with half of all twins having a birth weight under 5.5 lbs. And, as was such in our case, women carrying twins are twice as likely to experience a stillbirth.*
I’ll always remember our first ultrasound photo; a grainy image capturing two little blobs sitting side by side. It’s a moment forever engraved in my mind, a feeling I could never forget – the day we discovered we were pregnant with twins.
Three weeks earlier, we were at the doctor’s office and had just found out that we were expecting. Overloaded, mind swimming, we were in a state of shock. Pregnancy wasn’t part of our plan – at least, not yet. We had laid out a road map for our marriage and it didn’t include kids for another five years.
A very good place to start.
I believe that every story of new life is worth telling, no matter the number of cells, heartbeats or breaths. For some mothers, those precious, early moments are all we hold of our little one. Arms empty, our grieving hearts tenderly cradle the few memories we have. I look back on my pregnancy with nothing but pride. I am completely overwhelmed by the fullness of emotions as I remember tiny feet kicking or little hiccups rippling across my belly.
Some are afraid to ask about what happened, scared that they’ll cause more pain. But for me it’s more painful not to talk about it, to feel like I’ve forgotten one of my wee ones, to ignore the pregnancy that gave us two of the most beautiful little boys. Like any mother, I am eager to share with you about my sons, to share our story. To give even a small glimpse into the redeeming work of Christ in our family.