Mourning A Loss You Never “Actually” Had

This post was written many months ago when I hit a rather low point. My husband and I were trying to conceive our second child. I wrote it for myself. For my own therapy. But I thought I’d share it in hopes that my experience would perhaps speak to someone else and provide some sort of encouragement. Encouragement for not only women dealing with infertility, but more specifically women of faith. Just because we have faith in God’s promises, it doesn’t mean we don’t struggle and fall short. This post more or less conveys my own personal struggles and shortcomings within our journey to conceive. (Please excuse the somewhat scattered thoughts as this post was a rather emotionally charged one. I also changed the tenses and tacked on a new ending just recently as you’ll come to see).

When you’re trying to get pregnant and you don’t ovulate, or you do but it doesn’t end with pregnancy—you mourn the loss of that unborn child.

Each and every time.

At least, I did.

And each time, a piece of my heart was chipped away for the child that could have been. Our “almost child.”

In the back of my mind, I knew it “wasn’t meant to be.” Or it wasn’t the exact child God wanted for our family. But when you’re in the thick of it, it didn’t matter. It cut you to the core and knocked you off your feet. Hopefully to your knees in prayer. But let’s be real, often times it knocked me into the fetal position with no desire to get back up again.

Though it’s common to experience a roller coaster of emotions with each cycle, for those of us trying to conceive—that roller coaster can go into some deep, dark tunnels that feel as though there won’t be light at the end of the ride. For those that may not have experienced the struggle with infertility, let me give you a small insight into what it might look like.

Day one, your flow starts. Many times, I already knew I wasn’t pregnant based on the symptoms I’d already experienced and had begun to mourn my loss the entire week prior to starting my cycle. (Sometimes my intuition was that strong). But occasionally, there were minor symptoms that I’d cling to with hope of a pregnancy, only to be met with utter devastation when my cycle appeared. And then the sobbing began. Ugly, angry tears.

I was angry and bitter and hopeless and a whole other slew of emotions I couldn’t always identify.

I tried to draw closer to God, but too often, I’d draw inward instead. I closed off the world. My friends. My family. I’d seek solitude. While my husband always did his best to comfort me, sometimes it was such an emotional pain and personal attack (on my body’s lack of ability to reproduce) that I couldn’t convey my inner feelings in a way he would truly understand. I saw the hurt in his eyes when I’d push him away and clam up, but I couldn’t help it. I was in survival mode. Just trying to move on from one day to the next. It didn’t feel fair to drag him down with me.

At some point, I’d crawl out of my silence and begin to hope again with the promise of a new beginning and a new cycle.

Those two weeks between my period and ovulation were usually my happiest as I’d once again experience a hopeful anticipation of THIS being “the month.” The magical month that the stars would align and the desires of my heart would come true.

Only, more often than I’d like, or ever wish upon anyone else…those desires would come crashing down on me a week later when I’d hit yet another wall of sadness so thick that I literally felt immobile. I’d continue about my day, almost numb, knowing I had to. I had a child I needed to care for and a perfectly good life outside my infertility. Which then led to guilt. Not everyone was blessed with the life I had or even possessed a single child. And here I was with a perfectly healthy, beautiful, spirited child.

But no, I was selfish and wanted another.

How dare I?

I was ashamed of my lack of faith, my anger, sadness, and selfishness (or was it greed?). I chose to bottle it up, refusing to admit my “unChristian-like” behavior and did my best to temper my emotions to the outside world. (I’m sure even my immediate family will be surprised by this post). It’s difficult to share pain and embarrassment or ineptitude.

When trying for our first child, I blamed myself. I was unworthy of motherhood. God didn’t see me as “fit” to be a mother.

But now that I am a mother, I know that I am worthy. In fact, I make a pretty stinkin’ wonderful mother (most days) and it’s one of the biggest blessings of my life. My heart bursts with joy when I look at my daughter. The struggle we had to get her here only makes her that much sweeter.

This time around?

I was already a mother. So maybe I’d hit my limit. One child for me. That’s all my body was meant to handle. I tried to make peace with that.

But it was hard.

Each month as I’d go through every emotion. I knew I inevitably had to give it over to God again. But I struggled and dragged my feet. Again. And again. (I felt unworthy of a child—not as a mother—but as a person of faith. Perhaps I wasn’t deserving of a child if my faith wasn’t strong enough).

But I kept going back to prayer. Sometimes lost and confused. Others in pain and tears. Even resigned at times. But I’d pull on that thread of faith that God gave me this desire for a reason. Surely if I wasn’t meant to have another child, I wouldn’t have this feeling, right? (I know that’s not always the case—sometimes you’re meant to have a child, but not of your own womb).

Anyway, you would have thought my faith would stick. And stay that way.

But it didn’t.

I still struggled. I failed to completely trust in Him because I was too blinded by my own brokenness and pain. I was too prideful to share my sadness with (almost) anyone but my husband—and as I said—even him, I tried to shield from the brunt of my emotions. I was afraid he’d say this journey, my pain, our pain, wasn’t worth it. But we both knew that wasn’t true. We had our daughter to prove it.

Little did I know a month (not kidding, exactly a month) after I wrote the above excerpt, we conceived our second child, which we know now is a girl. I can’t help but tear up. Despite the fertility medication we used to get pregnant, I wasn’t a firm believer in it. I didn’t even really want it. I wanted everything to happen naturally. But I was anxious and impatient, feeling like I was getting too old for another child.

How many times does God tell us to be patient? To wait for His good timing? Not ours.

Some of you may be painfully aware that that seems like an unfair statement as you already know you’re not destined for a child…or another child. I get it. I do. Due to complications from my first delivery, there was a small chance I could never have a child again and I started to believe that.

Every story is different. Just as I’m sure yours is too. I don’t have the answers here. I only wanted to share my own pain to let you know—you are not alone. I experienced the struggle of infertility not only once, but twice. Yes. I realize how that sounds. The fact that I even had one child proves I wasn’t “infertile.” But some of us have a body that doesn’t always cooperate and get pregnant on the “first try.” Just because you have one child doesn’t mean the second will come easily (as so many believe and as you may often be told). There are thousands, or millions, of other women in the same boat as you.

But I hope and pray you have at least one thing in your boat with you.

Jesus.

It’s difficult. And I’m not the prime example. Clearly, I struggled. Repeatedly. But I want to encourage you to give it over to Him, sweet sister. Over and over again. Even if you have to trudge your way, dragging your emotionally distressed body. Let Him carry that burden. Better yet, just take a ride in His boat for a while and let Him be your guide. And invite your struggling sisters with you. His boat is certainly big enough to fit all of you and the weight that you carry.

Women who experience a pregnancy after a miscarriage, refer to their babies as Rainbow Babies. Why is it that we don’t have a name for the child that was finally conceived after trying for month after month? Maybe there is and I don’t know it? We mourn the loss all the same. Those blessed born children that you finally get to lay eyes on need a special name too. Maybe a Unicorn Baby because they are no less of a magical and a rare gift? What do you think?

Feel free to comment with your own personal struggles or better yet, email me privately if you wish. There’s nothing better than venting to someone who personally understands.

Blessings!

(Feature photo: Sasha Freemind)