The Terrible Reality of Miscarriage

If there is one thing I have found in common among mothers over 40, it is miscarriage.  Whether a woman is trying desperately to have her first IVF child or has been popping babies out for the past 20 years, every woman I know who was leaving their fertility to God has had a miscarriage after 40.  In most cases, those women never had another child, though they may have gotten pregnant and just didn't publicize it.  I have only one other friend who had subsequent babies after the miscarriage without hormone medication.  I am on my second baby after two miscarriages and know that without progesterone therapy, I would not be pregnant right now.  


But, whether you have been waiting or were surprised with your pregnancy, losing it is a shock.  


I understand how discouraging it can be to families who have been spending thousands of dollars in attempting to have a first baby and have had multiple miscarriages.  Even one can have a woman doubting her femininity or even her "right" to have a baby.  A friend of mine had a miscarriage at 45 and was convinced that "the wages of sin is death" applied to her.  When I questioned the applicability of that scripture in this case, she would have none of it.  The fact is, all of us, including little sinners in the womb, are going to die one day.  However, God used it to work in her spiritual life, and I certainly wouldn't take that away from her.  On the other hand, miscarriage certainly opened my eyes to the mortality of man to give me a perspective that I have never lost.


When I had my miscarriage, I had two weeks warning, so I was somewhat prepared.  I only cried about it when my mother (who NEVER cries) came into my room the next day to commiserate.  I spent the whole day writing in my children's journals, telling them about the baby and how I thought about them through this.  Steve and I didn't discuss our feelings about the miscarriage for FIVE YEARS.  But, the awareness of the tentativeness of life has never left me since then. 


Later that summer, we were driving in Chicago and Steve had Moody Radio on.  The Voice of Moody Radio was speaking and I had a flashback to when I was in high school, listening to his voice late at night.  And this time, he sounded so old.  I had to turn my face out the window so Steve couldn't see me crying, of all things, over the aging of the Voice of Moody Radio.  But, the awareness of mortality hit me like a ton of bricks while I was  listening to the radio.  I knew we wouldn't be hearing his Voice much longer.


When I was pregnant with Noah, after another miscarriage, I didn't talk about my reservations, but if you had watched me, you would have seen that I ran this pregnancy differently from the others.  I bought nothing for the baby. I didn't get out my "newborn" box of clothes and birth items.  My friend had a baby shower for me, and I didn't want it until after the baby was born.  I needed some crib sheets and I made very sure that they would work for a boy or girl in case the baby died, so I could use the sheets on A.J.'s toddler bed.  I was three weeks from my due date.  My midwife, during labor, when things seem to be stuck, always asks me what I'm afraid of.  Well, there I was, stuck, stark neked, leaning on my bed, and I cried, "I'm afraid of the baby dying! Everybody's dying!  Amy died yesterday (a long-time Downs' friend from church), and I didn't even want Steve to get a new car seat, in case the baby died!"  Well, that was a shocker to everyone, even Steve, who had no clue I had been suffering under that fear for the whole pregnancy.  They assured me the baby was alive and kicking and just waiting to be born.


This pregnancy, I had a faint positive.  I got going on the progesterone therapy immediately, but I didn't want to tell anyone until we heard a heartbeat, which we did at 13 weeks.  It turned out it was high time, because I was already showing and people were beginning to wonder.  I am now 16 weeks and haven't felt the baby move, so I am, once again, reserving enthusiasm.  We don't do routine ultrasounds, but this is one time when I can see how reassuring one would be.  


A miscarriage changes you.  My loss has matured me (funny coming from a geriatric mother!) and given me grace. You may have recurring bouts of tears.  Or, you may question your womanhood.  Or, you may live with an undercurrent of fear of loss. Or, you may come to value every life we get to touch, aware of life's fragility.  I hope to get there one day.