“I’m sorry, you’re having a miscarriage.”
“I’m sorry, you’re having a miscarriage.”
A year ago today, those were the words we heard as we sat in the OB’s office — scared, confused, excited, hopeful — after getting a positive pregnancy test just the day before… right as the bleeding began.
What followed felt like a memorized script:
“It’s not your fault.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“There was likely a life-prohibiting abnormality.”
And so on.
It all felt so cold. So rushed. Like it was just another day, another loss, and no big deal.
But for us, it was everything.
Over the next five weeks, we rode a wave of highs and lows like nothing we’d ever experienced:
Watching my HCG levels rise
Having an ultrasound — but seeing no baby
Fearing an ectopic pregnancy
Being told my numbers weren’t progressing — even though they were
Being offered medication or a D&C, which Mark and I declined
Finally seeing our baby in my womb
Hearing the heartbeat for the first time
Sharing the news with Mark’s parents — including his dad, who was very sick
Losing Mark’s dad
Passing all the OB tests to confirm a healthy, viable pregnancy
Returning for an ultrasound and hearing: “I’m not seeing a heartbeat. And unfortunately, it was actually twins.”
Sitting down with my trusted doctor, the one who delivered both my girls, to walk through our options
And having a D&C just days before I turned 30
These past couple of days have been hard. I’ve heard of “anniversary reactions” or “trauma anniversaries,” but I don’t know if I’ve ever truly experienced one until now. I’ve felt short-tempered, cranky, on edge, and constantly on the verge of tears.
It’s a strange tension — holding the excitement of baby boy arriving later this month, soaking in this sweet time with just my girls… while also remembering and grieving the loss of our twins, and the loss of Mark’s dad. It feels like a lot. Because it is a lot.
And yet, I keep coming back to this truth I’ve had to remind myself of all year: Grief and joy can coexist.
I am deeply grieving the boys we never got to meet.
And I don’t think I could be more overjoyed or expectant to welcome our sweet boy in just a few weeks.
It doesn’t have to be one or the other. It’s both. It’s messy. It’s confusing. But it’s real.
I’m also reminded of God’s goodness to us in that season.
Of the prayers and tears our closest friends and family poured out beside us.
Of how our small group community wrapped around us with such love.
Of the friend who had walked such a similar road, who showed up in ways only someone who had been there could.
This isn’t the story we would have written. But even in the heartbreak, God has been present. And today, in the grief, in the joy, in the remembering — we hold both.
Because love makes space for both. And grief — grief is love with nowhere to go.