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After miscarriage, the world offers comfort in the form of pity and positivity. But if you expect that to give you comfort, you’re going to be disappointed.
The other day my high school students demanded to know why I didn’t have kids yet. They reminded me that another teacher my age just had her second baby, and I was behind (thanks for the reminder). I stated adamantly that they should stop hoping for a baby from me anytime soon…I was not currently pregnant, I declared, so it wasn’t going to happen before they graduated, like they hoped. Plus, we would have kids when we were “ready.”
As if we haven’t been for the last three years, I thought. (I left that part out.)
Two days later I found out I was pregnant.
I like to think God has a sense of humor.
Four weeks later, I walked into school with my assistant principal, who asked how my weekend was. I thought about the sleepless night I had had before, cramping and curled up in the fetal position, willing my body to stop the miscarriage. I smiled, and replied that I had a great weekend.
How was yours?
Infertility and miscarriage have made me a master of deception. So much so that sometimes I’m not even sure how I feel myself.
Some days, when I get an encouraging or “thinking of you” text from a friend, I wonder why she’s making such a big deal out of all of this. Miscarriage happens all the time. This is nothing unusual, and really, I was told to expect it.
But other days I’m fighting back tears on my way to work, questioning the meaning of “large” blood clots, the goodness of God, and the decision not to take any days off work.
Pity + Positivity
Sometimes, for better or for worse, I’d rather just not talk about it. The problem when you talk about your miscarriage — or infertility, for that matter — is that it’s usually met with people trying to give you comfort with either pity or positivity. I have a hard time with either.
I have a hard time being the reason you hug your babies a little tighter tonight because I’ve made you realize how blessed you are to have your children. And I have a hard time hearing, “Oh you’ll have kids one day!” I have a hard time with, “Well, at least…”
It’s not your fault; really, I don’t say all of this out of bitterness. I’ve tried to comfort others the same way. But of course I don’t want pity or positivity; I want a baby.
But even more than that, I want something that the world cannot offer: Something that will bring me lasting comfort in the midst of my infertility and miscarriage.
The Grief of God
God doesn’t feel bad and pity me; He grieves with me — just like he grieved the death of Lazarus:
“When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled…Jesus wept.”
John 11: 33, 35
Jesus wept. It’s easy to forget that Jesus experienced grief on this earth too. And that makes a difference: In your grief, haven’t you noticed a difference between those people who seem to pity you and those who seem to mourn with you? After experiencing grief yourself, haven’t you noticed a difference in how you react to others who are grieving?
The other day I stopped at an apple orchard on my way home from work. I had heard that the man’s wife had passed away months earlier, and — completely out of character for me and on a whim — I asked him how things were going. As he talked about his wife’s death, to my surprise (and embarrassment), I felt tears spring to my eyes. I’d like to blame the pregnancy-miscarriage hormones, but I think there’s something else too. When we have experienced grief ourselves, we cease to simply feel bad for others. Instead, we grieve with them.
We don’t serve a God who looks down on us when we are suffering, thinking about how bad he feels for us. He’s experienced grief too. He weeps with us.
God’s Promises
God doesn’t give me the positivity of a false promise that I’ll have a baby someday, either. Instead, He gives me the real promise that He is always working for my good, no matter my circumstances:
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”
Romans 8:28
I know it seems that this verse is sometimes overused and misquoted, but it’s what I keep coming back to in my grief. While the world tries to comfort us by telling us that things can only get better, that we’ll have a healthy pregnancy someday, we know that that’s just not always true. Things don’t always work out that way.
The cancer doesn’t always go away; people are not always healed; women don’t always have babies.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to pretend that the suffering in this world is going to go away. Instead, I want to know that suffering has a purpose. I need to know that God is still in control; that He is still with me and for me; that all of this is going to work out for the good of those who love Him.
That is exactly what God promises us. In the midst of our grief and confusion, we continue to serve a God who is in control. Though we cannot always fathom how, this God who weeps with us is still working for our good. This certainty is the only comfort that is worth clinging to in the midst of miscarriage.
Hi there. I came to this blog because of the IUI tips and was so relieved to find someone actually citing peer-reviewed studies and who was sharing information frankly and accurately. It made me curious to know about your journey, and I was so sad to read about your miscarriage experience.
It closely resembles my own. Gestational sac, yolk sac, no fetal pole, no sign of life. It made it so much harder to mourn, because where was the fetus? Where was the little beating heart? Where was an indication that the life my husband and I created existed? That was in February, and I still grieve for what happened. And I’m still not pregnant.
But I wanted to write to you because you’ve given me the gift of candor while I undergo IUI treatment, and I wanted to do the same for a fellow miscarriage-sufferer. What we experienced is life-changing, and it can be difficult to navigate those changes, especially if you don’t know people who have gone through it themselves. I wanted to tell you that you might not be the same person you were before the miscarriage, and that’s okay. No matter how dark things get because of sadness, resentment, or anger, remember that those negative emotions are normal parts of the grieving process and do not define you, no matter how long or intensely you feel them. I remember fearing that I would never stop feeling rage at the world for what happened, and that I’d never be the happy person I was before. And I won’t be that same person, not exactly. I’ll be a wiser, stronger, but also more delicate version of that person. But I’m not defined by my darkest feelings.
You might be surrounded by clouds for a bit while you grieve, but always trust that you are the Sun, and your light will not be dimmed.
Thank you for sharing your journey. Be gentle with yourself, keep the faith, and trust that you will be okay.
Thank you so much for sharing your story and for your encouraging words! I so appreciate it. 🙂