Three days ago, I went to the doctor and found out we had lost another baby. This makes number 5 for us, and I can’t even describe how I am feeling. Ian and I have been in a quiet cycle of pain and anguish, holding one another together while desperately trying to keep our fears and sadness down to a manageable level. Sometimes we succeed, but there are times when we are just too broken to ‘be normal’ and function without just stopping to cry.

We hadn’t planned this pregnancy, but we had reached the point of being very excited. We were trying to wait until the end of the first trimester to announce it publicly, but we had told our families and close friends. I think sometimes the most painful part of the loss is having to tell peopleΒ over and over and having to relive it. It hurts to have to share it. Sometimes the pain is a healing pain – sharing it with our mothers and women or couples who have gone through it before brings you a little closer because you know you aren’t alone. On the other hand, it feels so isolating that it is hard to know what to do or how to handle it.

It is hard to lose a baby. With this being number 5 for us, we have begun to wonder if more children will ever be possible. Both of us wanted a large family – he comes from a family of 5 and I am the oldest of 6, so the concept of having one child is a little foreign to us. We love Autumn more than we could ever explain, but the thought of never being able to give her younger siblings breaks our hearts. If you have been following the blog for a while, you’ll also know that Autumn isn’t Ian’s biologically, although he is the one she calls Daddy and the one who gets her special Daddy’s Girl smiles. Ian adores her and loves her as if she was, but it is different because she isn’t biologically his. There have been lots of talks about lost moments because he wasn’t there – at the delivery, the better part of her first year and so many little things he wasn’t around for because God hadn’t brought him into our lives in that capacity yet. It is hard to imagine that maybe we won’t be able to share those moments at all with any children. I know that I ‘shouldn’t be worrying’ and that the doctor might provide some answers or a solution, but at this point that logic isn’t fixing the worries and feelings. It is hard to be hopeful when it becomes so painful you can’t see anything else.

Coping

I don’t know how I get through each day. When I am stressed, I clean and organize. Since we lost the baby, when I haven’t been resting (which has been quite a lot) I have been cleaning and planning sewing projects. What began as a reasonable stash of fabric for projects has gotten out of hand, so I am making it my mission to tackle that. I have been making organizers, Christmas gifts, birthday gifts for the coming year, upcycling clothing, repurposing things by turning large items like old sheets into cloth napkins… the list goes on.

Writing about it and describing it makes me feel a little silly – but I know that this is my way of feeling in control. I can’t fix the fact that I keep losing babies, I can’t bring order to my emotions, so I clean and I finish projects. I pray and cry as the needle goes in and out of the fabric, making nice, neat lines and bringing order and beauty. Sometimes I just sit there, staring at the fabric and can’t summon any feeling or motivation. Sometimes I feel nothing, then it all comes rushing back to me and I find myself drowning in a sea of pain and sorrow.

So friends, please pray for my husband and I. We are so heartbroken, scared and discouraged.