Today marks eleven months since our daughter Avery died inside me.
Eleven months since we saw her beautiful face for the first and last time.
Eleven months of feeling so proud to have had her as our child, and so broken that we didn't get to keep her here with us.
And in a couple days, our second daughter will be born. Not even a whole year since we said goodbye.
As many moms that have lost their babies too soon would tell you, pregnancy after loss is not for the faint of heart.
Our story of getting pregnant again is an incredible one. Every time I think about it, it floors me. (See our previous blog post). God has gifted us AGAIN with another beautiful daughter.
But, there are pieces of it all that I find myself pulled in every direction.
Every time someone congratulates me on being pregnant, a part of me wants to scream about it, knowing that there is no guarantee we get to bring home this baby girl. A part of me wants to stop them and tell them about the beautiful daughter we already had. A part of me wants to jump up and down for joy, high-fiving everyone, excited to meet this new little human that is miraculously growing inside me.
Every time someone asks if this baby is our first, I stumble through a succession of thoughts before some short-falling words make their way out of my mouth.
I think about who the person is, if I want to drop them into the middle of a painful story. I think about Avery and how I ALWAYS want to talk about her at every chance I can get. I think about how to give the appropriate weight to our baby dying: it was not just the end of a pregnancy, not just a "sad thing" that happened to us. Our baby was a living being, with every piece functioning beautifully, the ability to hear, and kick, and suck, and LIVE. And it was MY body that failed her. She was not just a "pregnancy loss."
And so some words make their way out: sometimes I just say "yes" that this new baby is our first, not telling the whole truth, not wanting to have to put a stranger in that uncomfortable position of having to apologize to me, and justifying it with the thought that "well, she is hopefully the first baby we get to bring home and BE parents to." Most of the time, the truth fumbles out awkwardly, and I almost always find myself questioning whether I said it well or not, the right balance of the truth, grace for the person who will likely quickly feel uncomfortable and possibly stumble through the words themselves, and giving Avery's life every bit of honor and validity that it deserves.
We were gifted this onesie when we were pregnant with Avery. It now rests on a shelf in our living room, with our favorite picture of her, her birth measurements, the blanket we wrapped her in, and her ashes. Every time I look at this onesie, there is a profound spot in my soul that resonates so strongly with this truth. Many people would look at Avery's short life and death as the opposite of an answer to prayer. But her life WAS an answer to prayer. Her existence, her personhood, her influence and impact on my life was an answer to prayer. Her death, obviously, was not what we wanted.
But that's the thing. This baby that is currently kicking me, ready to come to meet us as well, is NOT a replacement. She was not "trying again." She is also an answer to prayer, a blessing in her very existence, but she is not just our "successful" pregnancy. She will always be Avery's little sister, conceived on Avery's due date, but she is her own person, with her own story.
This pregnancy has been a roller coaster of emotion.
In the hopeful moments, there is a sting of loss, a nagging reminder that she is not our own, and we may not get to bring her home either.
In the joyful moments of seeing her little limbs and face on the ultrasound, I miss my sweet first daughter.
In the loving comments and prayers for health and safety for our second daughter, I feel the gaping wound that our first daughter is missing from the conversation.
In the details I painstakingly put into preparing our world for our second daughter to come home, there is a twinge of guilt, of loss, that Avery did not get the same level of preparation, did not have a nursery, and never got to wear that onesie I bought to bring her home in.
In the countless shots of medication I gave myself over the last nine months, I felt grateful for the hope they offered and a pain at knowing this same medication could have possibly kept our firstborn alive.
I realize more and more, that having your baby die is something that very few can understand, and that's okay. I praise God that more people do not have to go through this to be able to truly understand how confusing and life-changing it is. I praise God for the people who do not pretend to understand, but have sat with us in it, seeking to truly hear us, to learn to better understand.
We are going to meet our second born in a couple days. We will face labor pains again, with a brand new perspective: there is hope on the other end of this.
I find myself with an unexplainable amount of hope, and much less fear than I anticipated.
I know this process of labor and birth and hopefully bringing home our daughter will be drenched with emotion, with grief. For in the exact same moments of immense joy, I miss Avery. And I will rejoice that we have two beautiful girls we have had the privilege to hold.
And in all, I want to choose to worship our Lord. Whatever may happen in these next few days, I will choose to lean into our God; trusting him to sustain us in all things.
"Should we accept only good things from the hand of God and never anything bad?" - Job 2:10
"Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord" - Job 1:21
Eleven months since we saw her beautiful face for the first and last time.
Eleven months of feeling so proud to have had her as our child, and so broken that we didn't get to keep her here with us.
And in a couple days, our second daughter will be born. Not even a whole year since we said goodbye.
As many moms that have lost their babies too soon would tell you, pregnancy after loss is not for the faint of heart.
Our story of getting pregnant again is an incredible one. Every time I think about it, it floors me. (See our previous blog post). God has gifted us AGAIN with another beautiful daughter.
But, there are pieces of it all that I find myself pulled in every direction.
Every time someone congratulates me on being pregnant, a part of me wants to scream about it, knowing that there is no guarantee we get to bring home this baby girl. A part of me wants to stop them and tell them about the beautiful daughter we already had. A part of me wants to jump up and down for joy, high-fiving everyone, excited to meet this new little human that is miraculously growing inside me.
Every time someone asks if this baby is our first, I stumble through a succession of thoughts before some short-falling words make their way out of my mouth.
I think about who the person is, if I want to drop them into the middle of a painful story. I think about Avery and how I ALWAYS want to talk about her at every chance I can get. I think about how to give the appropriate weight to our baby dying: it was not just the end of a pregnancy, not just a "sad thing" that happened to us. Our baby was a living being, with every piece functioning beautifully, the ability to hear, and kick, and suck, and LIVE. And it was MY body that failed her. She was not just a "pregnancy loss."
And so some words make their way out: sometimes I just say "yes" that this new baby is our first, not telling the whole truth, not wanting to have to put a stranger in that uncomfortable position of having to apologize to me, and justifying it with the thought that "well, she is hopefully the first baby we get to bring home and BE parents to." Most of the time, the truth fumbles out awkwardly, and I almost always find myself questioning whether I said it well or not, the right balance of the truth, grace for the person who will likely quickly feel uncomfortable and possibly stumble through the words themselves, and giving Avery's life every bit of honor and validity that it deserves.
We were gifted this onesie when we were pregnant with Avery. It now rests on a shelf in our living room, with our favorite picture of her, her birth measurements, the blanket we wrapped her in, and her ashes. Every time I look at this onesie, there is a profound spot in my soul that resonates so strongly with this truth. Many people would look at Avery's short life and death as the opposite of an answer to prayer. But her life WAS an answer to prayer. Her existence, her personhood, her influence and impact on my life was an answer to prayer. Her death, obviously, was not what we wanted.
But that's the thing. This baby that is currently kicking me, ready to come to meet us as well, is NOT a replacement. She was not "trying again." She is also an answer to prayer, a blessing in her very existence, but she is not just our "successful" pregnancy. She will always be Avery's little sister, conceived on Avery's due date, but she is her own person, with her own story.
This pregnancy has been a roller coaster of emotion.
In the hopeful moments, there is a sting of loss, a nagging reminder that she is not our own, and we may not get to bring her home either.
In the joyful moments of seeing her little limbs and face on the ultrasound, I miss my sweet first daughter.
In the loving comments and prayers for health and safety for our second daughter, I feel the gaping wound that our first daughter is missing from the conversation.
In the details I painstakingly put into preparing our world for our second daughter to come home, there is a twinge of guilt, of loss, that Avery did not get the same level of preparation, did not have a nursery, and never got to wear that onesie I bought to bring her home in.
In the countless shots of medication I gave myself over the last nine months, I felt grateful for the hope they offered and a pain at knowing this same medication could have possibly kept our firstborn alive.
I realize more and more, that having your baby die is something that very few can understand, and that's okay. I praise God that more people do not have to go through this to be able to truly understand how confusing and life-changing it is. I praise God for the people who do not pretend to understand, but have sat with us in it, seeking to truly hear us, to learn to better understand.
We are going to meet our second born in a couple days. We will face labor pains again, with a brand new perspective: there is hope on the other end of this.
I find myself with an unexplainable amount of hope, and much less fear than I anticipated.
I know this process of labor and birth and hopefully bringing home our daughter will be drenched with emotion, with grief. For in the exact same moments of immense joy, I miss Avery. And I will rejoice that we have two beautiful girls we have had the privilege to hold.
And in all, I want to choose to worship our Lord. Whatever may happen in these next few days, I will choose to lean into our God; trusting him to sustain us in all things.
"Should we accept only good things from the hand of God and never anything bad?" - Job 2:10
"Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord" - Job 1:21
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