Healing After a Miscarriage

Letting It Sink In

As I sat numbly in my driveway, staring at my family through the bay window, I wondered how I could tell them all that I'd failed. That's how I felt, as if I had failed. Fortunately, Jeff found a way to break the news to the kids, and I was greeted with love.

Caroline, in her sweet innocence, had drawn me a picture of four people smiling. "Mom," "Dad," "Caroline," and "Luke" floated above their heads. It was her way of telling me our family was still intact. I wanted to cry, knowing that her drawings, just a few days before, had included a fifth happy stick figure, much smaller than the rest. Luke just fidgeted in his seat and said nothing -- he was too young to understand.

I don't remember how I got through the bedtime rituals that night. I do, however, remember using every bit of motherly strength the next day to stand on the sidelines of a parade while Caroline and her Brownie troop waved at their fans.

I came home and dropped onto my couch. I was in labor, without the reward. I watched Jeff through the window as he washed the cars. (Doesn't he care that I am bleeding to death?) Then I saw him squirting the kids with the hose, and I heard their giggles, and I knew he was doing his best to keep them from seeing my pain. I called my doctor, whose overbooked schedule caused me to wait six hours (through several births) before he performed the D&C.

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