By Carrie Lasseter,
member of First Presbyterian Church, Moultrie, Georgia
“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.”
Proverbs 13:12, ESV
In preparation for writing this, I repeatedly relived our family’s journey to grow our family; but, for months, I froze every time I tried to put the words on the page.
Sharing the details of our story with strangers almost feels like a betrayal. Our losses are ours. Our pain is ours. Telling our story feels like letting people into a sacred space where they do not belong. The details are too raw. Too personal. They are experiences that my husband and I shared that hurt us, challenged us, and strengthened us — and continue to do so. For those reasons, I decided to go
a different route than I originally intended. While I am not comfortable sharing our story as a chronological narrative, there are parts I feel compelled to share that
I hope can give a feeling of comfort and community to others on a similarly difficult path and a bit of understanding for their loved ones who support them.
(II Corinthians 1:3-4)
When we got married, I often wondered when we would want to have children, not if we could. We were young and felt invincible. We had plenty of time! Of course, I had heard of people having miscarriages and fertility issues, but that was “them.” That would never be “us.” When we finally reached the point where it felt like the right time, I approached pregnancy with the bold arrogance that only comes with youth. Thirteen pregnancies, nine tragic miscarriages (two of which were deep into the second trimester and required vaginal deliveries), and four beautiful, healthy babies later:
I look back at that time in our family history as our personal tale of two cities— “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
We never discovered why we had so many losses. I visited multiple fertility specialists who poked and prodded and ran labs on vial after vial of blood. They never found any red flags or conclusive explanations. My pregnancies were coin tosses. We won’t ever know why some failed and others were perfect. For a long time, that haunted me. That need to know. I kept believing that if we could know, maybe we could fix it. Thankfully, time and prayer are great healers. They have given me the space and grace to accept what I will never understand
What I do know is that losing a baby is hard, no matter how many weeks. Being pregnant so many times led me to become secretive about it. There became a self-imposed shame attached to admitting I was pregnant, or even worse, that I was not with child anymore. I felt like the girl crying wolf. It was an emotional rollercoaster that the people who know understand, but otherwise, I feel like it would be hard to imagine realistically. I surely did not before.
In retrospect, I cannot imagine a family so perfectly imperfect or one that looks any different. I am not so prideful as to believe that I love my children any more than the other parents I see muddling through the day-to-day and doing the best they can, just like we are. I do believe, though, that my husband and I have a greater appreciation for what a blessing our children are. I do not think our children have brought us any more joy than our friends who have not experienced infant loss. Still, I feel like the juxtaposition of joy and grief gives us a deeper appreciation of the sanctity and preciousness of life. What a blessing this difficult journey has been!
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