Notes from the year I became a mother…
I had gotten pregnant in June of last year— we found out early at 4 weeks, the day after our fifth wedding anniversary. We had been trying just a couple months, definitely not expecting such quick success. Just 2 weeks later, we lost that baby, the day she found her heartbeat at 6 weeks. Of course, I don’t know for sure what the gender would’ve been, but my spirit felt like she was a girl — I’ll find out in Heaven one day. The embryo was ectopic, lodged in the walls of my right fallopian tube & growing, but not moving… waiting it out meant risking my life & the ultrasound showed she had implanted there, so I had a few hours to decide how this had to end — with an injection of chemo drug that would slowly kill the cells & let my body absorb her life, or choose to remove her embryo intact with my tube full of scars that was likely going to be too damaged to work functionally anymore, knowing I was reducing my fertility. I chose the later & had surgery - very scared but still confident that only God knows what’s ahead. He is the author of all life - we simply have the honor of carrying it.
Recovering from that surgery was weird. Looking at my belly forever changed with 3 little scars. Evidence of her existence even if we never could conceive again. I even named her. Zara Ruth. I felt a little silly, but was quickly reminded that no life is silly, they are all worthy of recognition & honor even if they never get to meet us in flesh.
I saw myself differently when I looked in the mirror. I couldn’t shake that I was, but now wasn’t, a mom. I ached in a new way…. Hoped, longed for another opportunity. But I didn’t want to be too eager, too occupied by the thought of being someone’s mom. I should finish my counseling program, get licensed— I had time to focus on my vocation, chip away at some debt, and get everything seemingly more in order before we tried again. I wiped my tears, including the ones I never let fall, and shelved my pain and sorrow for another time…
Then came August. I had been preparing for a few months to go to a weekend conference at my school to kick off year two & fall semester. I booked housing for some other students and I, plane tickets, rental car… I was excited, but also hadn’t been sleeping well for several days, overstimulated and had just switched medications… you can probably see where this is going. I had the absolute worst manic turned psychotic episode of my life while in Arizona. I think being in an unfamiliar place exacerbated my state of disassociation & volatility, but I was a wreck… I came home the day after Labor Day after almost 3 weeks of being in a strange psychiatric institution. I was totally undone, and couldn’t remember much of anything. Oh, and half of my hair was in one giant, gnarly mat (that took 3 multiple-hour appointments at a salon to get out).
I was embarrassed, confused and angry. I didn’t know what was next. I had left my role in social services, was kicked out of my program (yes, I still can’t believe I am typing that as a fact of my story — if you know me, this is kind of hilarious being a straight A student for as long as I can remember) … whatever control I previously had was gone, and I felt like I was inventing myself, again — exhausted & so weary, I felt like the Lord was saying, “Trust me. I will carry you.”
It wasn’t until late October that I took a pregnancy test, since I was still waiting on my cycle to return… and sure enough, we were expecting. A week’s worth of bloodwork over multiple visits indicated we may be losing this pregnancy, too. Terrified, we had another emergency ultrasound… Where we saw him! A big, moving baby with fingers & toes. The sonographer said, “Congrats! First trimester is over, you’re 16 weeks & 2 days!” I wish I could’ve seen my own face.
(part 2 coming soon)