In my last post, I shared with you our struggles of the last dozen years but there is one piece of the past that I held back on sharing. I held back partly because it’s so deeply personal. It’s hard to share. I also held back because I don’t want to overwhelm you with bad stuff. But I realized, this little piece plays a huge role in how we got here. So, here goes.
I was 46. We were struggling. Money was tight. I had made a huge push to get healthy and lost a bunch of weight. Well, all that running I was doing apparently blew the dust off my ovaries because at the ripe old age of forty-six, I ended up pregnant. To say it was a shock is like saying a mansion is a nice little house. I spent the first days after finding out alternating emotions. One minute, I’d be laughing because having a 21 year old and a newborn seems like something one should laugh at. Another minute, I’d cry. Blame it on hormones or fear, or shock or whatever. The point is, I was all over the place. My life had just spun completely out of control.
As days, then weeks passed by, I began to slowly, cautiously let it sink in. I’ve miscarried before so I couldn’t just let go. The nagging fear of another miscarriage was always there. If you’ve miscarried, I know you know what I mean. As I reached 8 weeks, the latest point I had miscarried in the past, that fear started to lift. At 12 weeks, we had to go in for genetic testing. They prepared us for all the possibilities, all the possible abnormalities. I think we were all pleasantly surprised that no abnormalities were found. Our little nugget was perfect. THAT is when the fear went away. We had scientific proof that our little bean was good and at 12 weeks, the risk of miscarriage goes way down. And we saw her. We saw this perfectly formed albeit tiny little baby. While we wouldn’t have chosen to get pregnant, it started to sink in how much we loved her and what she would bring our family.
She brought hope. In the midst of all of our struggles came the most perfect form of hope that God ever created, a baby.
Now, since I warned you this was a sad story, you have probably figured out that our sweet Delaney Grace never came to be. At 16 weeks, her heartbeat was gone. We were devastated. We were grieving but the trauma wasn’t over. We had to decide whether to have surgery or let nature take its course. I’ve never made a tougher decision. My instinct was to protect her. To allow her to be born even if she wasn’t alive. We originally opted for nature but nature didn’t happen and after weeks of waiting (yes, weeks), surgery became a better option for my mental health. And while my body healed quickly and my baby bump melted back to my normal belly, my heart and my mind took a lot longer to heal.
I spent the better part of a year as a lost soul, a ghost of my former self. I know. A lot of you reading don’t get it. The idea of that much grief over someone you never met, isn’t something you can grasp. And that’s okay. I don’t need you to get it or approve of it. It was what it was.
After that year, the fog began to lift. I can’t honestly say that now, after four years, the fog is completely gone. I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe grief never really goes away. Maybe it melts into you and changes you, Maybe my grief isn’t gone yet. I guess as we take this journey together, we’ll figure that out.
But I know this… This house was my sanctuary, is my sanctuary. It is my home. I know we neglected it a lot while we grieved. I also am fairly certain that fixing this home will do a lot to mending our broken hearts. I’m really looking forward to sharing this journey with you. We still don’t have a lot of money but you’ll see. Even without it, we can still do some pretty amazing things.