Rachel’s Story

Aligned in our desire for three children, my husband and I conceived for the first time in 2015, just after our first anniversary. Days later, the pregnancy ended. I knew nothing of “chemical pregnancy” before that experience. I was devastated, but it didn’t feel like it mattered to anyone but me.

The following year, I gave birth to a healthy daughter, Lily, and fell in love, not only with her, but with the entirety of motherhood—pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding. I wanted to do it again and again. Despite our first early loss, I believed I would continue to have healthy babies.   

I became pregnant again just before Lily turned one. I was elated over my induction into the “two under two” club. It was Christmastime, and we excitedly shared the news with our families and some close friends. But at our eight-week appointment, there was no heartbeat. My body held onto that pregnancy for another two weeks, until I finally had an incomplete miscarriage. My midwife waited for my body to miscarry on its own, but ultimately, I had to undergo a D&C.

That January and February were long and dark. I had some idea of what to expect physically, but had zero preparation for the wild hormonal and emotional fluctuations that come with a prolonged missed miscarriage. Neither did my poor husband. But we got through it and became pregnant again a few months later in May. I had HCG draws and progesterone checks, and all looked well. We scheduled a six-week appointment, but the day of, I had some bleeding. All my internal alarms began sounding. We went for the ultrasound and there was a heartbeat, but it was weak. The midwife was careful not to give us false hope. We made our eight-week appointment and spent the next two weeks vacillating between hope and worry, afraid to exhale. 

It was an affront to me to be in the same situation again. I had reconciled our first two losses, although heartbreaking, as temporary setbacks to growing our family. This time it felt different. I knew plenty of women who had endured one miscarriage, but few who had experienced two or more. I didn’t want to be a part of that scary minority. But in the long two weeks between appointments, God put Romans 8:28 in my heart, in my head, and all around me.

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.”

I was able to trust God with the outcome, even if it wasn’t what I wanted and didn’t make sense. I knew in my bones that He was good. 

At the eight-week ultrasound, our baby measured a week behind and had no heartbeat.

We waited a long time before trying again and even questioned whether we would. After all, we had a beautiful daughter already. I wasn’t ready to give up on a sibling for her, though, and we began trying to conceive again in late 2018. It took longer this time, and after four months I began to panic and over-control the situation. I wasn’t just trying to get pregnant, I was trying to stay pregnant, so I obsessed over my diet and environment and adopted ridiculous rituals and rules. My prayer times consisted of little more than me begging or trying to persuade God to give me what I wanted. 

Finally, in April 2019, we became pregnant. I was struck down with morning sickness early on—something that had been largely absent in our last two pregnancies. Every wave of nausea was a comfort. 

The day of our eight-week appointment, I sat in the waiting room with my husband and daughter and nibbled on crackers to keep my nausea at bay. We were called back to the familiar dim room eager for a first peek at Lily’s little brother or sister. We had gotten to know the sonographer well over the years. She was normally very chatty, but that day she was quiet, and I knew. I closed my eyes, squeezed my husband’s hand tighter, and wept. 

I miscarried that very afternoon, the Friday of Mother’s Day weekend. 

With each of our losses, I rode waves of anger, grief, and depression, and wove in and out of trusting God. In spite of my wavering, God was faithful. When I look back on that season, I see Him incrementally growing me and drawing me closer to Him. After every loss, I was a little stronger and wiser than before. The lessons I learned and the maturity I reached were only possible through suffering. 

Following that loss, we accepted that we were experiencing secondary infertility. We turned to a fertility specialist and navigated a long list of tests and procedures trying to find the cause of our miscarriages. It was a process fraught with disappointment and new frontiers of grief. But we learned our miscarriages had most likely been caused by a large fibroid tumor impinging on my uterus. I underwent major surgery to have it removed. Four days later the fertility specialist called and told me I had cancer. The pathology on the tumor showed I had endometrial stromal sarcoma—a rare uterine malignancy fed by estrogen. The recommended treatment was a total hysterectomy. 

I shifted my focus from growing my family to staying alive for my husband and daughter. As we learned more and realized my prognosis was very good following surgery, it shifted again to grieving the total loss of my fertility and any more biological children. 

I saw motherhood as one of my chief callings in life. My faith was jarred by the difficulties and loss we encountered in trying to grow our family, and I couldn’t always reach down and find joy or hope to hold onto. But after the hysterectomy, when my oncologist called and told me I was cancer free, a new kind of hope budded. It was different because it wasn’t hope in my plans or any kind of earthly hope, but the hope of Romans 5:5 that doesn’t disappoint. 

The type of cancer I had is not usually discovered until it’s a life-threatening problem. Without seeing a fertility specialist and undergoing surgery to remove what we now know was a malignant tumor, I might not have known about my cancer until it was too late. I don’t like to imagine leaving my young daughter behind. 

While I still mourn the deaths of my babies, I’m grateful that, in the midst of our sorrow, God made my steps firm and allowed for the discovery of this cancer. Seeing His hand at work in my life in this way, helped me see that I was not alone, that He cared for me, and further elevated my reverence for His ways and thoughts that are indeed higher than mine (Isaiah 55:8-9). When I spend my time and energy rejoicing over these truths and all I have been given, instead of pondering unanswered questions, gratitude takes root and gives birth to hope.

“And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” -Romans 5:5

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Rachel lives in Austin, Texas with her husband and daughter and has four babies in heaven. She has completed a memoir about her experiences with pregnancy and fertility loss, and hopes to publish it in 2021. Connect with Rachel or learn more at RachelDawnHayes.com.

We would be honored to share your story as a Hope Mom on our blog. On Saturdays we feature Hope Moms’ stories in order to showcase God’s faithfulness even in the midst of such deep sorrow. If you would like to have your story shared on our blog for this purpose, learn more and submit here.

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