Rachel’s Story
On December 16, 2015, my husband and I found out we were pregnant with our second baby. From the first positive pregnancy test, our minds and hearts began to fill with ideas of our new little one—how much we would love this new baby, the kind of sibling he or she would be to our daughter, and how he or she would fit into our family.
Around 6 weeks pregnant, we saw our baby on ultrasound, and the doctor reported that everything looked good. Then came the exhaustion, nausea, and vomiting. Everything seemed to be following the same pattern as my previous pregnancy; so, none of this felt surprising.
On January 28, I went in for a routine appointment at 10 weeks pregnant. My doctor entered the room and began the ultrasound.
“How far along are you?” she asked.
“Ten weeks,” I responded.
Her friendly conversation turned to silence—stretching on long enough to feel worrisome. My daughter started crying in her stroller. One of the nurses offered to take her out of the room, and I let her.
After more silence and more measuring on the ultrasound screen, my doctor stated, “This looks concerning to me.”
I was told that the baby was not measuring on track, and there was no sign of a heartbeat. I sat up and tried to calmly discuss with my doctor what this meant.
She didn’t say “miscarriage” or “your baby is no longer alive.” She suggested more tests first. A blood test to measure hCG levels, and another one 48 hours later. Then, a follow up ultrasound after that. Even though, she seemed to have already concluded what I feared.
She told me, “This happens to many women. If you are willing to talk about it, you might be surprised at how many others can relate.”
I got dressed and went into the lab to get my blood drawn. The nurse brought my daughter back to me. I choked back tears and tried to speak calmly and cheerfully to her. I made a quick exit, got us into the car, and sat there for a moment. Do I call someone, drive to a friend’s house, or just go home? My husband was interviewing for an important job all day that day. If I even hinted the appointment didn’t go well, I knew he would cancel the rest of the day to come be with me, and the interview would be ruined.
I suddenly felt like I needed to pray, “God, help me! I’m in so much pain and shock from this news; I can’t even think right now. Please be near. Help me trust You.”
After I got home, I called my mom and also spoke with a couple good friends. They were comforting and supportive. I remember making my daughter’s lunch, cleaning it up when she dumped it on the ground, and putting her down for her nap—all the actions of a normal day, but wrapped in a fog. Later, a close friend brought over dinner, ate with me, and helped me put away laundry. She stayed with me until my husband got home. That was such a comfort and an act of friendship that I will always treasure. Once my husband got home, I shared the news with him and could tell it hurt him deeply. We held each other and cried together on the couch. We knew there were still tests to be done and a sliver of hope, but both realized our sweet baby was most likely no longer alive.
That night I remember waking up throughout the night, remembering the news, and feeling heartbroken each time. Going to sleep crying, waking up thinking I was still pregnant, and crying again. The days stretched on, and they were filled with thoughts and questions. Could our baby still be alive? Am I grieving for nothing? What will the next steps be? The pregnancy symptoms continued. Apparently, it can take a long time for hCG levels to drop after a miscarriage. My body still thought I was pregnant; it was holding on to a baby who had stopped growing and whose heart was not beating. This was a difficult reality to accept. I spent every morning that weekend on the back porch reading my Bible, listening to music, and writing. These moments brought peace, trust, and clarity. It helped me cling to the goodness of God and reminded me that He was near.
On Monday, our fears were confirmed—the follow up test results showed I was experiencing what is called a “missed miscarriage.” The doctor was patient with me as I asked her to be as thorough as possible, to allay any possible doubt that our baby could still be alive. She zoomed in the ultrasound on our baby’s little heart, and explained that if there were any blood flow at all in that area, it would show up red. There was nothing. I asked for an ultrasound photo to keep, we discussed options regarding the next steps, and I was prescribed some medication to help deliver the baby at home.
Later that afternoon, I received the news that my grandma, my sweet Memaw, had passed away just hours before. I remember feeling as if I could barely breathe. Even as I felt overwhelmed by grief, I was comforted by the thought of Memaw in heaven, rejoicing in the presence of her Savior.
I took the medication that night. What followed was physically and emotionally difficult—the first outward signs that the pregnancy was truly over. The doctor advised me not to take another round of the medication but to wait until my appointment the next week to see if everything had sufficiently passed. Although we never found out the gender of the baby, we had felt all along that it was a boy. We chose a name for him and began to process the reality that he was no longer with us. I attended my grandma’s funeral out of town that weekend. I was grieving the loss of such a special person, but also celebrating her life and the many good memories with her.
The next day, I woke up early to drive the four-hour drive home. I packed up and loaded the car. As I went back to use the restroom before leaving, I noticed my bleeding had increased significantly. After about an hour, the bleeding was still getting worse, and my husband and I decided it was time to go to the ER. In the car driving there, I began acting and talking strangely. My husband knew I had lost too much blood too fast. Once we arrived, I passed out in the hallway on my way back to the hospital room.
The time in the ER was painful, scary, and traumatic. I was given IV fluids and morphine, but I was still experiencing uncomfortable contractions with increased bleeding. My bloodwork results confirmed serious blood loss. At one point, I tried to sit up in the bed and began to pass out again. It was a horrible feeling. The OB at the hospital ordered an emergency procedure known as a “D&C.” I drifted in and out of consciousness until being taken in for the procedure.
When I woke up, I found out that my blood levels had dropped low enough that I would need a blood transfusion. I stayed in the hospital overnight and received more IV fluids plus multiple units of blood. We were informed that I had experienced a rare miscarriage complication which had caused my body to be unable to stop bleeding. At that point, I was still grieving our loss and was in shock of all that had happened. I was also very thankful that my husband had been by my side through all of it, and thankful for the Lord’s provision of medical care that had truly saved my life.
I was still out of town and away from home. I spent that next week at my parents’ house under the doctor’s orders to recover since I was still anemic—no traveling, no work, and no caring for my daughter alone for at least a week. Instead of going right back to work as planned, I had an entire week to truly just “be still” (Psalm 46:10). I struggled to process everything—losing the baby was already so painful, but why did it have to happen in what felt like such a traumatic way? Even in that, I began to see the Lord’s goodness to me. In this forced week of recovery and stillness, He met me there. I asked Him questions. I listened to a few songs on repeat, again and again. I grieved the loss of my baby and mourned the fact that I would not get to meet him, hold him, and raise him here on this earth. Oh, the pain in that! I sat by a lake, watched birds flying, the sun setting, and felt my own smallness. The Lord made clear to me two things: that He is all-powerful, and that He is good. What I had experienced was not evidence against this; in fact, there were so many facets within that experience that again pointed me back to His goodness and power. During that week, parts of my heart were exposed and changed, and for that I will always be grateful.
Not long after, we lost another baby to miscarriage. Although the story is different, the wound felt similar—the grief was both familiar and raw. Being able to fall upon the truths of the Lord brought comfort and strength. Looking back on the stories of our miscarriages is still difficult. I’m sure I will always miss the two babies I didn’t get the chance to know, but the overarching love of the Lord colors the memories with an unexpected thankfulness. Even on the darkest days, His presence has been undeniable, His goodness has been unchanging, and He has continued to refine and restore me amidst loss. I know that nothing in this world can bring full healing and peace apart from Him. In Christ alone, my hope is found, and He is more than enough.
‘“The Lord is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him.”’
Lamentations 3:24
- Rachel
Hope Mom to Two Hope Babies
I am a professional counselor in Houston, TX. My husband and I have been married for six years. I love running, playing piano, spending time out in nature, and building relationships with family and friends.
We would be honored to share your story as a Hope Mom on our blog. Every Saturday we feature a Hope Mom’s story 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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