blogging in the dark.

It’s 2:00 AM and for the better part of an hour I’ve been lying here in the dark, desperately pleading for sleep to take over, but it just won’t. And so, why keep up the fight? 

As I type this, exhausted and bleary-eyed, I’m being serenaded by the subtle sounds of my husband’s even breaths on my left and the white noise machine wooshing through the baby monitor on my right, gently reminding me that while I may be lonely, I am not alone. 

Which, at this juncture in my life, is a powerful blessing. 

Several weeks ago, this was me. Dan and I had just discovered that I was pregnant with our second child. We were so excited to welcome a sweet little sibling for Dax.



A week ago, we were at a friend’s birthday party. Between laughs and hugs with these new friends, we’d sneak away for a little bit to gush about our little secret, hoping no one would notice that I was mysteriously avoiding the beer and wine. About halfway into the shindig, when I went to the rest room, my stomach twisted into stinging knots when I noticed that I had started to bleed. 

We left the party in a rush, citing a made-up excuse about how Dax was too fussy for our babysitter, and went straight to the emergency room. Four hours, blood work, and an ultrasound later, they couldn’t tell us why the bleeding was happening. They just ordered me to be on bed rest and to come back if it got worse. 

Monday it got worse. So we went back. Then, more blood work and another ultrasound confirmed what, at that point, we already knew.

We lost our baby. 

And so, you see, I am not only literally in the dark, but my spirit has also found itself swallowed up by a powerful darkness. One I’ve never experienced or thought I ever would experience. The agonizing pain of grief, coupled with the painful physicality of what it means for my body to go through miscarriage. Each cramp in my abdomen brings with it the most wretched feeling in my heart, as if part of it is also being broken down and expelled. 

Some of you may be upset that this is the way you’re finding out. Please don’t be offended. The thing is, it’s hard enough to have to tell this story right now, let alone having to tell it several times. Please understand.

My mom came down to be with us and care for Dax while we grieve, which looks much different for the two of us. Dan’s been pretty sad, but functional, only letting his emotions show when we’re alone. Me, on the other hand? I’ve gone from sad, to angry, to frustrated, to questioning, to really freaking pissed off, to sad, and back to angry again, all making me completely incapacitated. All I can do well at this point is day-sleep. 

But last night, Mom watched Dax while Dan and I went on a date. Just the two of us. We had dinner at a cute local place (complete with copious amounts of booze for yours truly) and then dessert at the Cheesecake Factory where, in my loopy, grief-stricken state, I forgot that I actually don’t like cheesecake. But we laughed. And we kissed. And we were grateful for each other and the chunky little boy at home who didn’t know that he’d lost a sibling and was happily waiting for us to come home and kiss him goodnight. 

Sunday night, as I was laying in bed praying to God that what was happening to my body would just stop and that my little baby would be okay, God quietly laid a name on my heart. A name I knew was the name of the child I would never hold. And so the next day, when we got the confirmation at the ER, I shared the name with Dan. And he accepted it, too. (I don’t really want to share it here, but if you want to know it, you can ask.)

It is common, the doctor told us. One in three pregnancies will end like this. “Better luck next time,” he shrugged, as he awkwardly backed out of my hospital room. 

And that was it.

16 thoughts on “blogging in the dark.

  1. I am so sorry that this has happened to you all.
    I miscarried over 30 years ago, but remember it like yesterday. It’s an awfully painful time, both emotionally and physically. Your post brought tears for you, and for me, as it reminded me of my own experience. My ex husband at the time, was in the navy and away on patrol, and was not allowed home, so all the raw emotion was felt again 4 months later, when he returned.
    Your pain will ease over time.
    I wish you well

  2. Lean on God and remember he will never give you more than you can take. I can’t imagine how you must feel, but I know you can use this time to grow stronger. Praying for your beautiful family. ❤

  3. God won’t give you more than you can handle. It’s hard to accept that when you’ve been bent farther than you’d ever imagined…. But remember the strength you will gain in the end. I can’t even begin to understand the hurt you’re experiencing, but know I am praying for you. Lean on each other and your sweet baby boy and know time will heal your family.
    Love you!

  4. Tears are falling for you, my beautiful friend. Thank you so much for your courage to share. As hard as I know it was for you to write, it was so wonderfully written. Love you so much.

  5. This is one of life’s toughest journeys. You are doing all the right things, you have to grieve as only a mother can grieve. You and Dan have grown closer, your mom has had the pleasure of helping to support and love you, and your friends share your pain. I love you and hope you can find the sunshine in Dax’s face and know your loss is being protected in heaven… will see your sweet baby when you meet Jesus.

  6. I think we all know your pain, at least I do. My husband and I have been trying for 6 years on and off. We have had luck but have always ended in miscarriage. When I was young about 21 I got pregnant, and I miscarried then too. The reason is because I have the RH factor. Now that I am married I never dreamed it would be so hard to get pregnant and stay pregnant. I have cysts on my ovaries, and the pain from them causes me to have nausea all the time, and I suffer from regular migraines. Factor all that in plus irregular periods and I never know when I am pregnant, so when we find out it is to late due to the RH factor. I quit going to the emergency room because it is always the same thing and the same set of advice. I guess I take comfort in knowing the your body miscarries for some reason we wont know but the doctors say that it miscarries because your body is saving something is just not right with the pregnancy. I am so sorry for your loss. No matter how far along you are it is still hard to loose a baby.

  7. My heart hurts for you. It is a unique pain, and it feels so lonely.

    I lost two babies to miscarriage. I am grateful for the children I have, but there is a deep sorrow in that loss.

    Be present in your grief. Let it run it’s course. God is still good and in control. Your life is still a gift. Soon, you will be able to embrace those truths with less sorrow.

    Love you, Lindsay

  8. I am so sorry you have had to experience miscarriage and all that comes with it. I too often feel various emotions all within hours. It is exhausting but it is good to process the pain now and be able to grieve properly. Thoughts are with you.

  9. Lindsay, my husband & I went through a miscarriage in February. If you ever need to chat, I’m available! I know it’s hard to explain the emotions to someone who’s never experienced it before & I’ve definitely got an empathetic ear. It super duper crazily sucks.

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