I came across these words today on the comment section of a different blog.
I’ve had two miscarriages. I have two lovely, healthy girls.
Was I sad about my miscarriages? Yes, very much so. Did I name them, or write a memorial to post online, or turn the conversation back to myself every time anyone spoke about loss or bad luck? No. Because I have perspective.
Well, I guess if she knew me, she’d disapprove of just about everything I’ve done since we lost Olivia.
I left cryptic FB posts when I really wanted to share with everyone that we were pregnant, but that we might lose the baby. I wanted to beg for the prayers of those who love me so that together we could flood God’s throne on behalf of my baby. But my husband and I weren’t on the same page about how and when our news should be shared. So cryptic message it was.
I do spend hours thinking, talking and writing about Olivia. Whining? Well. I don’t know. Maybe sometimes I whine.
Did I name my child, write a memorial post online, and occasionally turn the conversation back on to my loss when I talk with my friends. Yep.
Do I struggle at times to meet my daughter’s every demand on a particularly difficult day? Guilty as charged.
The commenter above does not approve of my actions because she admittedly has “perspective.”
But I have done all of these things for the exact same reason. I have perspective.
I’ve shared in previous posts about how we almost lost Madelyn during my pregnancy twice. Once to threatened miscarriage at 12 weeks. I had hemmorhaged, and after going to the ER, found out I had a 50/50 chance to keep her.
My whole family was prepared to lose her. And we were all very happily surprised when she clung to life.
I named her “Madelyn Jane” in part because of this experience.
Madelyn means “strong woman.” She was one strong little girl to hold on even while my body made it so hard for her to do so! Jane means “believer in a gracious God.” What a gracious God we serve to let me keep my little girl!
Often — especially now that I’ve lost Olivia — I look at her deep hazel eyes and think, “I almost missed this.” I came this close to never knowing the feeling of her arms when she “squeezes the words out of me.” I came this close to never snuggling with her in bed, her soft sweaty body squeezed as close to me as possible. I came this close to never hearing the sweetest words ever spoken: “You’re my best friend, Mommy. I love you sooooooooooooo much.”
I came this close to losing 3 years of precious, beautiful moments with my daughter. I came this close to losing a lifetime more.
And THAT is my perspective.
With Olivia, we too went to the ER early in my pregnancy. The doctor gave us hope. He said he would not give up on our baby. He wasn’t willing to call it a miscarriage, or ectopic. He was choosing to believe our little one could make it.
The nurse who called to inform me my hcg numbers had risen also had hope. She hoped everything would be fine, and that our baby would live.
I had hope. Ryan had hope. Our families had hope.
We all had so much hope, and so much love for this little tiny creature we knew would be Maddy’s best friend and our beloved child.
The morning we had the final blood draw, I had read in scripture that “With God, all things are possible.” I clung to that hope and to the faith that God would do the impossible, and give us Olivia too.
But God’s not that predictable. He was strong enough. Her life was possible. But for some reason, He chose to take her straight to heaven.
God had a purpose for Olivia’s life. I don’t like it and some days, I simply don’t approve. But He had numbered her days. Her purpose was not to love on me and let me love on her. Her purpose was not to whisper sweet words, give big hugs, and bless us most amazingly with her adorable presence.
But she DID have a purpose.
And that’s why I’m on this journey. That’s why I blog, I write, I cry, I talk, I think, I post messages on FB and attend support groups.
Because I have the perspective of a women who almost lost a lifetime with a child . . . but didn’t.
And I have the perspective of a woman who almost lost a lifetime with a child . . . and did.
I’m missing you so much today. I hope you are having fun today playing at Jesus’ feet. I hope you have become friends with some of my friends’ babies. Let me tell you, their moms are amazing. I wish we all could have had playdates together here on earth.
Can’t wait to meet you in heaven.
Until then . . . all my love.