The Incompletes

Just a month after our first miscarriage, we were surprised to find out that I was pregnant again.  We were a little gun-shy, but we had weekly visits at the fertility clinic where they tested my hormone levels and did ultrasounds to make sure everything was going well.  Our baby’s heartbeat was strong and at ten weeks, they told us we’d officially graduated from their offices and we could start seeing a regular O.B. We had our first visit with our regular O.B. a week or so later and saw that our little one was growing strong.  Our doctor gave us a tentative due date of December 27.  We were so excited about the timing of our little miracle.  We imagined ourselves sitting under the Christmas tree lights, looking down at our sweet new baby.

Around that time, we flew to Utah for Blair’s brother’s wedding.  I’d been feeling nervous because although I was a little nauseated, I didn’t have the severe morning sickness that all of my sisters normally do.  My fears were heightened even more when I started to have slight spotting.  After the wedding reception, Blair’s dad gave me a blessing.  He blessed me that I would carry this baby to term and that it would be made possible through my faith.  The Spirit was so comforting and so strong during that blessing.  We all wiped the tears from our faces, changed into our pajamas, and went to bed.  No more than three hours later, I woke up and ran to the bathroom to throw up.  I basically woke the whole house up in the process as I puked my guts out every twenty minutes for the remainder of the night.  Although they were all sympathetic and kind in taking care of me as I hovered over the porcelain, I heard them frequently giggling in the hallways saying, "Well, I guess she got what she prayed for!"

For the next three weeks I had all of the normal pregnancy symptoms – vomiting several times a day, tiredness, extreme sensitivity to smells, etc.  I was miserably sick some days, but felt so grateful that everything seemed to be going well.  I started to wear yoga pants more frequently as my pants started getting more difficult to comfortably button around my bloated belly. 

Then one Sunday I was sitting in the primary room next to the children as we sang, when something seemed to burst inside of me.  I looked down to see blood running down my legs and onto the carpet.  When I stood up to go to the bathroom, another wave of blood surged and trailed behind me all the way to the bathroom stall. The bishop’s wife, Lindsay, saw the look of panic on my face as I walked down the hall and asked me what was wrong.  “I’m pregnant,” I whispered. “I think I’m having a miscarriage.”  Lindsay grabbed Blair out of his meetings and brought him in to the bathroom.  We managed to clean things up, I wedged one of Lindsay’s diapers from her bag in between my legs, and we got in the car headed to the hospital. We didn’t say anything as we sat in the backseat and cried, but we both knew what was happening. Pregnant women don’t lose this much blood if they’re not miscarrying.

Once at the hospital, we sat in our room and waited while doctors took blood and ran tests. They sent us to the ultrasound area, presumably to confirm the miscarriage and see what was going on inside of me.  A stern Russian ultrasound tech greeted us and told Blair to wait in the hallway.  Apparently spouses can’t be present for these kinds of ultrasounds in hospitals… I don’t know.  I dreaded what she was going to pull up on the monitor - the inevitable words that she would say.  I knew I couldn’t bear to hear another ‘I’m so sorry.’ 

My mouth made a half cry – half gasp when she pointed to a squirming baby on the monitor and said, “There’s your little boy! He’s saying I’m fine, mommy.” I immediately started sobbing. I was shocked that our baby was still there and still ok.  She gently chided me in a thick Russian accent saying, “No, no, no, no.  We’ll have none of that. Stop crying – it’s no good for the baby.”  She ran out in the hallway and grabbed Blair.  She said, “I don’t normally break this rule, but come in here with your wife and see your baby.”  She told us that the baby was fine.  She asked when the last time I ate was and said the baby was moving his arms and legs so much because he was hungry.  She pointed to a large mass next to the baby and said that the reason for my bleeding was due to a large hematoma next to the baby.  She consulted with the doctors and they ordered me to stay on bed rest for the next month in order to let the hematoma pass.  They warned me that there would continue to be heavy bleeding and slight cramping, but not to worry.  My body was just trying to get rid of the blood clot. 

We went home that night relieved and overwhelmed with gratitude that our little guy was still ok. For the next few weeks I tried to stay calm and rest as much as possible.  The bleeding diminished and we felt reassured that the blessing I’d initially received about carrying this baby to term was going to be fulfilled. At about fifteen weeks, the day before our wedding anniversary, I started to feel severe cramps.  I took a taxi to the hospital and explained to the doctors that I felt something was wrong. They wheeled me from the emergency room down to the ultrasound area and left me sitting there for a while.  I was surprised to see my sweet Russian friend coming around the corner.  She said she had seen my name on the charts and requested to take care of me.  In a concerned voice she asked me what was wrong and I explained that I’d started to have bad cramping that day. I could see that she didn’t know what to expect as she squirted the cold jelly on my stomach and started scanning for an image.  She let out a girlish squeal of joy as she showed me the image of a little baby with his hand covering his right cheek.  “There’s your little boy, Ashley,” she said.  “He’s just fine.  He’s covering his eyes and shaking his face at how worried you are.  Go home and rest.  This baby is going to be fine.”

I went home again that night relieved and feeling blessed.

The next morning Blair woke up early and headed to his second week of internal medicine residency. My cramping had been terrible during the night, but the doctors had reassured me this was normal as my body was just trying to get rid of the blood clot. Later that morning, however, the cramping transitioned into something I’d never felt before.  Every two to three minutes I would suddenly feel this sheering pain across my lower abdomen.  It would last for a minute or so and then subside.  The pain would take my breath away and I would crouch down in the shower until it passed.  I didn’t understand what was happening, but I knew that something wasn’t right.  I sat down on the toilet during one of the contractions.  During a severe cramp I started to feel a mass coming out.  I instinctively put my hand down to catch it and watched as a perfect little body with the umbilical cord and placenta drifted into my hands.

I was utterly shocked and all I can remember hearing was my own voice saying, “No, no. Please God no. Please no.”

My body gasped for air as I sobbed.  I held that little body in my hands and marveled at how perfect he was.  I’d seen him on the ultrasounds, but I guess I didn’t expect him to be so big or so perfect.  He had ten perfect fingers and toes, ears, a sweet mouth, and nose.  His hand was resting on his little cheek just as it had been the day before.  He was the most perfect thing I’d ever seen.  I set him gently down on a towel on the side of the bathtub and wrapped a towel around my naked body.  I lay down on the cold tile and cried and cried until a profound sense of tiredness and quiet overcame me.  It was then that I felt a warmth on my cheek and heard the words in my mind, “Mom.  It just wasn’t time yet.” I’m not sure how to explain what happened in the next couple of minutes, but somehow everything about that sweet boy was communicated to my mind.  I didn’t see anything, but somehow I was aware of the entirety of his person, his personality, his sweetness.  I felt like I knew him as surely as I know anyone here on earth.  I knew with absolute conviction that he existed, that he was safe, and he was mine.  Forever. 

Blair came home and found me on the bathroom floor.  We cried together and marveled at our sweet little boy. After we went to the doctor to make sure I wasn’t hemorrhaging and that there weren’t any further complications, we went to the store and bought a beautiful little box to bury our baby in.  We wrote a letter to him, telling him how much we loved him and couldn’t wait to see him again.  We sealed the box and buried him in a beautiful secluded place. 

In many ways that day was one of the happiest days of my life.  I felt like a piece of heaven was walking with us wherever we went. It was a tangible goodness that seemed to wrap around us like a warm blanket. I felt the need to be gentle, to be kind, and soft. Whatever perfection that heavenly person was made of, it seemed to shine a light on us making that day not only bearable, but unbelievably sweet.

I was surprised to realize that the day we lost him in some ways was the easiest.  It was accompanied with such a heavenly presence that the pain subsided.  But that presence inevitably departed and left us to endure this trial alone.  That five letter word became my anthem for the next several weeks. Alone. I’d never felt so utterly broken and alone.  I went in the next day for my D&C to make sure all of the placenta and birth material were gone.  Blair couldn’t accompany me due to his residency, so I sat in that pre-op room alone.  The nurses kept asking if there was someone there with me or if there was someone I wanted to call.  They paged Blair from the other side of the hospital and he came to sit with me for a few minutes before the surgery. 

I don’t remember much about the surgery due to the anesthesia, but I remember so well something the doctor said.  I was sitting in my hospital bed, coming out of the sleepiness, eyes creeping open to the blurry surroundings.  A nurse asked my doctor what I was there for.  My doctor said matter-of-factly, “Ashley? Oh yes.  She’s an incomplete.”  Those words and their sharp truthfulness stabbed me to the core.  He was right.  Painfully right.  I was an incomplete.  

In the lonely weeks that followed, I frequently found myself sitting on my couch staring into the distance. I thought about the heavenly experiences of the day we lost our little boy, but the further I got away from them, the more the memories slipped through my fingers. I couldn’t grasp the details.  I couldn’t remember his face.  I even wondered if I’d imagined those feelings I’d had – just made them up in an effort to find some solace. I wondered if he’d ever come back. 

I went through a period of anger.  I couldn’t find anything to direct my anger at, so I made my friends and family my targets.  I never verbalized any of my feelings, but I mentally tallied up their failings.  I felt bitter that they didn’t call enough, that my friends texted instead of stopping by.  I convinced myself that I really was alone in all of this and none of them really cared.  All of this was of course so far from the truth, but somehow being mad at someone made me forget about the pain of my loss.

My anger eventually made its way to God.  I thought about the blessing that Blair’s dad gave me that I would carry this baby to term and that it would be predicated upon my faith.  A terrifying reality struck me in the face.  I could think of only three reasons this had happened.  Either I didn’t have enough faith to make this miracle happen, I wasn’t worthy of a miracle from God, or the priesthood and the promises I’d received was a load of garbage.  Every choice was equally as terrifying.  The words and their consequences ran through my mind – I didn’t have enough faith and I never would.  I’m a sinner unworthy of miracles.  Everything I thought was true is a lie – God doesn’t exist.

I’d like to pretend that this confusion was an isolated experience, an idea that I flirted with one steamy summer and then left behind.  But the reality is that it’s a continual battle to keep from entertaining those sad ideas. When I humbly fall to my knees and pray about what happened, the sweetness of that day and the memory of my little boy comes to mind.  I realize that grief and loss is just a part of this mortal experience.  I remember my little one's words that it wasn’t time yet and I realize that someday I will carry that baby to term.  I don’t know when that will be.  I’m not sure if it will be in this life or the next.  But when I’m true to what’s really in my heart, I know that someday all of this will make sense.  It takes effort for me to remember that though.  I’ve realized that the adversary capitalizes on our grief and can easily warp our souls into hardened and gray carcasses if we don’t continually reach out to God to keep them alive.   

So in the meantime, I struggle from day to day.  For the most part I’m happy and productive. There are still many tear-filled nights.  There are many small moments that remind us of how hard this trial is. Just the other day Blair and I were happily walking through a store and saw Christmas decorations for sale.  He turned to me and said quietly, “I can’t seem to forget that we were supposed to have our baby here with us this Christmas.”

No matter what I try, I know there is a certain truth to the label the doctor put on me that day.  I really am an incomplete in a lot of ways.  There is a part of me that’s missing now.  But there’s also something new.  My whole life I’ve learned about the plan of salvation – the plan whereby God created a way for his children to come to earth, to gain a body, to learn and grow, and eventually come back home to Him through the mercy and atonement of His Beloved Son.  I’d always learned that we lived with Him before we came to earth.  I’d always believed that our families can be together for eternity after death. 

After going through this experience, my faith in those truths has transformed to something more.  I know God lives and that Jesus is His Son.  I know that before we were born, we lived in His presence.  I know that my children exist and I can’t wait to meet them someday.  I know that every trial and challenge we face in this life is meant to bring us closer to our Father and eternal happiness.

I know it will eventually be all right.

So for all of you incompletes out there, my heart is with you. Hang in there.