The rhythm of a heartbeat is the most beautiful sound and evidence of life.
We all know that movie scene where the hero/heroine lies seemingly dead and all breath is bated as we await the moment where the love interest checks their pulse for the faintest sign of life. There is nothing quite like the feeling of resting your head on a loved one’s chest and hearing the steady assurance that all is well within them, a sense of safety sinking deep within you. Wherever the heart beats there is life and wherever there is life there is beauty to be celebrated.
On Saturday December 17th, 2016, my husband and I heard the loud and startling sound of our first baby’s heartbeat. It was startling because it was the first moment when everything truly felt real. Up until that moment the only evidence of our pregnancy that we had was the word ‘pregnant’ printed loud and clear on the digital pregnancy test at home, the blood test results from the doctor and my raging hormones and ravenous appetite.
Now, in a small 3D ultrasound clinic in East L.A., we could actually see and hear our baby for the first time. I grasped Phillip’s hand in mine, a sense of unease still fairly close to the surface. I had been bleeding for four days now and I was anxious to know why. The technician gently encouraged us to go to the local hospital and undergo thorough testing to determine fully what was going on and sent us off with a new parents gift box and pictures of the ultrasound showing our tiny human growing inside of me. Within an hour I was being admitted into the E.R at LAC+USC Medical Center, put into one of those sexy hospital gowns that always flap open and show your bum and having an I.V inserted into my hand. For the next several hours I underwent all of the thrilling examinations you can possibly imagine are required when looking after pregnant women, and soon forgot to be embarrassed about who was looking where. Then, when they were all over, I sat with Phillip and we waited for the results to come in. I was wearing my wedding flip flops that day and I sat staring at the silver glitter of my straps as they caught the light, lost in thought over our first year and a half of marriage.
Eventually my name was called and we stepped out of the waiting room to consult with our doctor. The results were positive but also fairly inconclusive; everything had come back looking good and normal. The baby was fine, positioned in the right place and had a strong heartbeat. There was no reason, that they could find, as to why I was bleeding so we were sent home with instructions to rest and see what the next few days brought.I think we both felt relieved, definitely exhausted, but also somewhat victorious. We had arrived at the hospital doors unsure of what was happening and, although we were leaving in some ways none the wiser, we at least knew that our baby was alive and well. In our minds, Baby Attmore was going nowhere.
As we waited for Phillip’s Mom to come and collect us from the hospital, we played Skip-bo and thanked God for keeping our baby safe.
On Monday morning I awakened with what felt like the kind of cramps I would occasionally experience during a period. I was scared of partnering with the wrong belief system, therefore encouraging a negative outcome, so I calmly told Phillip what I was experiencing and carried on getting ready for the day, trying to push away the fear and warning bells that each cramp triggered. We were going to a memorial service for a dear friend’s mom an hour’s drive away and so, in the company of a good friend, we made our way there filling the car with prayers as we went.
I’ve been to several memorial services and funerals over the years, some of which have carried the heavy weight of sorrow over them and others that have managed to gather people together in celebration of life, amidst the tears of loss. This service felt like a homecoming; an honouring of a woman who had lived and loved well. For the majority of the time, I sat with my hands on my stomach silently praying that my baby would live and not die, bravely trying to believe that everything was ok and attempting to ignore the dreaded signs my body was making.
A couple of times I slipped out and made my way to the ladies room, interceding with every part of me for the life within. Phillip joined me both times and together we stood in the bathroom stall declaring life in the face of all the odds, uncertain if what we were seeing and experiencing was what we were so desperate for it not to be.
Looking back, I see this moment as one of the most beautiful and vulnerable moments of my life. We were both so heart-wrenchingly desperate for a miracle, stood in that bathroom stall, Phillip’s hands on my womb, holding each other and praying for life. I watched a father emerge from my husband in that ladies’ bathroom and, regardless of the outcome, a father he will always remain.
Beauty can always be found, even in the midst of the darkest brokenness.
I passed a blood clot and Phillip and I stared into the toilet bowl. Was that our child? Did that contain the precious heartbeat that had stilled our own only two days ago? I hesitated then pressed down on the handle and watched it all flush away. Surely not, surely everything was okay and all we had witnessed was simply that, a blood clot. Surely I would know if I had just watched a life wash away.
We rejoined the memorial service and stood at the back, holding one another, as it came to a close with an old hymn about dancing on the streets of heaven. Phillip gathered a small group of our faith-filled friends who were present and, as people milled around feasting on the buffet and chatting in small groups, they prayed life over me and our baby, speaking out against fear and encouraging our spirits with truth. After several minutes I felt joy returning to my heart, I felt victorious! Even after everything that we had just seen and the turmoil my body had been experiencing, I had a deep sense of victory. It had been a close call but we had come out triumphant, Baby Attmore was safe.
Another week went by and the bleeding continued but by Christmas Day it had all but stopped. We hadn’t been back to the hospital since as, due to not having health insurance coverage in L.A, we decided to wait until we were back in NYC where we could see our doctor. I also felt that whatever had happened on that Monday wouldn’t be changed by waiting an extra week so we remained in a faith-filled limbo as 2017 began, believing that all would be well but not having any concrete evidence that that was true.
January 10th was a cold and snowy one and Phillip and I gingerly made our way uptown for our first doctor’s appointment since being in the L.A hospital. We were both pretty quiet and reserved, I think we knew deep down what today’s results would be. I sat on the examination table, my stomach exposed as our lovely doctor searched for sound that would assure us all that Baby Attmore was well. The minutes ticked by in painful silence, the only noise being heard was that of my own heart.
I redressed and joined Phillip and the doctor for several minutes of consultation where she carefully and sensitively talked us through the tests she was going to send me for and the possibility of what to expect. I was feeling numb, unsure as to whether I should engage in the faith that I had been holding on to all of this time, or whether I was now meant to give in to the likelihood that the worst case scenario had actually happened. I was suddenly realising that I didn’t feel pregnant anymore, it was like I was suddenly playing catch up with myself. But maybe this was all just a big scare, maybe everything was fine and soon we’d be laughing and praising God for the miracle of life and health.
A nurse came into the room and handed me a pee pot, leading me down the corridor to the ladies’ toilet. Ever since that first evening when I discovered I was bleeding, going to the bathroom had become a form of torture as I prayed for everything to just return to normal and instead was faced with endless red stains. Now, after this visit, I would discover the truth of what was happening. My heart was somewhere on the floor, weighed down by the fear of broken dreams.
I returned from my ‘pee-in-a-pot’ expedition to find Phillip waiting for me in the nurses’ room and, after handing my specimen to the large nurse in charge, I took a seat next to him, rolling up my sleeves in preparation for blood samples to be taken. On the other side of the room, she began testing my urine, examining the results as she looked at me. “Are you pregnant?”
“Um….” her question caught me completely off guard and I looked at her, unsure of how to formulate a response.
“Uh-uh, no sweetie.” She shook her head and turned around to finish putting her instruments away.
I don't think she had any idea of how devastating her response was.
Phillip looked at me, “What did she say?”
In shock and with every angsty reaction rising up in me, I couldn’t look him in the eye. I think I gave a dry laugh before saying, “I’m not pregnant”.
It wasn’t until we were in the elevator, making our way downstairs to schedule a sonogram exam, that I wanted to cry and promptly hid my face behind my medical records to try and contain the sobs that were threatening to break me.
I don’t think we talked much on our journey home. I was suddenly exhausted and all I wanted was to bury myself under a duvet, to be still and do nothing, to cry and scream and wail. All of my confidence and hope that ‘everything was going to be ok’ was crumbling away at the speed of a mighty avalanche. Baby Attmore was gone and there was nothing I, or Phillip, could do about it.
A couple of days later I received a call from our lovely doctor who gently informed me that my blood test results had come back and no trace of the pregnancy hormone had been found, so therefore the baby had completely passed. I broke down in tears as the reality of our miscarriage was confirmed. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she wasn’t actually the first person to inform me of my empty womb.
Over the next few weeks, Phillip and I trudged through life one day at a time. Adoringly, and at times irritatingly, he went into fix-it mode and began reorganizing our lovely two bedroom apartment, spending his feelings each day in Home Depot and Michaels. My emotions were less productive and I found myself waking up with heavy grief each morning and not knowing what else to do with it but take myself to the shower and cry into the water until I had exhausted myself.
My heart was confused and angry, my inner justice radar screaming with indignation at our loss. The few pounds that I had gained over that 10 week pregnancy period taunted me in the mirror every day and I began to look at them with hate, wishing they had fallen off and gone swimming down the toilet drain also. None of it made sense to any part of me and my regular helpless cry to the heavens would consist of, "I don't understand! I just don't understand!"
Sundays were my hardest and often worst day of the week. I couldn't sing the declarations of faithfulness and the goodness of God with any integrity. I couldn't get through the message without crumpling into tears. I couldn't fake the 'happy Christian' in post-service conversations or receive any well-worded and beautiful prayers because I had been thrown into questioning it all. Being around too many people made me feel anxious and triggered a desperate desire to run and hide, so I would look for the quickest way to exit and make our way home, back to the safety and security of our apartment.
I had been in such faith that God was going to save our baby, that then learning the harsh reality that I had miscarried him/her, left me feeling utterly floored. I was angry at God and felt completely let down. It felt like I had been foolishly living in make-believe for the best part of a month and now the world was watching and laughing. I had failed; I hadn't passed this test. The joy that I had felt just weeks earlier in being pregnant, was now turned to shame in being empty and childless.
As people close to us began to learn of our loss, we started to hear familiar words of comfort as they tried to console and understand. A response that I have heard countless times is, "I'm so sorry for your loss but you know it's really common, you'll get pregnant again soon." There is no easy way to be a friend to someone who is grieving and so therefore there is not necessarily a wrong way to respond, but I found these words to be some of the most triggering. The reason being is that although it was comforting to know that there were others who understood my pain, it was angering to know that there is such a large epidemic of children passing away before they are even able to be held by their loving parents. The injustice of it all incensed me. I also didn't just want another baby. I had lost this one. We had lost our firstborn and nothing or no one could ever replace him/her.'
There is a season (a time appointed) for everything and a time for every delight and event or purpose under heaven—A time to weep and a time to laugh;A time to mourn and a time to dance.'
Ecclesiastes 3:1,4 (AMP)
Mourning is uncomfortable and, to be honest, can be unattractive. We don't always know what to do with it when we're in the midst of it, and we rarely know how to respond to someone else's grief, but it is important that regardless we give ourselves and each other time. For a little while I sat down in my grief and let myself feel every ache and pain of the loss I was experiencing. Other friends who had fallen pregnant around the same time as me were still pregnant, babies were being born around me and other friends were journeying through their own seasons of loss and hardship. Thankfully I never felt the pull of resentment towards anyone whose outcome looked better than mine, instead I found a fierce desire rising up within me to value and celebrate life.
When Phillip and I found out that we were pregnant, it was a week before Thanksgiving and we were utterly thrilled. In reading that one word, 'pregnant', it felt like our whole world had changed. We began planning the next year with great anticipation, talking about what we needed to have in place for when our son or daughter arrived, and brimming over with excitement as we shared the news with our family and friends. We decided not to wait until the hallowed ground of 12 weeks had arrived before telling people, as we wanted to celebrate our baby right from the word go as opposed to giving in to the fear of something going wrong. Even though we did in fact lose our precious baby, I do not regret our decision to tell everyone in that first trimester. I want people to know that we had a child, he/she was conceived and his/her heart beat with mine, if only for a short amount of time, but nonetheless our baby lived!Life is the most precious, beautiful and vulnerable of gifts. It is stunning and mind blowing. It is worth protecting, fighting for and where needs be dying for. Life is a gift from God and one that I now try hard to not take for granted.
And life is never wasted, it will never cease to impact the world.
We decided to name our firstborn Promise Joy. Although we will never get to hold Promise, to watch him/her grow, taking delight in which features are most like which parent and proudly displaying his/her achievements to the world, we believe that their spirit is living and growing in heaven. I recently took comfort in the thought that maybe he/she is now being raised by other family members that have also passed on in the last few years. The truth is though, I really don’t know. I don’t know why this happened to us or to any of the people that we know and the millions that we don’t. I don’t know why our baby died even as we prayed and believed that he/she would live. I don’t even know if they were a boy or a girl as much as my senses would love to tell you otherwise. I don’t know what the idea of him/her being in heaven really means or looks like. There is so much that I don’t know or understand and probably never will this side of eternity, and now I am ok with that. I have come to a place of peace with the mystery.
Two weeks ago I felt like I was drowning, my heart and spirit were so overwhelmed with sadness, anger and self-hatred. I sat at the dinner table, looked at my husband with tear-filled eyes and said, “I need help”. That night was the beginning of the end of the depression that had been trying to suck me down.The following day, as I stood in our living room in my pj’s, I had a moment of clarity. This had to go! The depression had to leave and I needed to start living again. I began dancing around the room, shouting at the unseen realm, that things were going to change. This was a home for life, not death, so depression couldn’t live here and neither could anything else associated with it. I felt like I was in a boxing ring, flailing my arms and legs around as I carried on shouting to whoever could hear me. Life was returning to my heart and I felt untainted joy residing in me once again. Since that breakthrough moment, I no longer feel angry at God or bitter about what we have gone through. I feel free in the knowledge that, beyond my understanding, God is still good; regardless of my circumstances, he will always be faithful; no matter what my emotions are doing, he is ever-present and ever-loving.
Miscarriage is not ok, and losing your baby at any age is a tragedy that no parent should ever experience.
Unfortunately, however, this is happening all of the time and, as long as we live in an imperfect world, we will find ourselves crashing into these moments. The commonality of a situation though doesn’t take away from the individuality of it. Every heartbeat is heard in heaven and is counted the most beautiful sound. Every child conceived is life’s precious gift, worthy of being welcomed and celebrated. Every heart that stops beating still has a voice and the power to impact the world.
Promise Joy Attmore will never be forgotten and it is my hope that the reverberations of his/her heartbeat and the story that accompanies will help to comfort others drowning in grief and restore hope to the promises of the future.
