loss

Last October, I went out to dinner and a fashion show (not typical) with some expat girlfriends in Lusaka. I had been feeling off a few days prior, nauseous at the most random times, lacking an appetite, and big on the naps. When a couple girls asked me to explain my symptoms, squeals erupted. “You’re pregnant!” “I know you are!” “No mojito for you!”

I quickly negated their outlandish assumptions. I giggled along with the giggles, but inwardly got really embarrassed for some reason. I ate my Pad Thai and watched the fashion show, but couldn’t get those few moments out of my mind.

What if I am? We weren’t planning to get pregnant. It would be the worst timing. We can barely afford to feed ourselves. How would we afford a child? We didn’t even know if we were staying in Zambia another year. So many questions, and somehow a wave of shame.

I didn’t discuss it with anyone, not even Wyatt really. It was too soon to be 100% certain, but I could tell that my body was acting in a way I’ve never before experienced, even having experienced every stomach/health issue under the sun. I knew what was happening, but out of fear or something, I didn’t really tell anyone.

So on November 2, 2014, when I lost the baby, there weren’t many people to tell. I hadn’t let family in on it really. I didn’t tell the ladies or our close friends (other than the girlfriends at the Thai restaurant). I told Wyatt rather matter-of-factly and went to work at the Internet Café on a particularly hot day. I remember every single moment of telling Wyatt. Like one of those monumental moments that you don’t realize are happening in those very seconds.

I went on my way and continued life for days, weeks, months. I told a couple more friends, who gave me their spin on the situation. “It’s not a big deal.” “It was so early.” “Good thing the pregnancy didn’t progress. Y’all aren’t ready for a baby.” “You shouldn’t be sad.”

I don’t blame them. They were speaking through their own emotions and thoughts about early miscarriage. We didn’t see our baby on a screen. We didn’t have a gender reveal party (though we later learned that our lost life did already have a gender assigned before his/her death). The whole experience was so foreign, and honestly, so scarily unknown to me, that instead of allowing myself to experience my own emotions, I let others dictate them for me.

If I wasn’t supposed to be sad then I wouldn’t be sad. If it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal then it wouldn’t be. If it was just an early miscarriage that happened in some high percentage of pregnancies, then I would just add to the statistic.

That suppression worked, until I found myself sitting in my therapist’s office 8 months later. She asked me to describe the traumatic events of the past year that landed me on her sofa, and I listed them with as much emotion as I would have when reading the grocery list. I felt these tough events at the time, for the most part. I ate chocolate cake on their behalf. I cried tears and danced to loud music and prayed hard prayers. For most all of them, except one.

When I got to “miscarriage” written matter-of-factly as I assumed it was written in my heart, I broke. Tears flooded my eyes and flowed down my cheeks. When I started to feel my shoulders shutter, I knew there was no stopping the flash flooding ahead. I was shocked at my emotion. I was surprised that I had such strong sadness and grief stuffed down for so long. It was erupting, months later, but not too late thankfully.

My therapist let the floodwaters flow, and simply said, “You lost a life. You are allowed to be sad.”

Wyatt and I lost a child exactly one year ago today. A child who we fully believe we will be reunited with when we reach heaven. We don’t know why we didn’t get to see his/her face or hold him/her in our arms. But we do thank God for allowing us to create a child who finds his/her home in heaven.

I realize that not every tragedy needs to have a lesson. Some things are just hard. Losing a child was hard. Knowing that my body miscarried a child was hard. Feeling ashamed to tell anyone for a long time was also hard. 

But now that 1 year has passed, Wyatt and I have processed this loss together. We’ve cried together. We’ve celebrated this life, and we will continue to celebrate this little life in remembrance every November 2^nd. And we’ve grown in knowing that our emotions matter, that Jesus gives us the space to feel, to be seen in our sadness, and to trust Him with our tears. Big or small, tragic or frustrating, the events that plague my heart matter to Him, and I am so very thankful for that.

We share this tender story, because we believe little Bardi’s life mattered and still matters. We believe it’s worth celebration, it’s worth tears, it’s worth laughter, it’s worth all the chocolate cake in the world. And we hope you’ll join us in this bittersweet celebration today.