Grief is real, but it gets better

Okay, so long story super short and catching up from the last several months… My second surgery went well. My RE had to go back in and clean my uterus because there was still “products of conception” leftover. Harsh terms but that is literally what my operative report says. The surgery went well and my body handled it like a champ this time thankfully. We followed up with Dr. H and everything looks good! We were also able to find out that our baby was a girl and that sent a whole different set of emotions over us both.

I had a friend recently tell me “…you don’t get a due date of Easter and not have something beautiful come from that heart ache!” and I believe that. While we haven’t experienced that something beautiful just yet, I know God has some sort of plan for us that will be far more beautiful than what we’ve imagined or “planned” for ourselves.

So we are just healing for now. Still. Who knows how long that healing will take. But I’ve learned that nothing in this life happens on our timeline. What we do know is that my body is healed from the miscarriage and surgery. And when we are ready, we can proceed with another round. Determining when we are ready is the hard part.

And I’m going to be honest really quick, we aren’t telling many people this time around (and we didn’t even tell that many this last time) but it will be even less. As much as I would love to scream it from the rooftops when we do our transfer/find out we are pregnant again, it’s just scary and I feel like the joy of pregnancy might have been taken from me. So please respect our decision on this.

Now (and always) it’s a waiting game. Waiting for my body, waiting for our hearts, waiting waiting waiting. So in the wait, I want to post the letter I wrote to our baby girl. Some people prefer to hold emotions in, some people prefer to talk to family and friends. I prefer to write.

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My sweet baby girl,

So many emotions on what should have been your birthday. April 17, 2022. EASTER. You were supposed to be here, in my arms, or at least almost here. But here we stand, with empty arms and not another pregnancy yet.

I’ll never get to hear your first cry or laugh or even see your first smirk. I’ll never know if you have my eyes or your daddy’s lips. I’ll never get to watch you take your first steps, graduate high school, or get married to the love of your life. I’ll never be able to teach you scripture, show you how to do your hair, or squeeze you so tight when you go through your first heart break. Your daddy won’t be able to show you how to throw a ball or ride a bike. He won’t be able to pick you up when you fall and skin your knee. He won’t be able to learn how to put your hair in pigtails or take you on a daddy/daughter date. He won’t be able to walk you down the aisle to your person.

Instead, you’ll be the first of us to experience the streets of gold. You’ll be able to introduce me to your Uncle Aaron Tyler and Great Grandfather, G. You’ll learn so much from them and I know you’ll be watching over us while you do. You’ve got a great new teacher and Father in Jesus.

We will sure miss not having you here with us. The hurt and pain of losing a baby is something I can’t put into words. It feels like you’ve ran a million miles and can’t catch your breath. Like you’ve swam across the ocean and just don’t think you can tread water anymore. The grief is real but it gets better. It’s not easy but each day does get just a little better. We love you Rio. And not a day goes by where we don’t think about you!