On Heartbreak & Puzzle Pieces

Something heartbreaking happened to me a few weeks ago. It still weighs on me every day, throughout the day, like armor that doesn’t really protect me. My heart feels heavy; my womb feels empty. I was pregnant, and then, I wasn’t. I miscarried and it was awful.

How can this horrible puzzle piece be part of my grand life plan?

To say that fear gets ahold of me during pregnancy is an understatement. It more so grips me to suffocation. My mom had four miscarriages, so from the day I found out I was pregnant with Emerson in 2012, I became convinced I would follow suit. During my first trimester, I was drastic in my cautionary cutbacks: no coffee, no cardio, no lifting more than 10 pounds, no sit-ups, no Splenda, no feta. I even avoided pedicures because of the “fumes.”

In the second trimester, my anxiety amplified. The slightest cramp, and I’d call the doctor. Or Emerson would stop kicking for half a day, and I’d lose my MIND. Or I’d accidentally order a bottom-feeding fish at a restaurant and later spend hours Googling away my impending doom, in spite of the fact that everyone knows you never Google ANYTHING when you’re pregnant!

Third trimester: THEN came the dreams. Once I dreamed Emerson came out a puppy. In another, her bottom half was webbed like a mermaid, a deep-rooted fear of mine since her legs were crossed in three consecutive ultrasounds. (Now I know she’s just a lady.) Another time I dreamed she had only one arm, thanks to the pretty one-armed Bachelor contestant that season. The horror and fear continued until Emerson’s birth. When she came out healthy and flawless, I knew I should’ve trusted God more every step of the way.

But this time, my second pregnancy, my greatest fear came true: I joined the ranks of 15–20% of pregnancies that result in miscarriage. That percentage is HIGH, and it’s scary. It sounds even higher and scarier when I picture the 100 women I love most in the world, pregnant together in a room, with 15–20 of us called by name, one by one, to hear: “So sorry, ma’am, but you’ve lost your baby.” Every repetition would shatter my heart.

I was only six weeks pregnant when I miscarried. A summer school session. Time between eyebrow waxes. The post-partum recovery period. I have friends who miscarried at twice that long, so I’ve almost had guilt in my mourning. Plus, the technology to detect such early pregnancies is relatively new to the world. Do I deserve to be sad? Is it OK that I grew attached? Is it weird that I’ve cried so much and that I picture my baby in heaven?

But I know that my grief is warranted. Last time, that positive pregnancy test became the little love of my life. This time, the ending was different. The loss broke my heart. I wept. Soon enough, I pray, another ultrasound tech will ask, “Which pregnancy is this?” And I will have to answer, “My third.”

Also, the “passing” of the pregnancy was far worse than I thought it would be. Only six weeks! But so much discomfort and cramping. Mini labor pains for the small life that just couldn’t make it. I knew what was happening, but clasped my middle in protective denial until the doctor looked me in the eye and said, “You must know this wasn’t your fault; you did absolutely nothing to cause it.” Then came the kind of physical heartbreak that wrenches your stomach and chest. I’ll never meet our second little Mack, who I pictured as a boy and my twin.

Speaking of heartbreak, though, I learned something profound about it during our recent encounter: It’s so much better when you let people share in your pain. I tend to withdraw in my suffering, saying, “No thank you, no thank you, no thank you,” to the incessant offers for help. I’d rather cry alone with Adele, Ben & Jerry, thankyouverymuch. For once, I tried saying yes to my actual friends, and it soothed my disconsolate soul.

On the day of the miscarriage, my sister asked, “Can I bring you lunch?”

To which I said through my tears, “Are you sure? Because lunch actually sounds really great.”

On the same day, my beloved friend Jenn, who suffered a traumatizing miscarriage last year, much later than mine, asked, “Can I come spend some time with you? Our girls can play, and we can talk and cry.”

“Nothing sounds better,” I said.

Isolate less; let people in more.

I’ve also learned a bit about control, something I clench like I’m getting blood drawn. The miscarriage club wasn’t one I opted to join, but God’s plan allowed for it. I actually felt like I relied on the Lord way more at the beginning of this pregnancy than my last—worked on my trusting and hope—but that didn’t mean I got what I wanted. Apparently I can’t earn the outcomes I seek, any more than my silly fears can ruin the future. God’s so not into my bargaining games. He’s way more about showering grace, knowing everything and making perfect pictures out of our broken puzzle pieces.

I love this:

Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.”

1 Corinthians 13:12

My picture is fuzzy right now, and this fractured new piece still stings. HELLO, God, did you NOT get the memo for my perfect life plan?! Two kids just less than two years apart, well in advance of my 30^th birthday?! Of course He did, because He’s God. But He took it with compassion, set it aside, and said, “That’s not how it’s going to look. It might hurt, my daughter, but I promise you’ll be in my hands.”

I lost a dream, and a baby, and it’s more than all right to be devastated over those things. Devastated, angry, confused. But I’m so glad I have a God I can trust to clarify the big picture, whether this side of heaven or the other. He’s such a better author, creator and planner than I’ll ever dream of being. It’s actually pretty relieving that I’m just a character in the landscape, not the visionary arranging the masterpiece.

I also try to remember that the most beautiful jigsaw puzzles take a really long time to complete. And you need all the pieces—the bright, the dark, the mundane, the magnificent, the clear connectors and the misshapen oddities. Somehow it all fits together… and somehow it’s lovely.

It’s both somber and sobering to realize that if my mom didn’t have all her miscarriages, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.

Today, I’m so thankful for the portion of the portrait I do see, with my little family of three, plus one tiny angel looking down on us. He’s really, really tiny, but you can definitely see him if you look closely enough.

I’m also grateful that I had to slow way, way down and stop obsessing over Baby #2 as I wait for my body to heal over the next few months, before we can start trying again. The shake-up in my ideal plan is forcing me to push pause; to be more present with Emerson; to hug her a little tighter; to pay more attention to her sweet toddler milestones; to build more forts and host more fake tea parties.

And I trust God completely to finish the picture.

Or at least, I’m working on it.

When I was walking and processing through all of this on the cliffs of Corona del Mar—where I do all my best walking and processing—I stumbled upon this random, lone puzzle piece. Just right there on the grass by Inspiration Point, mid-day and mid-prayer. Thanks, God. I’m keeping it forever and ever.