Today I found my safe spot.
Have you ever had a safe spot? It’s like in tag, when you map out a safety zone where no one can get you out. Some may call that cheating, but maybe it’s just good strategy. It’s your rendezvous spot, the place where you can pace your breathing, think clearly, and think out your next move.
On Tuesday I found out that my baby had died. Two week s ago I saw his little heart beating on ultrasound now only to witness his absolute stillness. Lance came with me to my 12-week appointment to see our baby for himself, since last time I had used the ultrasound machine at work to sneak a peek. He tried to calm my fears when the Doppler picked up only my heartbeat. But all those fears were confirmed when the doctor announced that our baby looked very small for 12 weeks. Very small.
No blood flow. No heartbeat. Not even a recognizable shape. My baby had died and my body didn’t do anything about it. I felt betrayed. For two weeks at least I had gone on, ignorantly, planning and praying for something that would never get the chance to fulfill the dreams I had created for it.
Maybe it’s my fault. I prayed so hard for my baby just to “hold on,” to stay firmly attached to me in order to continue growing. My body did hold on, even after my baby couldn’t. The literature says that many early miscarriages are a result of chromosomal abnormalities incompatible with life. I guess that’s why my baby didn’t really look like a baby. But even so, I can’t bring myself to think of him as only a bundle of cells or mass of tissue. Because he was mine. Or perhaps even better, Ours. Our creation, Lance’s and mine. Our baby. Our hope. Our chance to work with our Father in Heaven in fashioning the most marvelous gift of all: Life.
On Wednesday I had my first surgery ever. I underwent a procedure called dilation and curettage to clean out my womb. But instead of scraping out my uterus, I feel like they scraped out my heart. It’s strange to know that in just fifteen minutes I went from being pregnant back to my regular self. Nothing special. No need to avoid certain foods or medications, no excuse for weight gain. Just me, in the singular.
I put my baby name book in the closet. My stash of pregnancy information and prenatal vitamins are safely tucked away under the bed. And Lance’s Christmas present to me, a beautiful wooden rocking chair, will stay at his parents’ house for now. I guess that’s the key phrase right there: For now. Because amid the tears and the confusion, the pain and the sorrow, there is peace. There is peace because if we let him, there is someone who will give it to us:
He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.
He telleth the number of the stars; he calleth them all by their names.
Great is our Lord, and of great power: his understanding is infinite (Psalm 147:3-5).
If the Savior knows the name of every star in the sky, surely he knows mine. Even if I don’t understand the plan, he does. And because he has felt it himself, he can heal my broken heart and bind up my wounds. And as I have tried to let go of my disappointment and let the Savior aid me, I found my safe spot. The place where I could catch my breath and plan out my next move.
I found it on the couch. As we knelt to pray, Lance wrapped his arms around me and nestled his head against me. And I felt safe. Warm. Like nothing and no one in the world could tag me out. I felt as if the Savior was using my own sweet, dear husband to let me know how much He loves us. I felt, like Lehi, that “… the Lord [had] redeemed my soul from hell… and I am encircled about eternally in the arms of his love” (2 Nephi 1:15). And for the first time in days, I felt peace. It was the point when knowing things would be alright and believing they would became the same. And instead of wondering if I did something wrong, I prefer to think on what Lance said just after our prayer. He said that maybe there was a little spirit up there that so wanted a body, and so wanted to be our baby, that he just couldn’t wait-- even though his body wasn’t meant to last very long. I’m not saying it’s doctrinal, but it is nevertheless a beautiful thought, and one that has brought me comfort.
There will be relapses. There have been already today. And I have no idea how difficult it will be for us to finally get our baby. But it’s going to be okay. One of the greatest challenges of our lives is to learn to trust in our Heavenly Father’s plan. And he has provided even for that, through the gift of his Son. As Elder Nelson said, “Thanks to Him, no condition is hopeless. Thanks to Him, brighter days are ahead, both here and hereafter. Real joy awaits each of us—on the other side of sorrow” (Oct. 2005 General Conference). So here’s to that other side! Through the help of our Savior, may we find it more quickly than we had even hoped.
