Christmas Hope

• 1 year ago

By ONA M. LANG

The day I found out I suffered my third miscarriage was supposed to be happy. My husband and I had been trying for six years to add an additional child to our family. We never had any luck, and we accepted that maybe it wasn’t in God’s plan at the moment. But it never felt like the permanent answer would be no. It was a Friday in November and we had to our total shock found out that I was pregnant about a month before.

Because I had already had two previous miscarriages, I felt deep in my soul that this was finally the one we had been waiting for. Our son would finally have a sibling and our family would be complete.

I don’t know why God closed that door for us again. That Friday morning was my 12-week checkup. I had an ultrasound two weeks before and one prior to that at only seven weeks. I was considered high risk and my doctor wanted to monitor my child closely. At ten weeks I was given an all clear! The baby had a strong heartbeat and was growing at the perfect rate. So that Friday morning I had no indication anything would be wrong.

I got dressed and put on my makeup to go to work after my appointment. I was in a great mood and felt like looking my best that day. Little did I know that my baby was gone and had returned to be with Jesus weeks earlier.

I realized something was wrong when my doctor wheeled in an old-fashioned ultrasound machine and looked puzzled. She said there was no blip on the screen. I immediately popped up and asked if she was worried. She quickly said she was a little concerned. From there I was taken to get an ultrasound.

As I lay in that dark room and watched the fuzzy black and white screen, I knew. There was total silence. No steady beat like I had just heard weeks before. No growth to my child from the last recorded length.

The doctor and the ultrasound tech were the same providers from my last two miscarriages. I could feel their pity and shock. I was in that same room and was that same girl again, the girl who lost another child. My makeup smeared all over my face. I was alone as I told my husband he did not need to come to the appointment. I walked out of that room alone with a lost baby for the third time.

I could feel the other nurses’ and patients’ eyes on me as I walked out of that room a complete mess and burned with anger because they were looking at me.

I cursed God on the way home. I was so angry at him. I pounded my steering wheel and yelled things I’m ashamed to say. In a week I would return for my third D and C surgery, the second one I would have during the Christmas season.

After my surgery I found out my baby was a girl. I named her Charlotte. Her name still is Charlotte and I hope she is being called her name in Heaven. I don’t know why she had to come for such a short time. I don’t understand and never will. I do know I will think of her every Christmas season for the rest of my life. I have asked God to keep her and my other children safe for me until we all meet again one day.

And I hold on to the hope that Christmas has brought to me. The hope that God was born a tiny baby 2,000 years ago and will walk with me for the rest of my days. That God suffered and sat with me in that dark room and held me in His arms. And that He is holding Charlotte until he decides my time on Earth is done and tells me “well done good and faithful servant.”