littlest love
“I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.” - Mother Teresa
Hello, my friends! Boy, what a busy autumn it’s been already. I’ve sat down so many times wanting to write, about all sorts of things, and each time something else snatches my attention and I’m pulled away. I’ve been missing writing here so much, and my hope is to offer you a double-header with a second post later this week. Think of it as me making up for lost time, and getting back in the swing of things just in time for this last leg of the year. Is it just me, or is anyone else dumbfounded at the fact that 2018 is almost over? I now gauge my own aging process by the amount of phrases coming out of my mouth that sound like something my mother would say. But at the risk of sounding like Gayl herself, I feel like this year has flown. October almost passed me by, but I caught it just in time to commemorate and honor something exquisite that happened in my life; something that I’ll never forget.
October is the month of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness. It’s a month where mothers rally together under the banner of remembrance, sharing their stories and sending up heart-felt thoughts of love to their little ones who left too soon. Many of you know that almost two years ago, I lost my own child to an early-term miscarriage. In the passage of time between then and now, I’ve had the privilege of sharing my story with a handful of people, including many wonderful women who have since walked through similar waters. But as this October rolled around, I wanted to take the opportunity to share my story with you here. I think that I’ve forged some new friendships since this time two years ago, and this story is something that I love sharing for many reasons. For most, it will likely be a story which helps you get to know me a bit better. But for a few, it may be a small collection of words that you need to hear now, in a time of your own questioning or deep pain. And that’s reason enough for me to tell you the story of my Littlest Love.
Rewind with me to New Year’s Day, 2017. I’m in the upstairs bathroom of my in-law’s farmhouse, door locked, heart pounding in my ears, mind reeling. The stick has two lines on it. Two lines. Did I read the box right? Do two lines mean pregnant? Maybe I got confused. Let’s check the box. Oh boy, nope, not confused. Just pregnant. Definitely, definitely pregnant.
How did I get there? How did I find myself in this bathroom, hunched over the sink, with the most profound swirling mixture of shock, fear, and excitement bubbling over inside me? To tell you that, we’ll have to rewind a few years more.
When I was in middle school, I was diagnosed by my endocrinologist with PCOS, or Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. It was not long after my diagnosis of an underactive thyroid, and I had learned that sometimes these two can go hand in hand. “What this means,” my doctor gently explained, “is that when and if you should choose to pursue motherhood one day, the process will most likely be difficult. Between a slow thyroid throwing different life-sustaining hormones out of balance in your body, and some less-than-reliable ovaries, your chances of having a blissfully unstressful conception will be pretty slim. If you are to become a mother at all, it may take some work, some treatments, some time.” This was the gist of her speech to me. I clearly remember a tearful ride home with my mother that day. Even then, as a girl so young and so far from ever having to worry about these things, I was heartbroken. I’ve known from a very early age that motherhood was a desire of my heart, and something I felt divinely called to. And even as a middle-schooler, this was a tough pill for me to swallow.
Now, we can go ahead and fast-forward to the fall of 2016, when I was a newlywed without a care in the world. I was freshly married to the love of my life, and things were beautiful. We were enjoying getting settled into our first home together, a “cozy” (the word that I demanded we use, instead of the accurate “tiny”) 800-square foot townhome with a railroad track in the backyard. But we didn’t care about the square footage, or the tracks. Because we were in love, and that was the best feeling in the world.
While we dated, Bobby and I had plenty of conversations about children and family, and dreams for the future. He knew that it wouldn’t be impossible for us, but that it may take a little extra time. And we were both okay with that. We jokingly said we were on the “five-year plan” as it pertained to babies. We both craved parenthood, but were very content to be selfishly wrapped up in one another, not having to share ourselves with anyone else just yet. So things were smooth-sailing and looking good for us.
When it came time to plan for, well, family-planning, Bobby and I opted for natural methods over chemical ones. I had been lucky enough not to have difficult periods growing up, and had been able to avoid ever having to go on hormonal birth control. Having studied medicine, I knew that the longer a woman is on the pill, the harder it can be for her hormones to balance out when she’s ready to start trying for a family. This is why I decided that I’d rather give myself as much of a chance as I could and leave the pill alone, and my husband was on board. So, without getting too PG-13, I’m sure as adults we all understand that when you’re not on the pill, you have to be pretty faithful and consistent with whatever other method of birth control you choose. And because I’d been told my whole adult life that I wasn’t the most fertile-Myrtle on the block, I will be honest and say that we were not always completely faithful and completely consistent with our chosen method. I feel confident that we can see now how this cascade of events led us to that locked farmhouse bathroom. So, let’s fast-forward again, shall we?
It was the week between Christmas and New Years of 2016. Bobby and I were visiting his parents for the holidays, and we were so excited to enjoy the annual New Year’s Eve party with family and friends. We’d been married for a grand three months, and it was our first holiday season together as husband and wife; all was bilss. I hadn’t been feeling completely well in the weeks leading up, but Bobby had come down with a nasty stomach bug the week before Christmas, and I just thought that I had fallen prey as well. Nothing dramatic, just a general feeling of “bleh.” Kind of queasy throughout the day, wanting to take a nap every afternoon, falling asleep by 6:00 or 7:00 most nights. Weird, but not really any major red flags.
We watched the Time Square Ball drop at midnight on New Year’s Eve, rung it in with a kiss, and went exhausted to bed. That night, I had one of the most vivid dreams of my life — I had taken two pregnancy tests, one old-fashioned with lines and another analog test with a “YES,” and both had been positive. We woke up the next morning and headed to church, where I couldn’t shake the dream, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I ought to buy a pregnancy test. On the drive home, quiet, I finally blurted out to Bobby, “Hey. Let’s stop at that CVS Pharmacy right around the corner. I’m going to go in there and buy the most expensive pregnancy test they have, take it, and be surer than sure, once and for all.” He obliged, and I dashed into the store. The most expensive one they had was $19.99, so I just grabbed it, not looking to see what it contained. I laughed out loud later when I realized that it was just as my dream had been — one old-fashioned test, and one analog. God has a good sense of humor, you guys.
On the drive home, I wasn’t too concerned. Intrigued, more than anything, and amused. This will be a funny story to tell later! How I panicked over nothing. We got back to the farmhouse, where Bobby’s whole family waited for us. It’s a Sunday tradition with the Puffenburgers to eat an amazingly big and delicious lunch, and Bobby’s mom was slaving away diligently at the stove. “Lunch is almost ready!” she called. “Okay! Be right down!” I answered. I had to go upstairs, because the downstairs bathroom doesn’t lock, and this was not an occasion that I wanted anyone accidentally busting in on. So I trotted up the stairs, popped into the bathroom, shut the door, and quickly locked it. I sat down, gingerly opened the box, pulled out the test with the lines, and quickly read the instructions. I did the deed, set the pregnancy test on the counter, and waited.
Wait three minutes to read the results, the instructions said. Cool. I’ll just wash my hands and then take a — …there was no time to finish the thought. My eyes had fallen briefly on the test, and I could already see the rapidly-forming blue line in the result window. There was no, Is that a line? Am I imagining that? Maybe if I tilt it this way a bit. No. This was a big-ol’, clear-as-day, bluer-than-blue line. Right in front of me. On a pregnancy test that I had just peed on. Me. My pee.
I was now hanging over the test, both hands bracing my weight on the sink top, feeling like I was having an out-of-body experience. Heart pounding in my ears, mind reeling. I was in disbelief. This cannot be real. This cannot…be real. But it was. And a few minutes later, the analog test proved it. Just like in my dream.
If anyone had been watching me come down the stairs and slowly walk back into the kitchen, they may have flung themselves at me with outstretched arms, waiting to catch me. Because if my face looked anything like I felt, then I’m sure any innocent bystander could have safely assumed I’d fall on the floor at any moment. Lunch was sitting piping-hot on the table, steam rolling off the potatoes and green beans. The whole family was waiting on me, and I quietly found my seat and sunk down into it. My eyes immediately locked with Bobby’s, and my face must have looked like I thought it did, because he slowly furrowed his brow and mouthed, “Everything okay?” I stared without blinking, and I think a tiny smile must have cracked on my face. He kept staring, until I think he understood, and then his brow unfurrowed. He looked back at me, and gave me an inquisitive nod, as if to say, “Well, was it?” And I nodded back an emphatic, “Yep.” We stared for another minute, both wide-eyed, and excused ourselves from the table as he followed me upstairs and into his old bedroom. We both plopped down on the bed, and I whipped the two tests out without saying anything. We both stared in silence, first at the tests, and then at each other. And it’s hard to remember those moments exactly, what with the out-of-body feeling returning, but I do remember there was a lot of laughter, a lot of silence, a lot of “whoah,” and a lot of “holy crap.”
Please don’t be confused. I believe with the entirety of my being that children are a big, beautiful, precious blessing. My heart swells with joy and anticipation every time I imagine motherhood. But on this day, three months into a new marriage, I was caught off-guard. I’m not ready for this. WE’RE not ready for this. Gosh, I haven’t even figured out how to be a wife yet. I am so unprepared and unequipped. What I wish I had remembered in that moment was that God doesn’t call the equipped, but instead equips the called. And whether or not I knew it at that point, God was already equipping me for the emotional roller coaster that I was about to ride.
What followed was a whirl-wind seven weeks. First shock, then naive excitement, then realistic panic, then subtle acceptance, then unbridled joy. I remember sitting down at that farmhouse dinner table for lunch, and being unable to hold the secret in, blurting it out with laughter I couldn’t control. I remember telling my parents and the surprised smiles on their faces. I remember sitting in the Women’s Center parking lot on the phone with my mom, tears falling because I felt overwhelmed and scared. I remember Bobby rubbing my feet when I felt exhausted, and making a midnight run to the corner market when I got the most insatiable craving for green grapes. I remember telling close family and friends, and receiving cheers and congratulations, and a handful of sweet little baby gifts. I remember looking at the bank account and wondering how things would all work out. I remember mentally sketching out all the ways we could fit a tiny human into our “cozy” newlywed nest.
But what I remember the best was the day I met my child. If you’ve never been pregnant, then it’s hard to imagine how completely conceptual and hypothetical it all is in the first weeks. You know that something’s happening, because you feel as though a tiny alien has taken over your body and brain. But you can’t feel anything, or see anything, or hear anything pertaining to that baby. So you “know” it’s there, but you don’t really know it’s there. It’s all very abstract. So I was quite full of excitement and anticipation on the day we went to our ultrasound appointment. Hand in hand as we drove, I tried to emotionally prepare Bobby, and myself, for the worst. “Even if we don’t see anything on the monitor, we’ll be okay. Just know that there may not be anything there, babe.” My stomach was churning as we waited our turn. I was just sure that something would be wrong; in my mind, it was a miracle that I’d conceived at all, so the gift of a healthy pregnancy was more than I could hope for. But we held hands again and the ultrasound technician worked her way around the womb…a measurement here, a measurement there…and then, there it was. A baby. Our baby. Wiggling. Tiny, tiny little heart beating away. We could hear it. And it was the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, before or since. Our excitement spreading, the technician benevolently pointed out for us the head and the bottom, and then labeled them on our printout so we wouldn’t forget. We were then ushered to another waiting room to await the second portion of the appointment with the doctor. We just sat in silence, silly grins on our faces. staring happily at this beautiful, mysterious little thing we had made together. And we were totally in love.
My heart grew bigger that day, and it’s never shrunken back.
It was February 17th, 2017. Bobby and I had hit the road early, traveling miles to Tennessee to reunite with my best friends and their husbands for a long weekend. We’d planned a cabin getaway, and I’d been looking forward to it for months. One of my best friends, Kaitlin, was also pregnant with her first at the time, and it was going to be such fun to chat with one another and swap battle stories.
We had stopped a couple of hours outside of Pigeon Forge for some lunch, and when we were finished, I excused myself to the bathroom before we drove the final stretch. As I was cleaning up, I noticed some rust-colored blood.
I froze, and my heart sank.
I’m a nurse, but you don’t have to be a trained medical professional to know that bleeding at eleven weeks pregnant doesn’t usually signal anything good. I tried keeping a level head, and decided to keep it to myself until I knew more. I didn’t want to panic Bobby over something that turned out to be nothing. So I calmly got back in the car, and off we went.
As we drove, I felt more and more like something was definitely wrong. I asked Bobby to pull off at a rest stop a few miles down the road, and when I went to the bathroom that time, there was more blood. And it was bright red. Not good. My heart broke.
I walked slowly back to the car, unsure of how to say what I needed to say. I sat back down in the passengers seat, composed myself, turned to Bobby, and said quietly, “Honey, I think I’m miscarrying.” As long as I live, I’ll never be able to forget the look on his face. To write this and think of it now, it almost brings me to tears.
We drove on in tense silence, while I made a phone call to my obstetrician’s office. They advised that I seek the closest medical help that I could, so we googled hospitals nearby and ended up in a rural emergency department. We were seen quickly, and I’ll also never forget the nurse practitioner who took care of me that day. I still swear that she was an angel in disguise. She was calm, tender, kind, and honest. “Let’s not count our chickens until they’re hatched, guys. I’ll order some labs, and we’ll get you into ultrasound.” The ultrasound tech came before the labs did, and he was such a kind soul, too. He wheeled me gently to the dimly-lit room, where he confirmed for us what I’d known in my heart to be true all along. “Here’s the baby,” he said quietly. “Here it is, and I’m looking very closely now, and there’s no heartbeat.” All silence. Me, being the people-pleaser that I am, squeaked out a “Thank you so much, sir.” And then my eyes met my husbands. And he held me, and we cried. And God bless him, that ultrasound tech cried with us. It was a moment of total brokenness, but it was strangely beautiful, too, as I look back on it now, from a distance.
We hopped back in the car, and called our parents through tears. I also texted the group of friends waiting on us, letting them know why we hadn’t arrived yet and what had happened. Bobby looked at me and said, “Do you still want to go to the cabin?” I can’t remember my exact words, but it was something to the effect of “of course,” followed by a “heck-yes.” So on we drove into the evening. Our weekend spent with friends was the oddest blessing, and I still thank God for the way He orchestrated the whole thing. I felt so numb with sadness at first, I think that being isolated at home would have felt almost unbearable. Because these were my closest friends, there wasn’t any of the awkwardness you’d imagine; it was all support, consolation, joyful conversation to distract me from the fact that I was actively losing my child. I still remember the night that I passed the baby itself; all four of my girlfriends lay with me on the couch, stroking my hair and rubbing my back between trips to the bathroom. They were there for us in a time when it was difficult to be there for us. And I’ll never be able to adequately thank them for that.
Being as I was right around the twelve-week mark of pregnancy, the nurse practitioner had told me that I could either opt for some medical assistance to complete my miscarriage, or just let nature take it’s course. The decision is personal and unique for every woman, but for me, I decided to miscarry naturally. It was long, and it was uncomfortable, but it was gentle, and it felt like the right thing to do for me. In the end, I think it provided me a lot of needed healing and closure. In the two weeks that I was home, we felt such an unreal outpouring of love and support from friends who rallied around us. We enjoyed beautiful flowers, notes, meals so we didn’t have to cook. My heart was so, so abundantly blessed by the kindnesses we received from all directions. It was a biter-sweet time, but again, it was strangely beautiful.
It’s been a year and a half now since my Little Love found herself wrapped in the loving arms of Christ, and I still think about her all the time. Of course, she left us before we could know her gender, and Bobby is positive that she was a boy, but I know the truth. I know she was a little lady. Call it mother’s intuition, I guess. She was a part of me; she grew out of my innermost being. For weeks, we were together every day, all day. I would sometimes rest my hand on my belly and make snarky little comments to her about whatever was going on, or tell her how well she was already loved. For at least the first year after losing her, I wouldn’t even have to talk about her. I could be driving alone in the car, and the thought of her would come to my mind, and immediately the tears would come. Hot, heavy, earnest tears. To this day, that is one of the things that still blows my mind the most. I have had just the tiniest foretaste of a mother’s love, and people, it is strong. I couldn’t possibly have understood it until I had felt it myself, but I can tell you that it is every ounce as powerful as women claim it to be. And I only knew my child for such a brief window of time, such a blink of an eye. I can’t wait to experience the love of a mother who’s held her child in her very arms; what a gift.
Through it all, Christ was faithful. Through it all, He grew me, and sanctified me, and stretched me, and asked me to trust Him more. And as I did, I found the strength to bear up under my pain, and to press into the loss and decide what it was all for. I had a choice — I could let it crush me and steal my joy, or I could let it be used for something good. I could turn heartache into a blessing. So I chose to see it as a blessing, and as I did, Christ so beautifully revealed to me ways in which I could use my story to bless other women. I kid you not when I say that in the months following my miscarriage, I had at least three or four personal friends go through the same waters. And without having been there and back myself, I would have floundered and faltered, and not known what to say. I can see now how even in her few short weeks here on earth, my girl’s life was a gift to those women — the ones who needed me to offer a listening ear and a kind word. I am forever grateful for what she has taught me; about myself, about the world, about pain, about trust, about love. And I will be absolutely thrilled to see her again one day on the other side of eternity. I hope so much that I’ll be able to press my ear up against her chest, and hear that beautiful heartbeat that I heard once before, long ago.
And I’ll smile.
Until next time,
Mrs. P
