"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future.” -Jeremiah 29:11
Did you know that October 15th is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day? Many people aren't even aware that this day has been designated a national day of remembrance for miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant loss since 2006. Not only that, but the entire month of October was declared by President Reagan in 1988 as Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. That very day he said: “When a child loses his parent, they are called an orphan. When a spouse loses her or his partner, they are called a widow or widower. When parents lose their child, there isn’t a word to describe them. This month recognizes the loss so many parents experience across the United States and around the world.” I naively had no clue. I had no idea that somewhere between 10 to 20 percent, or as many as 1 in 4 women who become pregnant have pregnancies that end in miscarriage or loss. That means statistically speaking that every single day in the US alone, 3,000 women lose their baby to pregnancy/infant loss. That’s approximately 1.1 million a year. When I started seeking out the facts I was absolutely dumbfounded as to how unaware I was. That is until the day I became a statistic.
[Disclaimer: What I’m about to write, if I’m being honest, is far more for me than anything else. It’s one step forward towards the other side of wherever this is supposed to lead me. I need these words more than I probably even realize. Though seemingly useless to adequately describe all that I’ve been through, all that I’m going through, I need them. I’m right in the middle of this foreign agonizing grief, a place that I NEVER wanted to be. It’s messy. It’s confusing. It’s unfair. But, no matter how unwanted or offensive this all is to me, it has undeniably become a part of my story.]
Not very many people even knew we were pregnant. When we found out our oldest was 3 and our youngest had yet to even turn 1. We discovered February 19th was the day our third little Preston nugget was due. To say the least, stress was the most dominating emotion for awhile. Sadly enough I found myself having a hard time celebrating this time around. I had never planned on having kids 19 months apart in age, our marriage wasn’t necessarily thriving, and to top it all off our finances were far from stable. My lack of excitement is something I painfully regret now as I’m sitting here writing a story no mom should ever have to write. It’s surreal how much a skewed perspective can actually rob from you. Thankfully after some time the negative fog lifted, and I was able to celebrate in the joys of dreaming about the life that was growing and destined inside of me.
I had a relatively uneventful first trimester. Making it to the 12 week mark without any hiccups was actually a massive triumph in my book. I had intense scares with both of my other two pregnancies. I remember specifically thinking to myself just how thankful I was not having to go through all of that terrifying uncertainty again. As time went on our baby grew, but so did the chaos of life around me. Surrounding circumstances continued to get harder. Pain became a daily reality, and the agony of it all was turning into a heavier load that seemed impossible. A different story meant for another time; but, it felt like I was in the darkest season of my life (or so I thought).
Dates have never been a strong point of mine, but September 16, 2019 is one that will never be forgotten by me. Earlier that day I felt off. I was cramping. I was spotting. I had a nagging feeling that something was horribly wrong, but I was trying to remain hopeful. My doctor didn’t seem concerned. My family didn’t seem worried. I had bled before, twice. Besides, the odds were in my favor. Only 2% of women who are pregnant miscarry in their second trimester. I was 17 weeks and 4 days. That HAD to mean we were in the clear. The Lord new I was already at my breaking point, barely hanging on. SURELY, everything was going to be ok. I was following His will in one of the darkest valleys I’ve ever walked. SURELY, He would protect us. I was pressing into Him deeper than ever before. SURELY, He would see my pursuit and answer me. Call it mother’s intuition, but even though I was trying to hope for the best I knew deep down tragedy was lurking just around the corner.
Pain. More Pain. Every which way I tossed in bed I couldn’t avoid the pain. I begged the Lord to intervene. I believed in His promises. I believed in His ability. He was Healer. He was Protector. I knew He could stop it at any moment with one simple word, but every bit of hope I had managed to muster came crashing down as water hit the floor. My life forever altered in one split second. I was losing our child, and there wasn’t a single thing I could do about it.
Shock does a weird thing to you. It felt like I was watching someone else live my tragedy, my greatest fear turned to an on-screen movie as I sat in an empty theater watching the horror unfold. Even though I felt distanced from what was actually happening, oddly enough, I was still highly aware of everything going on around me. The minute details forever sketched in my mind; the fear in the voices on the other end of phone calls, the red lights run during the frantic drive to the ER, the faces of strangers turning to look at me as I walked into the waiting room, the look of utter confusion in personnel and nurses alike, the deep agonizing wails I never new I was capable of making, the cold stark white room we were placed.
There will never be words to describe the unspeakable pain of holding your beautiful lifeless child in your hands, forced to say goodbye before you were ever even able to say hello. He was perfect. He was so small, but so perfect. Every single part of him was masterfully sculpted. As he laid in my hands I was trying to drink in each and every little intricate detail of his delicate little body. I never wanted to forget. His little hands, his little fingers, his little feet and toes, his precious little nose were all so flawless. They couldn’t confirm he was a boy until tests were done, but we knew. We knew that our son, Jeremiah Hollis Preston, had been born that night. After the gravest most heart shattering goodbye I’ve ever had to make, we were thrust into the whirlwind of decision making (decisions no parent should ever be put through). Due to his age there were legalities and needed consent on where his body should go—to the hospital or to a funeral home. I couldn’t bear the thought of never knowing what happened to our son. We wanted to desperately give Jeremiah’s life the honor and deep respect it deserved, so we chose just that.
His graveside was somehow beautiful yet horrific all at the same time. Though there weren’t many, the power and beauty in those deeply mourning alongside us in our darkest day will forever be unmatched. We knew we weren’t alone in this. We knew that they loved and honored our son, as if Jeremiah was their own. The weight of the agonizing grief was terrifyingly unbearable to hold on our shoulders alone, and so it was shared. I will forever be thankful for them. They will never fully know what they did for us that day, what they did for me. When Jeremiah was placed in his grave I broke. I was being gut wrenchingly forced to bury every dream, every possibility, every memory I was supposed to have with my son. The reality that I was being ruthlessly robbed from the life I SHOULD have had with him was beginning to set in. It was not supposed to be this way. IT IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THIS WAY! I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. He was my son, IS my son. Jeremiah was supposed to be with me, in my arms or in my womb, but NOT in a grave! Uncontrollable excruciating tears poured. As each drop fell to the ground, only inches away from where Jeremiah would later be buried, the anguish reached a depth far beyond any grief I had ever known. How had this become my reality? Why did this happen? Where was He? Why didn’t He intervene? Why didn’t He save Jeremiah? A mother is supposed to be with her children, always. But how does she reconcile with her inability to do so in a moment where one is in heaven, but two are still here?
Questions. What do you do with them? How do you find answers to the unexplainable? How do you resolve tragedy that never should have happened, that could have been stopped? Webster’s Dictionary defines a question to be torture as part of an examination. Torture. That’s what it can feel like. The hows, whats, and whys can utterly consume me at times. From morning til night I can find myself questioning everything without getting answers to anything. I’ve always believed that if I did it all right, if I humbly served the Lord, if I followed the plan He had for me, if I had faith in His ability to do anything then tragedy, pain, and loss would have no access to me or my family. I have no clue how or why I started believing that. Maybe its because, if I’m honest, I’ve always been absolutely terrified of all the bad things this world can bring. If I simply convinced myself they couldn’t happen “because I loved the Lord” then just maybe they wouldn’t, and we would be safe. Jeremiah’s death shattered every semblance of that belief.
Pain is inevitable in this world. There isn’t anything you can or can’t do to avoid it. Those who lived a life worthy of honor in the bible couldn’t even escape it. Murder, heart ache, sickness, imprisonment, and torture (all a product of this world) tragically robbed from those who paved the way for us today, too. I will never understand why sometimes God doesn’t intervene when He has all authority to do so. We’re called to pray and believe, but what are we supposed to do when the miracle doesn’t happen? The answer? I have no idea. I am smack dab in the middle of my grief. Some days the pain paralyzes my ability to even breathe. I miss my son. I will ALWAYS grieve the life we should have had with him. And yes, I question God. Do you want to know something else? I don’t feel bad about it either. When tragedy hits I honestly don’t think we are ever supposed to understand why. The war birthed from grief creates a struggle unlike any other. The vulnerability of pain makes you a blazing target for the enemy. Despair, hopelessness, and doubt chase me daily and eagerly await any moment of weakness to pounce. I’ve found the more I question Him the more He seems to draw even closer. It doesn’t matter how you go to Him, just as long as you do. Turning towards Him instead of away in the pain has definitely been my one saving grace to not give up on it all. Struggling with your faith and what you believe isn’t necessarily bad, more times than not it is part of the process. But for me the hope of eternity with Jeremiah isn’t even an option to give up on. I will always fight. I will not lose.
It is a daily struggle. Some days are stronger than others. My grief will never leave me, but as time goes on my ability to cope and process won’t be near as painful. I cherish the day that I will get to hold Jeremiah again in my arms, whole and complete. Until then I choose to live and embrace every moment given in honor of my son, Jeremiah Hollis Preston.
But, as it is written, “What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him.” -1 Corinthians 2:9
Comments