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Mourning a Miscarriage
I knew the bright red blood shouldn't be there. The day before, I'd discovered for certain I was six weeks pregnant. Now, as I stared at the widening stain of blood that soaked my pajamas, my stomach tightened and my neck burned.
No, God! I want to be a mother!
In a matter of seconds, I sprang from the bathroom, woke my husband, James, and dialed my physician. The diagnosis: spontaneous miscarriage.
"Is there anything we can do?" I squeaked.
"Unfortunately, no," my ob/gyn replied. "I'm sorry."
The date was March 9, 2003. I'd awoken, pregnant, at 6 A.M. I'd thanked God for answering my prayers, wondered whether the baby was a boy or a girl, and dreamed about what my child would look like at his or her birth in October.
When I hung up the phone, the clock read 7:30 A.M.
And my baby was dead.
When God Says "No"
My body recovered almost immediately. However, my spirit writhed during the months that followed. I'd always pictured God as the religious equivalent of a fairy godfather, a granter of wishes who gives us the important things for which we pray. For six hopeful months, I'd begged him to let us have a baby. Now I brooded over the fact he'd responded with a "no." It was more than God taking his time with our baby's conception; our baby actually had died. How much more obvious could a "no" be?
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