September - The Moon and Us.

September 27, 2015

In a few minutes there will be a Blood Moon and a Total Lunar Eclipse. A rare astronomical event. Many speculate that it's a sign of "the end of times".  The ushering in of the end of the world.

But today has already held a significant ending. An end to a special hope. An end to a future life.

My body feels tired as I sit in a rocking chair facing the east window in our living room. The night is quiet and still, everyone waiting.

 I watch the light slowly drain from the moon and the darkness envelope her.

It's then I realize everything in this world must pass through darkness - even the moon. But what if the moon never reflected light again? What if the moon was somehow swallowed up in the darkness? 

Watching the moon, I can't help but ponder the last two days. My thoughts return to Friday morning. The beginning of the end. 


Red against white. The color is unmistakable, the meaning unclear.

I'm 9 weeks pregnant and I'm bleeding. I feel my heart beat quicken as I try to comprehend what this could mean.

I don't want to think about it. 

I return to our large bed, pull the soft sheet over my body, and call the doctor's office. 

Hours later, my husband and I sit in the sleek chairs of the ultrasound technician's office. Waiting. 
Waiting for answers, and hoping for reassurance.

We are taken to a room where I am instructed to lay on the exam bed.

The machine is turned on and our eyes search the large display screen. 

There are more questions than answers.

The technician is tactful and caring. She points to a dark circle on the screen and explains that we're viewing the gestational sac. She tells us it's measuring small for how far along I am. 

By looking into the gestational sac, we should be able to see the baby, but instead the screen shows a round, dark, empty circle.

She cannot see where the bleeding is coming from, but she also cannot detect a heartbeat or a baby. 

Looking at the screen, I see only a dark moon floating in a dark sky. A lost hope.

We meet with the Doctor. She tells us about anembryonic gestation, and about miscarriages. She says there will be blood. So much blood that I'll think I'm dying. 

We talk about options. We choose to go home and wait.  


There is denial.

Even after it's over. I can't say I've had a miscarriage.
Instead, I choose the softer words of, "I think I may have had a miscarriage."
You think? You may have? - So maybe you didn't?
Maybe I didn't.
Maybe, miraculously, the little embryo is still burrowed safely within. Maybe our hopes and dreams have hung on through it all. Maybe life is still growing and developing.
Maybe I'm in denial.

We feel the weight of loss press in on our hearts.
Everyone experiences loss and pain.
Yes, my loss is small in comparison to others. I know. 
I'm aware that other's have lost substantially more than me - and I grieve for them. 
But we're still heartbroken. We still need time to heal.

The most difficult aspect of pregnancy was stretching from the known into the unknown. 

A new life, not just the life I hoped to carry, but the new life we imagined for ourselves.
We built this semi-secret love with anticipation and a mix of excitement, hope, and anxiety. And now that it's over we are left to sift between the dust and rubble of confusion, loss, and heartbreak.

I peer though the window, straining my eyes to see the darkened moon behind the thin clouds. The moon, which affects cycles and rhythms, and marks the passage of time. A moon that reflects light into the darkness. 

A moon that no longer exists.

But darkness does not overcome the moon. Slowly, the light returns, and I watch as the moon begins again. I realize all things in this world must pass through darkness, but all things will be brought to the light again. 

Tears come to my eyes and I humbly pray that, I too can be like the moon. 

Morning After

I'm not sure how my husband managed to wake, dress, and leave for work. I know he's hurting just as much as I am, but he did it. He has the obligation, the responsibility, the burden as the main provider. He carries it well. He's out there, even when he's hurting.

I didn't leave the house today. Not because I can't handle the pain, but because I feel emotionally raw. I feel open and vulnerable, like my protective casing has cracked and anyone could reach out a finger and touch the fragile working pieces of my soul. I need one more day to rest, to be still, to wrap temporary bandages until time can work its healing power. 

Until the light can slowly return to me.

Our life is not the new one we had imagined, but we haven't exactly returned to our old life either.
We hold each other a little closer, we extend forgiveness a little quicker, we love each other more completely. We believe Heavenly Father has a plan for each of us and although this was not what we were hoping for, we have faith that everything will workout for the best. 

Through it all we've been able to look through the darkness and see the love of our family and friends. Their hearts glow with kind words and thoughtful service. We will forever be grateful to them for lending their light to us on a dark night.

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