Sunday, December 18, 2011

Hannah Grace

On December 18th, 2005, I miscarried our second child in a hospital emergency room.  I was 11 weeks pregnant, but the pathology report said the baby had stopped growing at five weeks.  We named the baby Hannah Grace.  Obviously, we do not know for certain the child was a girl.  However, she was in my heart.  The eleven weeks she grew in my heart changed me forever.  Today, after a long hard road of dealing with this painful scar, most of that change is for good.  In an effort to honor her and help others who might be experiencing something similar, this is her story.

The Story of Hannah Grace

I'm pregnant.  Aiden is barely nine months old.  We just got on our feet a little.  Our families aren't very happy.  I'm trying to pretend to be happy, but I'm really scared.  I am not happy.  Patrick and I are arguing a lot.  I don't know how to handle this! I don't want her.  I am not ready for another baby.  I said it out loud.  More than once.  I screamed it at Patrick. 

A few weeks pass.  Tears streamed down my face and blood dripped down my thigh.  I didn't mean it.  Give me back my baby God!  Please!  I do want her!  Why am I losing her?

Drop Aiden with my Mom.  I've never been away from him!  I'm still nursing him.  They tell me to stop nursing him or I will lose her.  I don't want to stop.   He's only eleven months old!  My heart is torn between the love I hold and the love I'm trying to keep alive.  Why am I losing her?

Race to the ER.  My Daddy is holding me and crying while Patrick takes care of paperwork.  Why am I losing her?

I know I'm only eleven weeks.  What do you mean there is "evidence of conception, but no fetus"  There WAS a baby there!  Don't call it a spontaneous abortion!  This was Not an abortion!  Why am I losing her?

I've had a healthy baby!  He's a big brother!  He's going to be a big brother in July!  It's only December!  Why am I losing her?

What is that doctor doing?  I feel like I was just violated in a way no woman should be!  I don't know what she did.  She didn't even talk to me, I don't even know this doctor's name!  I can't see.  I didn't get to see her!  Why am I losing her?

If you can't get that IV in my hand on the third try you are done.  There will be no IV!  Don't laugh as you roll the needle and show others how it rolls my vein.  I don't care if you haven't ever seen that happen before, it hurts!  Can't you hear?  I'm losing her!  Why am I losing her?

Darkness surrounds me.  I'm all alone in a hospital room.  They tell me to sleep.  Is she really gone?  God, where are you?  Where did they take her?  I didn't even ask!  What kind of a Mother am I?  Could I have buried her?  What did they do with her, she was a baby, not tissue!  Did they just throw her away?  Did I really lose her?  Why did I lose her?

In a wheelchair.  It's morning.  The doctor has ordered an ultrasound to make sure all of the "tissue" is out and there will be no "complications."  The ultrasound tech greets me with a cheery, "let's see how far along you are!" I start to shout at her for her insensitive words, but no sound comes.  I feel like I've been punched in the stomach.  I suck in my breathe.  Tears well up in my eyes.   I barely get out, "I lost her."

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