Lord, I am sending Baby B – who is my very heart – back to you.

I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him.  So now I give him to the Lord. -1 Samuel 1:27

The past nine days have been the hardest days of my life.  I’ve experience – we’ve experienced – heartache.  Shock.  We’ve cried out, “Just give us back our baby!”  We’ve yelled, screamed, fallen to our knees.  Felt pain and been angry.  We have questioned God.  Asked, “Why us?”

We’ve prayed.  Grieved.  Clung to scripture.  We’ve held one another and been held by our family and friends.  We’ve been held by Him.  We have felt an outpour of love.  Experienced grace.  And begun to feel a sense of peace that could only come from the Lord.  Through it all, we aim to trust His will for our lives and the life of our first (unborn)baby.

Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you. –Psalm 9:10

It has taken me several days to write this piece—to put down what I’ve been thinking, been feeling.  As much as recalling the moments we’ve experienced stings, I feel this is a part of my healing.  It’s raw.  It is honest and real.  I wanted to write this as way to honor and remember our precious Baby B.  To share with those who have prayed with and for us.  Not as a way to say “woe me” or to seek pity, but to offer our story to someone else who may be in a similar situation or dealing with loss.  It is my hope that through these words, God is glorified.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a mom.  I could never put into words the joy, sheer excitement, and happiness I felt when I held a positive pregnancy test in my hands Thanksgiving Day 2013.  Sam either.  I’ve never seen the boy smile so big.  I squealed on the phone with the receptionist at my OB/GYN office when I told her I needed to make an appointment.  We had quite a time hiding our big secret throughout the holidays.  We were ecstatic. 

I thought my heart was full when I fell in love with Sam Ball.  That love grew and it grew.  We married, and I thought my heart would burst.  But it continued to flourish throughout our marriage.  One year.  Two years.  Pregnancy came and watching him kiss my growing baby belly and hearing those words he prayed over us (the baby and myself)—oh my, my heart was bigger than I could have ever imagined.  And much like my love for Baby B’s daddy grew, so did my love for that tiny bundle I held inside me. 

My love for it grew beyond my wildest dreams.  Every day that passed, every second really, as we reached milestones and got closer to our due date, I was filled more and more.  My cup overflowed.  I dreamed of hearing Baby B’s heartbeat—and I did.  Of feeling Baby B’s first kick.  Of admiring my growing bump—what I would see when I looked down at six months, nine months.  Of delivering this coming August and that very first cry.  Of holding it, kissing it, bathing, and feeding it.  Of bringing home our baby.  Of loving it and to watching it grow.  I had already turned in my letter of intent to the school system.  I was going to stay home with our baby.

Four months was much too little.  We went into our sixteen-week appointment last Monday, the 24th of February, 2014, having no idea that anything was wrong, of what was to come.  My blood pressure was good.  I had gained a couple of healthy pounds since our last visit.  My OB shared positive results from previous blood work.  We were set to come back the next day to find out the gender of our little love and would have a reveal party that upcoming weekend with our families.  As I lay back on the table and lifted my shirt, the doctor commented on how the baby had moved up.  She squirted jelly on my belly and moved the doppler around and around.  There was a faint heartbeat, but Dr. Cline said it was mine.  She was unable to get the baby’s.  She suggested we move to another room where she would do an ultrasound.  She let us know this was not uncommon because the baby was still so small. 

But as the monitor showed our baby, there was no flicker, no movement.  The doctor very quietly said, “I cannot get a heartbeat.  I believe you’ve miscarried.”  The sobbing began.  I stared up at the ceiling, having difficulty catch my breath.  Sam had a similar response. 

How could this be?  We had seen a strong fetal heartbeat of 164 bpm at our last visit.  We had waited until after our twelve-week appointment, when we were entering the second trimester—when the likelihood of miscarriage greatly reduces—to share our joyful news with others.  I had shown many healthy signs of pregnancy in the past weeks—nausea, vomiting, tiredness—I was starting to show and had absolutely no bleeding or spotting.  Dr. Cline called a fellow doctor in the practice in to get his opinion.  “It looks to me like a partial molar pregnancy,” she immediately told him as she got up from her stool to let him have a look.  Dr. Herrin tried, but got the same result.  We moved to another room for ultrasounds on a different machine.

I vaguely recall walking down the hall, tears streaming down my face, looking at the ground in front of me.  What I do remember is the sweet bellies I could see in my peripherals that lined each side of the hallway.  How just thirty minutes before, Sam and I, too, were sitting there with smiles on our faces.  I longed for my baby.  I prayed for the doctors to be wrong, to be able to blame this “scare” on a broken machine.  I wished for a miracle.

The standard ultrasound and transvaginal ultrasound that followed did not show any sign of life inside the womb.  Instead, they showed a baby that measured around thirteen weeks and an enlarged cyst on my right ovary that measured roughly 8.5 centimeters (an ovary is typically around 2 c.m.).  Our precious love looked asleep.  It had gone to heaven a few weeks before.  More tears fell and we found ourselves at a loss for words, unable to comprehend what the doctors were telling us.  The certainty of our loss began to set in.  The doctors left the room.  I’m not sure how long it took me to dress or get myself up off the floor in front of Sam’s feet.  As we opened the door to exit the examination room, a nurse was there waiting and escorted us to Dr. Cline’s office.  We were left alone there for quite some time.

I remember how brightly the sun shown through the open shutters in Dr. Cline’s office.  It was the first time within the hour that I had really allowed myself to sense God’s presence.  It was as if heaven were letting me know “You’re baby is here.  It’s healthy and alive in heaven.”  It was the most gorgeous day I had seen in a while—especially after the cold, dreary sleet, snow, and ice we had experienced lately.  Sam and I held hands.  We prayed out loud.  We begged and pleaded with the Lord.  Our hearts were broken.

As you do not know the path of the wind, or how the body is formed in a mother’s womb, so you cannot understand the work of God, the Maker of all things. –Ecclesiastes 11:5

Dr. Cline returned, shutting the door behind her.  I later realized how grateful I was for the time she had given Sam and I to be together, just the two of us.  We needed it.  She sat in a chair beside us, not behind her large desk.  Dr. Cline proceeded to explain her thoughts based on what she had just seen.  Molar and partial molar pregnancies occur at conception.  It was nothing Sam nor I had “done wrong.”  Molar pregnancies are rare, occurring one out of every one thousand pregnancies—and partial molar pregnancies are even more rare than that.  In Dr. Cline’s nearly twenty years as an obstetrician, she had only had eight other patients who suffered a partial molar pregnancy.  “I see this once every couple of years.”  I had never heard of such.

From americanpregnancy.org: “Complete molar pregnancies have only placental parts (there is no baby), and form when the sperm fertilizes an empty egg.  Because the egg is empty, no baby is formed.  The placenta grows and produces the pregnancy hormone, hCG.  Unfortunately, an ultrasound will show that there is no fetus, only a placenta.”

In our case though, an embryo had formed.  We had seen our seemingly “typically growing” baby at our twelve-week appointment, and at that time, there were no signs of abnormalities.  From what I can gather, there are two types of partial molar pregnancies.  In one type, two sperm fertilize the egg, and the placenta becomes the molar growth.  OR twins are conceived, one forming an embryo that develops normally and the other, a mole (americanpregnancy.org).  The “mole,” or mass, eventually overtakes the embryo in a partial molar pregnancy.

Dr. Cline expressed her concerns for my interest in trying to pass the baby naturally.  Initially, I could not stomach the thought of surgery, of them taking my baby from inside my body.  It did not seem right.  But I heard: “It’s too risky” … “I’m almost certain you would have to have a blood transfusion” … “Before ultrasounds and modern medicine, women died from this type of pregnancy.”  Dr. Cline was patient with me and thoroughly explained the dangers, though I struggled with the idea at first.  In addition to the potentially large amount of blood loss I could experience, there is a cancer that can follow partial molar pregnancies and occurs when all of the tissue is not removed.  I requested one more ultrasound before having a D & C, and it was scheduled for the following day.  Surgery would take place Wednesday morning.  I remember Sam saying, “Our baby is already in heaven.  You’re the most important thing now.”

Dr. Cline believed the enlarged ovary we had seen on the ultrasound was a direct result of extremely high hormones.  She projected my hCG to be well above 100,000.  It certainly varies, but in a normal pregnancy at this stage, it would only be around 50,000.  And yet another reason to have the surgery: that ovary and my projected hCG level.  The reason I had been getting sick so often, that my skin had broken out, and my tummy continued to grow after our unborn baby had gone home to be with Jesus was the high hCG level—my body still thought I was pregnant.

Dr. Cline shared with us that each of her patients who had previously had a partial molar pregnancy, had naturally conceived and given birth to healthy babies.  One of those patients now has four children—and another, who had a partial molar pregnancy at the beginning of last year, now has a beautiful four month old.  The likelihood of having another partial molar pregnancy is rare (1-2%).  While I found this news refreshing after such a horrific morning, I still wanted my baby, this baby.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. –Psalm 34:18

In the hours that followed, I felt like I was living a nightmare, and I kept wishing I could wake up.  We could not fathom our harsh reality.

My mother-in-law arrived first.  Twenty-three years ago, she, too, experienced a second trimester miscarriage.  It happened with her fourth baby, who was to be named Charlie, whether a boy or girl. She is a godly woman and so wise.  She taught me about “Thank you Jesus moments.”  For as long as I have known Lana, her strength has amazed me.  She shared these words with us, “Though it will never get easier, you will get stronger.”

My own mother arrived shortly after.  She was with us in many of our darkest hours that followed, as she spent the rest of the week in our home.  She heard our cries—wept, mourned, and prayed along side us.  She took care of Sam and I—grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, washing, folding, and putting away laundry, answering and making phone calls, greeting guests, and packing my hospital bag.  She truly acted as the hands and feet of Jesus.  I admire her servants’ heart.  She’s the type of mother I want to be.

Although we were shaken, there was one truth we believed whole-heartedly.  We never wondered what happened to our baby when its heart stopped beating.  From the ultrasounds on, we knew our baby was in heaven.  I remember thinking: I’m at the darkest place I’ve ever been in my life.  My spirit is crushed, I have yelled out and questioned “why” our baby had to be taken.  I’ve cried until my eyes hurt and I thought another tear could not fall—and then I cried some more.  But I never doubted for even a second that our baby was in heaven.  “Jesus loves the little children … all the children of the world.”  Jeremiah 1:5 says, “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you.”  Our baby was “fearfully and wonderfully made,” and though our hearts were broken, we found comfort it knowing we would meet our baby one day, someday—in eternity.  I’m not sure how people with zero faith, with no belief Christ and life after death, get through tragedy and loss.

Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am faint; O Lord, heal me, for my bones are in agony.  My soul is in anguish, How long, O Lord, how long?  Turn, O Lord, and deliver me; save me because of your unfailing love… I am worn out from groaning, all night long I flood my bed with weeping and drench my couch with tears… The Lord has heard my cry for mercy; the Lord accepts my prayer. –Psalm 6:2-4, 6-7, 9

The thought of our grandmothers (who we both called “Mimi” growing up) loving on Baby B up there comforted us, too.  My Massee cousins and I spent nearly every Sunday afternoon during the summertime swimming at our grandparents and enjoying juicy, red watermelon.  Just two weeks before my grandmothers’ death, in the midst of her battle with pancreatic cancer, I remember Sam offering to cut the watermelon that particular Sunday afternoon.  Mimi replied, “I may be weaker than I used to be, but I am still the official watermelon cutter of this family.”  During this pregnancy, watermelon was the one food I constantly craved—and I just knew Baby B loved the sweet taste of it.  I like to picture my Mimi and our baby having watermelon together in heaven.  

Another thing I couldn’t get enough of while pregnant: back scratches.  I asked for them daily.  Sam swears there is no one who can scratch a back better than his Mimi, Mrs. Sally.  We do not doubt our little one is getting those glorious back scratches Sam speaks so highly of in heaven.  In the midst of the trials, these were “Thank you, Jesus” moments.

One of our dear friends, who is an ultrasound tech, offered to meet us Tuesday afternoon, on her day off.  I cannot imagine how difficult her job must be in those times she is forced to share gut-wrenching news with her patients.  Laura confirmed there was no heartbeat inside our little baby.  The cyst on my ovary had grown two centimeters overnight, and the blood work from the day before showed an hCG level of 196,000. 

Laura later shared with me that before she called us back, several of the staff members in the office prayed with her.  As difficult as the findings were to bear, looking back, our 3:30 appointment was another “Thank you, Jesus” moment.  It had been hemmed in prayer—we were surrounded by believers at Athens OB/GYN.  I knew God was right there with us and in control.  I left with some peace and reassurance about the coming day.  I wasn’t as scared as I had been.  I was reminded of the phenomenal doctor and surgeon Dr. Cline is (it’s why I was so excited she took me on as a new patient last year) and heard from many that I would be well taken care of at St. Mary’s hospital. 

So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.  –Isaiah 41:10

That night, we said “good bye” to our baby.  While we knew its spirit had already gone to heaven, its tiny body was still tucked away inside of me.  We were to report to St. Mary’s by 6:15 the next morning—our time left with Baby B in the womb was limited.  Sam slid down in the bed to get level with my tummy.  He prayed and kissed my belly, as he had done for weeks, one last time.  It was a sacred time.

I am sending Baby B – who is my very heart – back to you. –adapted from Philemon 1:12

The morning of February 26th, rain poured, it was dark out.  Sam drove.  Mom and I took turns reading from Sarah Young’s Jesus Calling.  “I am leading you, step by step, through your life.  Hold My hand in trusting dependence, letting Me guide you through this day.  Your future looks uncertain and feels flimsy … That is how it should be.  Secret things belong to the Lord, and future things are secret things.  When you try to figure out the future, you are grasping at things that are Mine.  This, like all forms of worry, is an act of rebellion: doubting My promises to care for you.  Whenever you find yourself worrying about the future, repent and return to Me.  I will show you the next step forward, and the one after that, and the one after that…”

Checking in was difficult.  I sat in the waiting room amongst three precious babes.  I sobbed.  By the time I got settled in my room in the Short Stay unit, I was a blubbery mess, longing again to have my baby back.  At that moment, in walked the most precious nurse, Christine.  She could tell I was upset.  I shared what we had been through the past forty something hours, and she shared with me her long journey to motherhood.  It had taken she and her husband four years to give birth to their son.  She had difficulty getting pregnant, had two miscarriages and two D&Cs.  Right there in her scrubs, she was a model of hope and perseverance.  I was reminded of the "secret future" God has planned for us.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. –James 1:2-3

Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.  And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us. 

–Romans 5:3-5

Christine was a ray of sunshine on that gloomy morning.  She made us laugh as she prepped me for surgery.  She wanted to know if I preferred socks or to be barefoot.  Because it was expected to be a chilly day, I had knee high boot socks packed in my bag and asked if they would be okay to wear.  “Knee high socks!?  You dork!” she joked.  “If they’re cute, let’s rock them” and so we did.  The anesthesiologist came by, we talked with Dr. Cline, and I was wheeled to the operating room.  Some nurses grabbed my hands, others squeezed my feet, and all offered a smile as I rode down the hall.  A mask was placed over my nose and mouth, two breaths later, I was out. 

Dr. Cline shared with Sam and our families that she was extremely pleased with the surgery.  There were two main concerns she had before going in, and neither caused a problem.  More “Thank you, Jesus” moments.  I recovered and awoke in step down and was then taken back to my room. 

Before leaving the hospital, Christine shared with Sam and I that after testing was done on the tissue that had been taken from my body, our baby would be sent back to St. Mary’s to be cremated.  We would be invited to a memorial this fall, along with all of the other families who had suffered a miscarriage and had a D&C, to bury our baby.  I cannot put in to words what that meant to us.  We would have some answers.  A partial molar pregnancy could be confirmed.  We may soon know whether we have a little girl or little boy in heaven.  We could honor our unborn baby, and it would receive a proper burial.

Closure.  A “Thank you, Jesus” moment for sure.  St. Mary’s hospital is a special place.  It’s holy ground to me.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.  Then you will call upon me and come pray to me, and I will listen to you.  You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all of your heart.” –Jeremiah 29:11-13

From the moment our hearts shattered that Monday morning, our phones have rung and they have rung.  They’ve chimed with incoming messages.  Beautiful flowers have show up on our doorsteps.  Visitors have come and offered prayers.  Precious letters of encouragement have been delivered to our mailbox.  Our plates have been full at mealtimes.  We have been reminded of all the wonderful people we are blessed to share this life with, and feel we may never be able to truly express our gratitude for the love we have been shown.  You have covered us with countless "Thank you, Jesus" moments.  We are so thankful!

To our parents, siblings, and friends, the Doolittles, who have shown us the true meaning of Romans 12:15, “rejoice with those who rejoice, mourn with those who mourn,” thank you.  We will never forget the time you have sacrificed to be right by our side.  We love each of you.

To Dr. Cline and the staff at both Athens OB/GYN and St. Marys, we thank God for your wisdom, your talents, and your service.  Thank you for taking such great care of our unborn child and us.  You will always hold a special place in our hearts.

To our sweet Baby B, we love you and miss you!  Not a minute goes by that you don’t fill our thoughts.  Although our time with you here was much too short, we find comfort in knowing that you are the most glorious place.  We’ll be seeing you!

To our Heavenly Father, we know you have never left our side, nor will you ever.  Though we have felt immense pain, been angry, pleaded with you and questioned your plan, you have still loved us.  You forgive us.  You sacrificed your only son for the forgiveness of our sins.  Please help us to trust your will and “ lean not on our own understanding, but it all our ways acknowledge you to direct our paths” (Proverbs 3:6). 

One of my students’ mothers shared this beautiful prayer with me:

Lord, life can be hard, we are so fragile...all of us one breathe away from eternity.  We forget until tragedy comes and we are reminded how we are all like flowers of the field.  And yet you love us, you value us.  You gave your life for us, but you also allow us to be broken.  How do we make sense of that?  Where is the beauty in the shattered pieces?  We want you to make something lovely of our lives, but more often, it is more like a mosaic beauty out of a million broken pieces than the flawless work of art we imagine.  So help us Lord.  Give us strength in our brokenness.  Let us say with Job "though he slay me, yet will I trust him.”  Is there a harder prayer to pray?  I do not know one.  Come to us, take our pieces, use them for your purposes until we see, as you do, the beauty in the brokenness.

Amen. 

Some have asked for specific prayer requests:
1. For our strength and healing in the days, weeks, and months to come.  For peace, especially as we return to some sort of normalcy and embark upon our futures.  That we will continue to seek Him and trust His plan.

2. For restored health.  The emotional journey has been much more difficult to endure than the physical pain I’ve experienced.  I will go every week for blood work until my hCG level reaches zero.  The lowering hCG level will be a sign of a successful surgery and the passing of any remaining tissue.  This afternoon is my first post-surgery appointment at Athens OB/GYN.  In another week and a half, Dr. Cline will do an ultrasound.  She will closely monitor my right ovary and guide us.

He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” -2 Corinthians 12:9

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.  And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.  And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus. 
–Philippians 4:6-7, 19

Blessings.

In Him,

Sarah