This I didn’t expect. I didn’t expect a miscarriage. If I were to worry about that, it would have been for the first pregnancy, or at the very least, for the first trimester. But a second trimester miscarriage never crossed my mind.
Yesterday I planned to go for a long walk when I got out of bed. I realized that I was ready for the exercise now that the nausea was over. (And what a miracle that the nausea was completely over without any remnant – this had never happened before in any of my pregnancies). But when I got ready to go, I was surprised to discover that I was bleeding some. This had never happened in any of my pregnancies either.
I began to think about how I would manage my life if I were put on bed-rest. I would have to hire someone to fetch the kids from school and to help in the evenings. I would probably be able to read a lot of blogs for once. I thought these kinds of things, but the thought that my baby was no longer with me never once crossed my mind.
(If you’re squeamish or expecting, there’s no point in reading anymore. But I need to write it.)
We dropped the kids off at my brother-in law’s who lives close to the hospital where we’re registered. We waited for a reasonable amount of time in the Maternity ER before being called in. And after having all the questions asked, the routine exams performed, the reassurance that the cervix was nice and tight (except for the blood), we went for the sonogram.
This delightful, active baby who was sucking his thumb and dancing up a storm just a couple of weeks ago was perfectly still. She couldn’t see any cardiac activity. I asked her to check the heartbeat with the sound system and there was just a roar. Nothing.
I still couldn’t believe it. I thought maybe the heart rhythm was hidden as it sometimes happens, but she said at 15 weeks, the baby is too big for that to be the case. Still she called in another doctor who confirmed it. The pregnancy had ended.
She started to go through what would have to be done – a D&C under general anaesthesia on Wednesday morning. A day operation where they would remove everything since it was unlikely at this late stage that my body would do this by itself.
We picked the kids up and told them the news at my brother-in-law’s. Young Knight cried from the news and from seeing his mother cry. Young Lady chattered on and on, rapidly trying to process things, “So did you really cry? With tears?”
Petit Prince chased the cat.
We went home and I sat on the couch with this oppressed feeling in my chest. I tried to process the emptiness that wouldn’t be filled with a soft downy head, a tiny baby in my arms, a fourth child that just seemed to complete this family. I always thought that having four kids was ideal (in spite of my fears and my complaining). I had no idea how to fill this emptiness. I kept waiting for the phone to ring and the hospital to tell us that the ultrasound equipment was, in fact, not functioning properly and that I should come in to double check.
The midwife didn’t think there was much risk of my having a miscarriage on my own, which is why an operation in two days’ time was proposed.
But that night when I woke up at nearly one o’clock with cramps that kept me awake for two hours, I began to think that perhaps I would have to call them in the morning and tell them that I wouldn’t be able to wait another whole day. I put on normal-sized protection, despite the fact that there wasn’t really much bleeding, and went back to bed.
And then at 3:00 I felt it, the first warm rush of blood. I woke Sir up and said we would have to go to the hospital because I was bleeding. I got up, leaving a trail on the floor all the way to the bathroom. And after standing indecisively for a moment, Sir directed me into the shower. That’s where I felt the first mass being expulsed.
I had no choice but to pull on it and when it fell to the floor – when he fell to the floor – I saw that it was my baby. I saw his little grey back and tiny butt and his absolutely tiny foot sticking out from the rest of the matter. I asked Sir to get me a bag so I could bring it with me to the hospital.
Then I felt another mass start to exit, accompanied by a stream of blood. When the room went white, I got down on my hands and knees and put my head against the cool floor. I added this to the bag.
I put some heavy protection and some sweat pants on and had Sir wake the children while I lay down. We had no choice but to take them with us and this was not going to be easy. Surprisingly they were full of courage and in a good mood. Sir dressed them and brought them out in the cold and dark and put them in the car.
I got up as well and felt more matter leaving me so I went back into the bathroom shower, which is where Sir found me when he came back in. I didn’t know how I was going to make it to the car, or all the way to the hospital for that matter; but I couldn’t leave those kids sitting out there in the cold and dark so I cleaned up the best I could and changed my clothes again.
We had decided not to call the firemen (what the French do instead of calling an ambulance) because they would take me to the nearest hospital, which is not the one that had my dossier. I wanted to go where people knew of my situation, where they had discovered the problem and had planned to operate. This hospital was a half hour away.
I was a little faint so I stretched the seat back, which felt better, and then felt more material come out when we started on our way. There was nothing I could do about it. We drove to the sound of Young Lady’s chatter and the Young Knight’s questions.
When we finally arrived, Sir parked us in the ER area, where they brought a wheelchair and accompanied us down to the Maternity ER. They saw me right away, which was fortunate. For once, the waiting room was empty.
Sir and the kids stayed in the waiting room while I had to strip and climb up on the same uncomfortable half-table that I had been on earlier. It was a mess. The midwife was pushing on my legs saying, “Relax! Relax! If you keep closing up, I’m not going to be able to stop the bleeding.”
I yelled back at her saying, “If you want me to relax, stop yelling at me!” I didn’t understand why she couldn’t go more slowly and stop jabbing things into me. (Later on, amidst the nurse describing to a second midwife the blood that was everywhere, she came to check on me. She was very gentle and said that I had hemmorhaged. That’s when I realized she had probably been as stressed as I was at the time).
She finally saw that the placenta was still partially attached, thus the continual flow of blood so she said she had to remove it. She was ordering the somewhat harried nurse to give her better light, get her pinchers that weren’t plastic but had some grip to them, etc.
And then I had to cough while she pulled at the placenta. This was oh-so uncomfortable and I began to miss the general anaesthesia I was supposed to have had. It went on for a session of about 10 minutes of coughing and resting before the speculum came out and she stated that she believed she had gotten it all. When they did an ultrasound, she said there were still clots but she thought the body would take care of that by itself.
We got me cleaned up and on a proper stretcher out in the hallway. They weren’t going to bring me to a room and couldn’t leave me in the admissions area, yet I still needed to be under their surveillance.
My cheeks had lost every trace of blood in them and I was nauseous and hot. Everything looked white. As she was putting the IV in, I closed my eyes gratefully until she slapped my arm to wake me, “Stay with me here!
After about 10-15 minutes of receiving this glucose solution (plus another medication to bring me back to life), I started to feel like a new person. I was freezing so I asked her to bring me something warmer than a sheet. The corridor was drafty. She was huffing and puffing as she cleaned the room and bagged all my stuff. I would need Sir (who had been released with the kids as soon as the danger was over) to bring me some new clothes.
So I slept in the corridor, grateful for my blanket. It was about five am. I was to stay there until 9 so they could survey the bleeding and decide whether or not I would still need surgery. Sir would bring the kids home to sleep and then take them to Centre for the day so we could have some time to handle all this. The kids were troopers, even on little sleep.
At seven, the moms started coming in – the ones in labor, the ones who thought they were in labor, the ones who were scheduled to be induced or have C-sections today. I remember. That was me at one time.
I heard the panting and labored breathing, the excited fathers, the galloping heart rates as they monitored the babies, even an infant’s loud angry cry at about nine.
I lay there as they walked by and mostly ignored me.
Somehow I wasn’t as upset as I would expect to be. I realized that everything had happened exactly the way I would prefer if I must go through this trial. Part of what had oppressed me yesterday was the invasion, the thought of going in after my baby and vacuuming him out limb by limb. They wouldn’t even be able to tell me if it was a boy or girl, so how could I find a name? I wanted to ask for them to check the heart rate one last time before they operated, but wasn’t sure they would do it. I wasn’t sure I would have the courage to ask either.
But this way, I felt like my baby made his own choice. I know, it doesn’t sound like a very reasonable thing to say. I felt like he was telling me, “I’m done mom. I’m going. You can let go too.” Even though my baby’s body ended up in the garbage with everything else, it didn’t pain me as much as it would have to go in after him. I had more closure this way. (A day after writing this, I have to add that I regret not seeing the baby’s face. I regret not asking for the body to take him home and bury him, if you can do that sort of thing. I wish I had had the presence of mind).
I’m still processing. Obviously. When I’m tired I feel despair and know that I need to keep an eye on my depression. It’s not that I don’t want to feel sad, it’s that when I’m depressed I don’t feel anything at all. And that’s dangerous.
I also feel like I ended my “career” as a bringer of life on a failed note. If I had miscarried and then went on to successfully bring a baby to term later on, it would not end in, what feels like, failure. But we hadn’t planned this pregnancy, and at my age, it would be completely unreasonable to try again. So this is the end of my career as a pregnant woman.
I can try to gather all the positive thoughts, like how I still have my three children, and that is no small gift. I can think about how we can go back to the plans we had before – to start doing activities that we can only do with children who are getting older. I can think about myself and what I want for my own life.
But truthfully, it pales next to a downy head, tiny fingers, sweet soft breath, a new life in the family. So I don’t know what to do with this emptiness.
Sir is handling it all well. He had less connection with the baby, as fathers often do (until the baby is born). He’s just glad I’m okay.
Then again, as he was driving home with the kids at 4 in the morning, he took the ramp to exit the hospital and thought, “man – these speed bumps are a bit excessive!” As the car went bumpity-bump, clatter-bang over them.
Then he realized he was driving his minivan down the stairs instead of the ramp.
He wasn’t able to back up either. He finally gunned it and the car went bumpity-bump-clatter-bang all the way back to the top. The kids were terrified (as was he), but as soon as he made it back up, Sir exclaimed, “Quel idiot!” What an idiot I am!
This made all the kids laugh and cry out. “Quel idiot Papa! Quel idiot!” So the little escapade ended on a light note.
As you can see, Sir is doing just fine with everything.
This morning as I was about to leave the hospital, I passed what I think was the last of the scary blood clots as soon as I stood up. Now I’m home lying on the couch feeling (physically) relatively well. I just have to watch for dizziness and take all the medicine and iron they gave me. But I don’t know when the emptiness will catch me unaware again, or how to fill it when it does.
As we were wrapping things up, I asked the midwife if she would look at the baby and tell me whether or not it was a boy or girl.
You’ve probably already guessed that it was a boy. His name is Alistair.
Jennie. I am bawling for you. I have no words. Please know that my thoughts and prayers and hugs are traveling across the water to you now.
And I have to admit, the part about Sir and the stairs – made me guffaw through the tears.
But the tears remain.
Missy, thank you for reading all the way through. I know it was not easy. I’m glad you laughed too – that’s how I’m feeling, laughing and tears and every other emotion in there.
You and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.
Thank you Jessica.
Rest well, Little Alistair.
Lady Jennie, you and your family are in my thoughts.
Jennie, I found your post through a friend on Twitter.
I am a mother of two girls, 4 and 2, and I don’t know what to say, but I felt compelled to say something. My heart breaks for you. Tears fell from my eyes as I felt a minute fraction of your pain through your written words. You are in my thoughts as you endure the pain of losing your little Alistair. (I am so glad you could at least name him.) I hope that one day you know that you did not end your “career” with failure. Your career continues. Like all other great careers, advancing takes place…and that’s just what will happen as your beautiful children grow older. My prayers are with you, your husband, your children, and your little angel.
Melissa, thank you for leaving a comment and giving me support. Hugs.
Jennie, i’m so sorry that this happened. We will definitely pray for you guys. i’m so sad about this. I know you will see Alistair one day in a better place.
I am so sorry. 🙁 Thinking about you. xo
Jennie –
My heart goes out to you & your family. I don’t have adequate words… YOUR words brought tears to my eyes. Such a loss. You are strong & have the love & support of your beautiful family, and Alistair will never be forgotten. Wish I could give you a big hug…in lieu of that, sending prayers & love. xoxo
Oh Jennie, I am so sorry you have joined this empty arms club. Just reading your post makes me ache for the two I miscarried as well. I am so sorry for your loss and grieve with you as only one who has experienced it can. My love to you and Sir, as it touches him deeper than you realize-he puts on a strong brave face for you because you need him too-he is such a fine man. I found out much later my husband and father had shared a very broken moment far away from my knowing. My sister planted a beautiful flowering tree to honor her lost child. We leave our Christmas tree up until Kings Day, with a tiny pair of lacey socks hung on it, as I lost my last on Kings Day. You will find a way to honor and celebrate little Alister’s life…because he was a life…in a way that is right for you. Love to you and your family.
Kris, this really helped both of us. My husband and I both want to plant a tree for Alistair. I don’t think we would have thought of that ourselves, but we don’t want him to be forgotten.
Jennie, no one knows the pain of a loss of a baby unless they’ve been there. Unfortunately many of us have. I am so sorry for your loss. Ithat’s ray that you find peace and joy once again.
Tonia, I’m so glad you had your happy ending. 🙂
We are so sorry Jenny, we love you very much! We are praying for you and your family. We miss you very much!
Jenny,
I am so sorry that you are going through this. I have no words of wisdom that would matter. I am sure you have heard all the reasons for why these things happen. I know it doesn’t change how you feel. It just takes time. And then some more time. I send you love in sigma and just because I love you. You could never be a failure, never. I had that feeling when Hayden was born with downs. I screwed it up, even though he was number 5, I thought I needed one more chance to prove I could do it right. Oh coarse, that was crazy as my hand were completely full already. But after some time, months actually, I realized that it happens, it can happen to anyone and that I wasn’t a failure. You will feel better, let yourself grieve.
~Laina
This helps, to know that you felt the same way and that you were eventually able to push past it. Love you.
Oh Jennie,
I am so sorry this has happened to you and your family. My heart goes out to you. I am glad you are okay, but I cannot imagine the pain you feel. I wish I could say something to take it away.
I love you.
So, so sorry. For whatever reason this wasn’t meant to be. Don’t think for a moment that you have failed. You had no control over this. Take your time and mourn the loss of Alistair. When you are ready rejoice in your three other beautiful children. Thinking of you.
Beautiful, sweet Jennie- thank you for sharing your story- as horrific and painful as it is. I am praying for your heart and for your family. I know there are no real words that can lessen your pain, but know that you are being held in prayer by many old and new friends. You are not a failure, and your career as a mother will never be over.
Hugs- Laurie
I am so sorry for your loss. My thoughts and prayers are with your family.
Darling Jennie, I am so sorry for you. Another dear friend of mine (40-something) just lost a baby in the second trimester. I have prayed for you and Alistair as you struggled through the first trimester sickness. I was so happy you had made it through the toughest part and could just grow and wait for Alistair’s big day. I know you loved him every second he was so near your heart.
You have had a lot of heart break. I will be praying for peace and for God to hold you in the shadow of his “wing.” Thank you, once again, for courageously sharing your heart and your life. I love you. I am praying strength, peace and serenity for you.
I’m so very sorry. I hope you and your family find moments of peace and rest during such a sad time. Hugs to you.
I am so sorry Jennie. I will be thinking of you and your family and Alistair. And then trying to think of Sir & the stairs and hoping there is more laughter for you each day.
Oh Jennie – I’m so sorry. Sending you lots of love and healing thoughts.
Jennie, I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m crying for you now as I know how much you wanted this baby, planned or not. Know that I’m thinking of you and your angel, Alistair.
Alison, I thought of you and wanted to protect you from this harsh post in the state that you’re in. I’m still with you in heart and sending you well wishes for your baby.
My dearest friend, words cannot express how sorry I am for the loss of your beloved Alistair, and for the pain and suffering you are having to endure. Heaven has another angel tonight, and I pray for your recovery (both physically and emotionally) and for peace in your days. Much love, my friend.
Oh Jennie, I am so sorry for your loss. But I thank you for sharing all you went through. I know it is therapeutic for you, but it also helps others. My daughter’s Girl Scout leader also just last week miscarried a “surprise” baby in her 2nd trimester (her older kids are 7 and 9 and had just learned of their new sibling to be). I couldn’t imagine what she must be going through… the gamut of emotions from adjusting to the surprise, acceptance and anticipation, and then the finality of the loss at an age where you just aren’t going to be going there again. Thank you for sharing, and I will be praying for you to find peace, a way to honor Alistair, and that something wonderful in life will fill the emptiness. You are all in my thoughts.
Thank you for your prayers Heidi.
Oh, Jennie. I am so sorry for your loss. I suffered 2 miscarriages in a row but neither of them were as far along as you were.
I don’t think that there is much I can say to make you feel better about the situation. But know that you and your family will be in my thoughts and prayers.
Hugs to you.
Jennie –
Love to you. I also know the sadness of the missing heartbeat at the Dr.’s office during the Christmas season and I always remember my little lost one when the holiday music plays at the beginning of the season and the darkness comes early. I’m sorry and thinking of you. I think your knowing that your career as a mom wasn’t supposed to end like this means that a different finale is waiting. Maybe not a birthed child. Maybe someone you will mentor. Maybe a book you will write. Maybe a new hobby you will discover. Maybe an animal you will save. xox Rachel
Rachel I’m so so glad that you have the happy ending my friend.
Jennie, I am so sorry for your loss. I am sending you love and prayers for you and your family. I wish I could say something better, but I am at a loss. Bless Alistair and bless your family.
Oh my heart, Jennie. So very much love to you.
(I’m so sorry, I’m glad that you wrote, Oh my the stairs!)
xo
Jennie, I am so sorry you went through everything. I will be praying for you. You have an awesome husband and children that seem so supportive. Je t’aime!
You and your family are in my thoughts. I’m sorry for such a brief reply to such a heart wrenching post, but I have no words to express how truly sorry I am for your loss.
Oh, sweetheart. I’m crying. I’m so sorry, so sorry. Sweet Alistair. I love you, honey.
My eyes are filled with tears. I’m so sorry you had to go through a miscarriage. I’m glad though that you had some peace with how it was carried out. I miscarried my 3rd child, I empathize with you. I’ll keep you and your family in my prayers. ((Hugs))
Dear Jennie,
My heart breaks for you and your family. Sweet Alistair will be with you again one day; however, you are so fortunate to have left the hospital to be with Sir and your other beautiful children. I was so scared for you when I read through your blog…. Thank you for sharing your story. Love and hugs to you, dear friend.
Heather, thank you for reminding me. I am grateful to be alive for my family.
Thank you for praying for us.
Dear sweet cousin,
Although my three year journey through fertility treatment has not resulted in any pregnancies, I think often of my “stolen children”, the one that would be crawling now, or learning to talk. I never got to know any of them, or feel them move the way you did with Alistair, yet still it feels like a death, like a loss. The emptiness threatens to overtake me, too. I’m glad you had the time with Alistair that you did, and you and your beloved family will be in my prayers through the coming weeks and months as you grieve. Thank you for having the courage to share this. Please know that you are loved.
Ellie, I did think you of you during this ordeal and I do pray for you all the time. I love you.
My heart is breaking. Wrapping my arms around you and squeezing tight. We love you so much. You’ll get to see that sweet little boy one day when you get to heaven. How special though that you got to have these last few months with him. Love you much.
I am so sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing your story. I too have three children, grown now, and had two miscarriages. It is sad and seems unreal at times. Nature and faith teach us that in life we have joys and sorrows. The loss of any life always makes us appreciate the fragility of life itself, and the chance to love all that touch us no matter how brief our time together.
May you and your family be comforted by the love you share.
I am so very sorry.
SO VERY SORRY.
I feel helpless, I wish I could bring you warm bread and warmer hugs.
I am so sorry.
I will pray prayers of gratefulness. I remember a woman from years ago that had a stroke from hemorrhaging from a miscarriage, and is in a wheelchair to this day from her stroke.
She had 7 small children, and it was her 8th child she lost.
Her first boy of 7 girls.
I will pray for you.
And, peace, peace will help you heal.
MUCH LOVE TO YOU.
Jennie,
I cannot even really go there with you. You write so well that I did allow myself to walk next to you through the ordeal, to hold your hand, kiss your children, reassure your husband, but I can’t put myself in your shoes. It is too sad a place. I know you will work through it, I hope writing helps. I hope you are feeling physically better every day. I hope the pain in your heart lessens every day. I am so sorry for your loss. I am impressed by the bravery of you and your family. Much love,
Rachel
My dear Jennie,
I do wish that my tears would stop so that I can see to write, but they will not. I too grieve for you and your whole family as each in their own way come to understand what they have lost. I know you to be a mother who deeply loves and wants her children to feel love. Alistair knows that you, together, gave him life. He that was created cannot be “uncreated”. There is no failure; that word does not apply in this situation. But we who see through the glass darkly, right now, are sad beyond measure. We love your family dearly.
Oh Jennie,
We are all so fortunate that you are okay. I have been thinking of you all day. You are such a strong woman. Your strength when you forced yourself outside to make sure your kids weren’t frightened in the cold, dark night continues to resonate… I am so very sorry for your loss and hope you feel better soon. Much love and admiration, Heather
Jennie,
I am beside myself. However, It sounds to me as if Alistar had the same courage his mother has. Find comfort in that and that he will always be yours.
Love and prayers traveling your way from the cold North in America.
Dear Jennie,
I always look forward to your posts, your writing and photographs give me (and obviously many others) much pleasure. I am so sorry to read of your miscarriage and I send you hugs and wishes for a return to good health. Although I know you through your blogging I feel I can say you are a not a failure in any way! Thank you for your courage in sharing with all of us.
I am so sorry about the loss of your Alistair. God bless and comfort your family.
I am so sorry to read this. I know it was hard for you to adjust to becoming a mother again and now to have to adjust to the loss. I can only imagine how tough it must be for you. My thoughts are with you and your family.
I love you dearly……I wish i could be there for you to hold you and pamper you and take care of you…and rub your feet…..but I do know that God is with you and holding you ….and rubbing your feet….you have my heart
I’m sorry for your loss. Sweet Alistair. Prayers and hugs to you!
Sending my prayers to you. I am so very sorry to hear of this sad news.
Jennie, I am so, so sorry to read this. I don’t know if you remember but I posted for the first time on your blog a few weeks ago and told you that I was in a similar situation as you (an expat unexpectedly pregnant and very nauseated!). Sadly, like you, I miscarried. I waited three weeks after finding out there was no heartbeat for the miscarriage to start on its own and when it didn’t, I had a D&C. I don’t know if there is a better way to lose a baby, naturally or surgically; either way it is awful. Reading your post was absolutely eerie because you articulated perfectly so many of my feelings: clinging desperately to the hope that the ultrasound equipment had malfunctioned, not wanting to end my career as a pregnant woman as a failure, mourning the image of the family that could’ve been while still feeling grateful for the family that I have. I too am trying to find positives in this, but it’s hard. Thank you for having the courage to share this in such detail. Please know that I am thinking of you and hoping you find comfort and healing very soon.
Jennifer, I am late in replying to this, but you have been on my mind. Sending you hugs and warm thoughts as you also go through this.
Oh my. Jennie.
I have been away from the computer intentionally for days to spend time with my family.
And now.
Well, now I do not have the right words.
I do not.
So I hope you can feel my love across the miles. And time.
All my love to you and your beautiful family.
To Alistair.
Much love.
oh Jennie – sending you hearts and violets …… i know exactly how you are feeling – i miscarried at 7 months and it was heart breaking but know that you are loved by Sir, the kids and your friends and SK sisters….love to you
So powerfully written, thank you for sharing this story.
Jenny, you are in my thoughts and prayers.
Love you!
Meg
Jennie, I am weeping. I just read this and I am so sorry.
Such a heartbreak….. So sad .
I hope you feel better soon.
My thoughts and prayers are with you.
Oh Jennie-lou. Welcome to the club for which no one wants to be invited. My heart breaks for you and your hurt. Unfortunately as you know I can relate all too well, and too many times. I love the idea of planting a tree or a garden in his memory. One that you can visit when happy as well as when sad, take pictures and think of what may have been. I never thought to ask what sex our babies would have been, I was too sad and Tim was always too worried about me. I am glad that you have that, atleast. You are surrounded by people who love you and most importantly who need you. Take care of yourself. Love your family. Cherish the babies you have. Hugs to you, my sweet!
Oh I know this is coming late, but I am SO sorry to hear this happened to you. I don’t know what to say beyond that, there are no words, I hope that you and your family eventually recover and that you have time to mourn your Alistair. My thoughts are with you.
The tears are caught in my throat as I read about your terrible news. It is so courageous of you to share this experience. I imagine how you must have felt in that room alone with the harried nurse.
I believe that you now have a small angel on your shoulder, named Alistair. I will be thinking of you and your family and sending you my very best wishes.
I’m so sorry for you, Sir,and the big brothers and sister.
Wish you and your family happy and joyful new year.
Rest in peace Alistair. Beautiful name anyway.
Jenny, this is Lauren Schexnider from NYC. Sally told me of your very sad loss. Please know that you and your family are in my prayers and have been. Only today was I able to read your blog. Your honesty and bravery are commendable. Alistair was a lucky little boy to have such loving parents and to be wanted to eagerly. I wish you and your family peace and good health in the new year. I will continue to pray for your strength and recovery.
Oh my. I am SO SO sorry to read this. I wish I had some words of comfort but I can fathom what you are going through right now. I hope that writing this post made you feel even the tiniest bit better.
Alistair is a lovely, classy name.
Sorry I was so close to you in Paris and had no idea what you were going through – not that I could do anything but still…
I’m thinking of you Jennie.
Jennie, all my love for you and your family and Alistair. I am so sorry that you lost him. I am so glad you had the strength to write out the story and let us reach out to you and share your grief. I know you have to move through all the grieving on your own and with your gorgeous family, but I’ve lost a baby and I’m here if you ever want to talk. You will be in my thoughts.
Jennie, thank you for letting us into your pain so we can be here for you. Precious, precious Alistair.
oh, I am so, so sorry. You’re in my thoughts. xo
Oh, Jennie. Oh, Jennie. Oh, Jennie. Oh, oh, oh. I can’t think of anything else to write, except that I wish I could give you a big American-mama-style hug and make it all better. Wishing you peace, somehow.
We were all so excited for you and your family. Now our hearts are saddened with you. This was so difficult to share. oooooxxxxx
I write this with tears running down my face. I don’t have the words that can console you, Jennie, but just know that I’m so very sorry for your loss. I also want you to know that I think you’re incredibly brave.
Rest in peace, Alistair.
Oh dear oh dear. A miscarriage is always awful, but yours sounds particularly horrifying (except for that stairs bit). You DO now have your own personal angel, but … that’s not always enough. I hope lots of people are taking care of you and that you’re letting yourself be taken care of…. I send e-hugs.
First, I am so very sorry. Miscarriage is awful. Oh, that emptiness. Oh. Sending you big big hugs. Hot baths, chocolate, quiet moments. And love.
Your story reminds me of my Granny’s. She had a late term miscarriage in her fourth pregnancy. But she was on an island, with no hospital. The only car that could take her laying down was a hearse. So, she rode in the hearse to the ferry, to the mainland, to the hospital, where they saved her life. She always told her story with a mix of sadness and laughter.
When I miscarried, friends held my hand. Being surrounded with wonderful women who understood helped.
And I’ll be honest, when I see a baby who was born when I would have had my lost one, sometimes I get caught. But, it’s getting easier.
I have no words. No good ones, anyway. I’m so very sorry for your loss—but I’m gladder than I can say that you are okay.
I am so sorry for your loss. I couldn’t stop the flow of tears for a mom and baby I don’t even know, but the heartbreak I know only too well as we had a miscarriage too. Squeeze your 3 precious little ones tight. You are in my thoughts and prayers today.
Oh sweet Jennie…tears are streaming down my face. Sending love, hugs and prayers across the miles to you and your family.
Oh, I am so so sorry. i am crying for you as I type this. I do share your pain and I know it hurts so very much. I will be lifting you up in prayer.
I am so sorry for the loss of your precious son. Please take care of yourself.
Praying for you. You are a very strong woman. Thank you for sharing your very difficult story. My heart breaks for you.
I read and cried over this post while at my parents over the holidays. I was reading on my phone, which makes it difficult to leave comments of any substance, but please know that you and your family have been in my thoughts and prayers ever since. God is surely cradling Alistair in the palm of His hand.
Cher Jennie,
jéspere que tu puisse rencontre de la paix en ce moment…Tu es vraiment une superbe maman. Je prierais pour toi et ta famille!
jennnnnnnie,
I just heard about your loss tonight from Betsy. I’m sorry I haven’t been following your blog since you moved over from the perfect welcome. I wish I could be there with you. I hope you have support there and you are welcome to my house anytime. I can hear your voice as I read your words. Your every intonation. You are in my thoughts and prayers. love you
I am crying as I read your words, as you describe your tiny, perfect baby. Such a loss should not have to be borne, it is too great. I am so glad that little Alistair got to say goodbye on his own terms. What a lucky guy, to get to be a part of your family. What a strong, loving, capable mama. I wish for you the comfort of the ages as you wait for the pain and grief to turn into the background of your everyday, rather than overwhelming you as it does now. Loving thoughts are being sent your way.
I am so sorry for you!! I too lost a baby at home it is a horrendous experience and the bit in the hospital sounds so like my experience. I felt so empty for this much longed for baby. However the expected birth date came and went, but by now I was expecting my precious boy who is now 18 years old. I wasn’t to have any more beautiful babies but my sweet lovely Toby has made up for the one lost and the one’s I never had.
I hope you feel better now.
Regards
Julia
Thank you for your kindness in writing Julia.