How to Carry a Loss

The doctor moved the ultrasound wand back and forth without a sound. He stared intently at the screen. I was petrified. At last, he put down the wand and sighed.

“You may want to consider terminating the pregnancy,” he said. “It will save you a lot of heartache. Your child will probably die before it’s born. It will know nothing but pain. The choice is up to you.”

He left to get another doctor to confirm his findings.

We were about sixteen weeks along, and I had known for weeks that something wasn’t right. I prayed each day to be wrong.

I would love to say that an abortion was completely off the table. However, the way the doctor made it sound, we wondered if we were wrong to continue the pregnancy. I cried out to God to show us what to do.

A second doctor came into the room and agreed with the first doctor’s diagnosis. As my heart plunged in despair, he whispered, “Are you believers?”

He took us to a more private room and shared a personal story: he had lost a child. He let me know that there was no proof that my child was suffering. He then pulled out the Bible and showed me Romans 8:28:

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (NIV).

I was bewildered. How could my child’s death be good?

The doctor then shared with us that God’s plans are not our plans and that he believed my child’s life had a purpose.

He gave us his personal number and offered as many ultrasounds as we wanted so that we could start to get to know our baby now. He invited us over to his house, and we met his wife. They shared their story to give us a picture of the road ahead.

It was a chance encounter that prolonged our daughter’s life.

But I want to be honest here: [Tweet “Following God doesn’t mean things will be easy.”]

I was in my early twenties. It seemed everyone I knew was getting pregnant. I got to hear all about the nurseries, baby showers, and excitement as everyone rejoiced at the coming of their babies. I felt as if my child wasn’t as important.

I would love to say I was full of grace and peace during the pregnancy, even though I knew each day could be her last. I tried hard to maintain a positive attitude, but honestly, I was scared, angry, jealous, and melancholy.

Some people suggested that since we knew the outcome, it must have been easier to prepare for our daughter’s death. I want to shut down this lie, because there is no easy way to lose a child.

I have friends who had normal pregnancies and their babies were stillborn and friends who knew ahead of time that they would lose their children; all were equally devastated.

No pain, no loss is greater or lesser than another.

Some days I cried all day. Some days I tried to trick myself into believing that everything would be okay, just so I could enjoy her.

I loved being pregnant, and I was experiencing love in a way I never had before.

The day came when we had to go to the funeral home. I was still pregnant and showing. She was happily kicking around. I was sick with dread. I felt guilty for even discussing her death while she was still vibrantly alive inside me.

I kept my eyes on the eternal perspective that one day we would be reunited again, and she would know I did everything I could for her. My prayer to God was that if I couldn’t keep her, I would at least get to hold her alive.

At thirty-five weeks, on the first day of summer, our baby was born in the early hours of the morning. She let out two short, loud cries.

She was perfectly formed, with wavy locks of hair, and she fit beautifully in my arms. Her skin was as smooth as a rose petal. I was in love.

Our family came to see her. Everyone chattered as my husband proudly passed her around. I had never felt so whole in my life.

As she was brought to me, everyone  fell silent. The room seemed to take on a golden hue, as if dawn was breaking.

The angels had come to take her home.

Our little Aurora Skye had made her debut and celebrated her birthday in our arms, and then moved into the arms of God.

There are no words to describe what it is like to lose your child. It is a grief that will last all the days of our lives. I don’t need closure, because she is a part of me and my family then, now, and always.

I had always been a believer. But to be honest, at that time I wasn’t close to God. I loved him, but he wasn’t a priority. Aurora’s brief life opened the door for me to form a deeper relationship with God. While it’s been a process, I see now that her life and death were vital to the call of the Lord on my life.

She taught me to love with all my heart, even at the cost of having my heart broken.

She taught me to trust God, even when I can’t see.

She taught me that each life has a divine purpose, no matter how long it lasts.

2 Corinthians 2:4 (NLT) says, “He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.”

Because the doctor shared with us the story of his loss, he was able to help us see the beauty of God in Aurora’s short life.

Now it’s my turn to reach out to others. Grief and suffering is the hardest road I have ever walked, but it also has a sacred beauty that takes a while to bloom. God carries us through it all if we let him.

I am glad I was the one who was chosen to carry my Aurora.

I will carry you

While your heart beats here

long beyond the empty cradle

through the coming years

I will carry you

All my life

 And I will praise the One who’s chosen me

to carry you

 ~Angie Smith

Kelly Nickerson is a homeschooling mama with two beautiful kids under her wing and four dancing in heaven. She also lives with her amazing husband, who supports her like no other. Kelly is a firecracker prayer warrior who shares honestly about her brokenness, while praising and clinging to the God who sustains her. When she isn’t hunting down germs with disinfectant, you can find her writing of her adventures at kellynickerson.com.

Photograph © Kelly Nickerson, used with permission