I didn’t know I was pregnant. I lived with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. My body released an average of only 1 to 3 eggs per year, making the odds of having a baby on my own highly unlikely. My first baby was conceived with the help of fertility drugs together with a very patient doctor who lived in Michigan. I wasn’t taking any fertility drugs.
That night, me and my husband sang our made-up song to our little guy. We did every night before tucking him into his crib. “It’s time for our boy to go night-night…night-night, my boy.” A silly song really, but it was a bedtime tradition that he loved. The three of us sang as we scampered down the hall, hand in hand. We kissed our son’s rosy cheeks before quietly shutting the door behind us.
Crawling into my own bed, cramps gripped the core of my womb that night. Turning to look at my husband in the shadows of the desert moon, I remember telling him it felt like, “labor.” Pressure led me to the bathroom while I held the small of my aching belly, no bigger than ever before. My husband was asleep by then. Feeling the cool of Spanish clay tile under my bare feet, I saw imprints upon the floor when I sat down on a seat of porcelain white. In seconds, what would have been my baby slipped out. A small part of me, the size of the palm of my hand fell into my own.
I sat there for a minute or two, trying to register what had happened. It was late on a Friday night. Instinct told me nothing could be done. Uncontrollable tears fell from wet lashes upon my face. Flushing away flesh of my flesh, the only part of this ‘baby’ I would ever hold was gone forever…forever. I began to question God. What an unfair trick life played upon me. I wanted this baby that I had never known, this child who had been ripped from my womb. Why had He taken it from me? What had I done? Wiping bright red blood from beneath, I went back to bed where I cried myself to sleep.
Monday, the doctor examined me. I “expelled the entire fetus,” he said. Speaking softly, he reminded me that miscarriage was “a normal occurrence taking place in 1 out of 3 pregnancies.” In six weeks I could “try again.” He didn’t understand, I thought to myself. This doctor was a different man then the one I had in Michigan. He didn’t know how miraculous it was for me to get pregnant. I cried in his office. Reminding me that it was, “not my fault,” he estimated that I was about, “nine weeks along.” My baby was nine weeks old. I would have had a “Christmas”child. I cried again.
Weeks went by, returning life to normal. I’m a firm believer in fate, that God has a plan and that, “everything happens for a reason.” Five months later, I was pregnant again. If I would have carried my “Christmas” baby to term, my last child (the one I’ve raised and love so much) would never have been born. In my heart of hearts, the infant lost is on angel”s wings. He or She left my womb to make space for my second son’s seed to live and grow and thrive. The child who was meant to be born is here, taking his rightful place upon this earth.
The ‘little lamb’ never meant to be is in heaven, looking down from above as a, Guardian Angel….forever. My baby on angel’s wings.