My husband and I were married almost eight years before we had our first child.

I was never the little girl who dreamed of a wedding or the names of my future children. Also, as an adult, I was aware of the patterns of child loss within both of our family systems. It took a long time to surrender my body, mind and soul to carrying and birthing a child.

My first pregnancy was “normal.” However, the birthing process was long, and our daughter was sent to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) after her birth due to an unexpected and unexplainable respiratory issue. Following eight days of excellent medical care and antibiotics, we took her home.

Months after our daughter’s birth, it was evident I was struggling with postpartum depression, and I began a long therapy journey that included a diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD.) This was something I thought only soldiers and first responders could experience.

Over time, I discovered some of my PTSD triggers, including the sterile scent of the NICU, the sound of the beeping medical monitor, the pulse-oxygen number dropping below 98 on the screen, or the beep of an elevator like the one at the hospital. Any of these could return me immediately to the uncertainty, hopelessness and fear of our days in the NICU.   

It was five years before we were ready to try for a second child. I knew I was pregnant the weekend I graduated with my Ph.D. It was an exciting, celebratory time.

Because I was 35 and considered a “geriatric pregnancy,” I was able to visit the OBGYN at the eighth week for an initial ultrasound. During the check-up, I could tell by the faces of my nurse and doctor that something was off. The doctor gave me a hopeful but anxiety-producing talk that it was too early to tell, but the heartbeat was a little off.

Because it was still early, my doctor encouraged me to come back in four weeks to do another check-up and ultrasound.

The weeks of waiting were horrible, mentally and physically. I monitored every physical change in my body. I cried many times a day, all in secret, because we women do not talk about these things enough.

My husband and I had a planned vacation with our daughter during this time. We went, knowing not going wouldn’t change anything.

While waiting for the river ferry boat to pick us, I began to feel cramping like I had never felt before in my stomach. I leaned over in pain and tears, knowing what the pain was. 

I was losing the growing child within me. Of course, there was no way to tell until I returned to the doctor.

When my husband and I returned to the doctor, I knew what news we would receive, but I remained hopeful. After my examination and a thorough ultrasound, the doctor confirmed our worst fears— no growth and no heartbeat.

We were invited to the doctor’s office after the examination to discuss our options. Our doctor was compassionate, kind, and thorough in explaining our options. 

She answered our numerous questions. After a lengthy discussion, she left my husband and me alone to discuss our options.  

I was torn between two choices. I could wait and give my body time to miscarry naturally, or I could schedule a dilation and curettage procedure (D&C).

According to Johns Hopkins, “A suction D&C may be used following a miscarriage to remove the fetus and other tissues if they have not all been naturally passed. Infection or heavy bleeding can occur if these tissues are not completely removed.”

The first choice seemed the most natural physically, but risky mentally and psychologically. I was not sure I could stand waiting and experiencing the physical loss while going about my everyday life. 

Also, I was a youth and children’s minister at the time, and the youth were scheduled to go to youth camp the following week. The thought of miscarrying while at camp was a lot to carry.  

The second choice seemed invasive physically, but more mentally and psychologically safe. Of course, thoughts of money entered my mind. 

This second choice was more expensive and there would be mental and psychological consequences either way, so I questioned whether I should just go through the trouble of a medical procedure.  

Since the cramping at the ferry ramp, I had mentally run through these possibilities. My husband and I discussed different options to prepare us for the doctor’s visit. However, sitting in the doctor’s office, knowing the reality of the situation, the choice had to be made.

My husband was patient, strong, rational and compassionate. He knew that while we wanted to make the decision together as a married couple, ultimately, it was my body, my health at risk, and my choice.

I chose to schedule the D&C.

We worked with the doctor to schedule the procedure as soon as possible, which ended up being the next afternoon, following a scheduled funeral at our church. That day was a rollercoaster of peace, fear and sadness.

On the day of the procedure, the doctor and medical professionals were fantastic. They knew how difficult my situation was and treated me with compassion and respect.

One of my former youth group members worked in the outpatient surgical unit. My husband had contacted him the day before to make sure he would not be scheduled for my surgery. 

We shared a lot through our ministry together, but his being in the operating room seemed too much. That day, as they prepared me for surgery, he stopped by to check on me before and after the procedure. It was a beautiful expression of care.    

The next few days were a blur of rest, recovery and preparation for camp. God’s presence, our family and the few friends we had shared the experience with helped hold us together. The months following the miscarriage were some of the most difficult of my life.  

In the face of a horrible and hopeless situation, my doctor giving me a choice about how to physically miscarry the death inside me was a gift. In the depth of my despair, I felt worthy of choosing how to physically and mentally process my sadness and grief.     

I have never regretted my choice. During and following my miscarriage, I have remained thankful for the choice.

As a person of faith, I have also been thankful. I am grateful for the choice to follow Christ, freedom of thought and practice, and the liberation of Christ’s love. 

Christ is a choice, one I make over and over again. As a faithful believer in Christ, choice is a foundation of my faith, a foundation applied to many pieces of a life of faith.