Towards the end of January, I suspected I might be pregnant. Our children are all almost perfectly two years apart, and by number three, I had begun openly jesting with others that we were on a two year plan. You'd think by now I'd have learned my lesson, that the best way to prove you have no control is to publicly make known your plans. God molds us well with humiliation. In order to be on that perfect two year plan, I should have been pregnant by October or November. The end of January was a little late for my liking, but the due date was within days of our tenth wedding anniversary, so I was tickled by God's timing.
Within two days of the positive pregnancy test, I knew I had problems. I can leave it at that to spare details and to save time. But the entire miscarriage was not quick. It took multiple rounds of blood tests and ultrasounds. It ended over a month from the first positive test. In that time, my prayers changed from praying for the baby to be healthy and well to just praying for the baby to pass naturally, as my OB presented me with the option of medication-assisted termination, or surgical D&C. I shuddered at both, from a moral position and a health position. I knew the same medication I'd be given is the same given to women who seek to terminate healthy babies. I knew a D&C is the same procedure used for surgical abortions. No matter how morally permissible it was for me to receive these treatments, I knew I'd be thinking about all of the healthy pregnancies ended this way, and how bitter I'd be through the process.
This one miscarriage most certainly changed my entire life. It changed how I view my children. Having largely gone through it alone, thanks to COVID and our family schedule, it changed how I process difficult situations and how I handle my emotions. Above all, it changed how I view pregnancy and fertility. I've always been able to objectively say that I believe fertility is a gift. That's the pro-life mantra, right? Fertility is a gift not to be abused. However this was easy to say intellectually, and yet still feel as though I could control my own. I went into that pregnancy having worked hard to avoid a new baby until my husband and I felt we were ready for another child. Then, conception took longer than expected, a reality that challenged me to lean on God and pray for His will - not mine - and take up the challenge to be truly thankful for the gift of the three children I had been granted. But only once we lost the baby entirely did I really begin to appreciate, with my whole heart, the miraculous gift that is fertility.
My midwife tried her best to comfort me with astounding statistics, to assure me that this was very common. (Sidenote - if a woman is grieving a miscarriage, stay away from trying to make her feelings seem "common.") She told me that, even if the timing is perfect, the chances of getting pregnant - that is, an egg actually being fertilized and becoming an embryo - is about 30%. From there, she regurgitated a recent study that found that only 10% of a healthy male's contribution is actually genetically viable. That means 90% of the little swimmers do not have enough genetic material to form a baby. So once fertilized (already only a 30% chance), the now-embryo can't develop properly, the body detects the problem, and the pregnancy results in miscarriage. After stating this, my secular and seemingly a-religious midwife blurted out, "really, it's just a miracle that anyone has a viable pregnancy at all!"
Admittedly, in my mathematical and scientific mind, the statistics did give me something to think about other than my loss. I'm not sure I would call it comfort, but it did make my head spin, thinking about how many healthy pregnancies are terminated in the name of convenience or fear or logistics, when it is nearly statistically impossible to even be viably pregnant in the first place. It made me righteously angry that my gut reaction was to balk at the medical procedures I might have needed to assist in completing a miscarriage, simply because their primary use these days has become abortions of healthy pregnancies. And in my loss, it made me think about just how precious my three children are - how statistically improbable their health and perfection is, and how God is still a God of miracles, simply through the creation of new life.
We named our baby Peter, a name that I had heard in prayer months prior. Neither my husband nor I loved the name Peter, but I felt convicted through my prayers that this is the name God wanted. Looking back, now I know why this conviction was so strong - this was God's baby to keep, not mine. He wanted this soul with Him, right from the beginning. This, also, has been a point for me to marvel. It has reminded me that not one of us is better than the next in the eyes of God. In fact, the bible points to us needing to value children (Mt 19:14) and our elders (Pr 20:29) simply for their existence. The beatitudes tell us that the meek, the poor, the sorrowful hold the keys to blessing and heavenly honor (Mt 5:3-12). My Peter never made it past an embryo, but, as my spiritual director told me, we believe that once a life has been conceived, so has a soul. And though he never breathed air, he is already ahead of me in heaven. He has already achieved the greatest achievement. It does not matter who is older, wiser, more experienced, better with words, neater, more organized. None of it matters. We are all just children in God's eyes, and in His heavenly kingdom, there are many younger than myself who have already found the perfect wisdom and happiness I long for everyday. I try to remember this when I argue with my children about bed time or struggle with them about doing schoolwork. I try to remember that just because I am older does not, by any means, suggest that I am holier. I thank God and the loss of Peter for that reminder.