Grief Upon Grief

Sunday, May 31, 2026: 8:03AM

She’s gone. I’m honestly in disbelief as I write this.

Another baby girl in Heaven- another devastating loss.
I had really hoped this time would be different.

Three days ago, I had some spotting that led me to reach out to my doctor and ask if I could have an ultrasound the next morning. I had had spotting in this pregnancy before, as I had a hematoma- all just like with Maggie. But I just had a feeling that something was wrong.

I shook off the feeling, hoping it was another wave of anxiety, and we piled in the car as a family to go see baby girl before we all parted ways for a busy day.

I laid down in the ultrasound room, excitedly chatting with the sonographer about the surprise we experienced finding out it was a girl, eager to see how she had grown this week.

It’s too familiar a feeling now- to see the change on the sonographer’s face. To see the baby laying there hauntingly still when she had once been wiggly and active. The eerie, haunting sound of silent fuzz when searching for a heartbeat that no longer exists.

My very insides broke as I whispered, “There’s no heartbeat, is there?”. Tears ran down the sonographer’s face- one who has been there for me through every ultrasound and blood draw- as she said, “I am so sorry” and wrapped me in a hug as I wept on her shoulder.

There was less shock this time. The bubble had already burst from the reality that this nightmare could happen just months before. We just skipped over the feeling of numbness and went straight to the agony. And we wept.

To have our kids there was so tragic, and yet a relief in some ways. This time, we didn’t have to come home to their smiling faces and watch their little hearts break all over again. They could tell something was wrong. So when we pulled them in for hugs and told them this baby sister, too, was no longer alive, we all grieved together.

My mother-in-law wonderfully came and picked up the kids so we could discuss options with the doctor. It’s the little things I have to thank God for in these moments. Jan is one of them.

The fact that the doctor was so compassionate was another. The little things they did to make us comfortable- leaving the lights dim, bringing me tissues, holding my hand- were such treasures.

But to have to sit there after my heart has been ripped out of my chest and make a decision about how I want to endure this trauma from here feels like absolute torture.

To pull out our calendars and decide the best day to lose my daughter for good feels so wrong. How can a calendar dictate any part of this when time itself has stood still? And yet it does.

And now I am in a waiting game because it is the weekend, and the surgical wing can’t fit me in on a Monday for a D&C. And so we wait and pray that my body can wait as well until it all falls into place.

Going to sleep holding my breath I don’t wake up with agonizing contractions, praying God will be merciful in this but knowing it is out of my control.

It’s all out of my control.

What is wrong with me?

What did I do wrong?
Is my body broken?
How could one not ask that after two losses in a row?

My mind wants answers, wants to make connections. I ate ice cream the night before I found out both babies were gone. Was that it?

Was it _____________?

Was it because I __________________?

I cannot stay there. And I know it’s not anything I did. Most of the time.

But I feel broken down.

This time, I went pretty much straight to angry tears and a sense of hopelessness over our future family planning.

Whereas immediately after losing Maggie, I knew I would brave this and try this road again, this time I feel done for good. I know that could change, but I can’t possibly imagine enduring any part of this again.

Why did you bless us with another pregnancy, Lord?

I know they’re in Heaven together, but that is my only comfort. And honestly, it doesn’t give me much peace. Certainly not any joy right now.

These past two months of pregnancy with this precious girl have been the most difficult months of my life. And to endure it, only to have the same end, feels like torture.

God, if You don’t plan for us to have more living children, please take this desire away. Because I can’t bear this.

Compound grief. That is what this is. We were still grieving one daughter, only to lose another in such a short time. It feels like a sad, tragic snowman that keeps adding mounds of snow to his stature. Piled on higher.

Losing Maggie felt like the wind knocked out of me from a fall. Losing this sweet baby girl feels like a gut punch. And this time, I’d prefer to stay down for a bit, kicking and screaming in my fleeting moments of strength.

I know God can handle it. I know He hates this, too. 

I have to trust that He is holding me as I keep begging Him with “why”. 

I am at a loss for words. The only comfort I find is in being held by my loved ones, tears streaming down all of our faces. It is such a beautiful thing to be wept over. To feel safe and understood and heard.

Right before I went into that ultrasound, my daily Bible reading plan gave me Truth I didn’t know I would need. While I feel bitter that I need it right now, I am letting these words rest on me until I believe them again:

“When trouble strikes, our instinct is often to escape or to lean on our own strength. But the psalm we’ll read today points us somewhere deeper:

God Himself is the refuge.

He doesn’t just give us strength. He is the strength. He doesn’t just provide shelter. He is shelter…

Only God remains constant when everything else shifts beneath our feet.”

Psalm 46: 1-3: “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth gives way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging.”

Psalm 46:4-5 reminds me of our little girls’ realities:
“There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy place where the Most High dwells. God is within her, she will not fall; God will help her at break of day.”