The After

Thursday, June 04, 2026: 6:12AM

I slept as long as I could before The Reality sank in and I couldn’t turn off my weary mind.

I went to sleep thinking about my Maggie, holding my husband’s hand as I drifted in and out of sleep. I woke up looking in the mirror, once again feeling empty knowing my Lucy isn’t in there anymore.

I had a D&C yesterday. It all felt like deja vu, but also a fresh kind of pain and agony. To pull into the same parking lot we did just months before on a cold winter day, this time only to be met with sunshine and green trees, felt too familiar. To walk the halls I now know so well after using them as an indoor track to stretch my legs after giving birth to my baby girl who was in Heaven felt unbearable. 

But it was different, too. No maternity ward this time. No quiet, solitary rooms. I am in a pre-surgical room next to a man making small talk about his job in waste water management, a few doors down from a little girl who was scared and resisting medical help. Even farther down the hall was a prisoner with guards. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was in for- in every sense of the word.

“So what are we having done today?” I know each nurse and medical staff member has to ask to confirm they are, in fact, talking to the correct patient and have marked down the correct procedure, but goodness, please don’t make me say it again.

“How far along were you?”
I squeak out, “Eleven and a half weeks.” I know the half doesn’t truly matter, but I just needed to prove to myself that Lucy and I had gotten a few days farther than others may know.

My OB- new to me this time around, as I hoped to move forward from past loss with a new face- came in and immediately pulled me into a long hug and said how sorry she was. Apparently switching OBs couldn’t help me outrun this inevitable tragedy.

I sat in that bed, watching the minutes tick by, knowing that within an hour, my baby girl would no longer be in me but forever part of me. But how? How can I hold her close when she’s not with me anymore?

They wheeled me away after I told JB I loved him. I thought I would be more scared, being that I have never had a surgical procedure in a hospital.
But I was indifferent. Ready to be under anesthesia and have a break from this misery.
The surgical room was so white. It felt like I was one of the doctor shows I enjoy watching. Although I’m not sure how much I will enjoy watching them right now.

My OB held my hand and gently stroked it as I heard my racing pulse beeping and beeping moments before I fell asleep. She and the surgical nurse made small talk about their dogs’ poor behavior and their crazy scuba diving training stories, and I know it was just to distract me.

I fell asleep crying, staring into my OB’s compassionate eyes who kept nodding and telling me she’s got me. 

I knew there was a strong chance I would wake up in the same state, but I slowly came to feeling numb. Relieved that part was over. In my post-anesthesia state, I felt like I was still dreaming- even like a little piece of Old Ruth was back.
The post-op nurse made small talk with me, and I followed her lead, even though I couldn’t focus very well. She mentioned to me that my OB has been her OB as well and how much she loved her.
I mistakenly asked her how many kids she had.
“I have a toddler, and I am 16 weeks pregnant,” as she looked down at her belly, with a joy in her voice that pierced through my anguished soul. In my hazy state, I almost blurted out, “That’s how far along I was when I lost my first daughter.” But I quickly reminded my brain that’s not something we say out loud, feeling a protectiveness over this young mom who still had the cherished gift of having hope and excitement in her expecting state.

But boy, did my heart break into a million pieces as I stared at her stomach and held onto those words right after waking up from yet another pregnancy abruptly and painfully ending.

There are no words.

Going Home
My dear husband took me home after I managed some crackers and ginger ale. I was grateful I tolerated the anesthesia okay. But I told JB on the way home, if I truly thought about what we just went through, I would fall apart. And my body hurt too much- my heart hurt too much- to go there. He grabbed my hand, knowing all too well what I was describing.

I was so tired. I am so tired. But I can’t sleep much. I have bad dreams. I have racing thoughts. Or I have no dreams and wake up in perpetual heaviness. I ache internally and externally. I look at the sunshine and beg God to shine a little glimmer of it into my broken heart.

The only things that have helped are to hold onto the love my people are showing me, look for small things to appreciate, and try to find one Bible verse or story to desperately cling to a day. Sometimes I have to force myself to do any of those things. Sometimes I just don’t, and I allow myself to sit in the utter disbelief and darkness of losing a child. Two children.

To see the tears of my friends as they shake their head in disbelief and hold me is healing. To be able to have honest conversations with the love of my life about how weighed down we feel- how numb, shocked, and defeated we both feel- is therapeutic. We are in this together.

To turn to my dear husband and just blurt out, “JB, I am feeling so sad. Can you come sit next to me and hold my hand?” before I fall apart in his arms once again- those are sacred moments. But oh, how I wish we could stop experiencing them.

I look out the window and see the seasons have changed. And yet for our family, they haven’t. Heartbreak, agony, physical pain, and dragging ourselves through the day, just trying to keep our house in order and our kids fed, has continued.

I didn’t think our summer would start out this way after such a horrible winter and difficult spring. I lament it.

But as the gently falling snow made me think of Maggie, so are the chirping birds and early morning light reminding me of my Lucy.

Saying Goodbye
How do you find closure before a D&C? I hate that we had already experienced a loss farther along, but that means we got to hold our beautiful baby girl in our hands and sing over her the first time around. What is there to capture with this precious little one? I agonized over it; I really did.

I can’t describe the state of Hell I felt I was in, walking around knowing my baby was gone and was still inside of me for 5 days. But I also didn’t want to miss an opportunity for me to connect with her before it felt too late for me.

And so, we found our way through the twisted agony of saying goodbye to our fourth child. The night before my procedure, JB and I lay in our bed. I stared at our ceiling fan as I have done so many times. My eyes slowly meandered from the ceiling to our curtains. Curtains I bought after losing Maggie because they reminded me of her- feminine, beautiful, soft. I turned on some songs that spoke of Heaven, asking my heart to be a little open to the reminder of our daughters’ incredible reality. I can’t say it worked, but that’s okay.

I put my hand on my belly for the first time in days. Every other moment since that nightmarish ultrasound, I tried to ignore my stomach- don’t look at it, don’t touch it. But this time, I leaned in. I talked to Lucy and thanked her for making me brave. For showing me how to love through sacrifice and fear and pain. I told her how special it was to see a positive pregnancy test on Easter morning and hold her daddy’s hand at church, worshipping through tears and disbelief. I told her how her big sister inspired me to leave my public school teaching career, and that she gave me the courage to apply for a new job and try something so different and exciting- a job at my church I accepted just the day before she died. Everything I did, I did for my children, and I thanked them for giving me the courage to do it. I thought of how important her name is to me and JB- Lucy Kay. Her first name to mimic my mom’s name, and her middle name to replicate her other grandma’s middle name. Thanking God for both of these loving moms and grandmas who have poured out their love and prayers over us during this painful season. I told her how much I loved her and wished I had gotten to be her mommy on Earth.

I am so thankful I got to say goodbye.

Missing Her Close By
And yet, I am bereft of peace. I spent hours researching yesterday when I finally came out of the post-anesthesia state.
What can I do to remember my girls? To be reminded of their present reality when I feel grief stricken?
I couldn’t bear not having more things around my home, my body, my life, that reminded me they mattered. They were real, and they are part of me and this family.
But even after the beautiful windchimes were ordered and the designs were made for decor, it struck me: I want them so close, but they aren’t and never will be this side of Heaven.

And once again, I realized I can’t avoid this. I can’t outrun it. I can’t “research” things away- trying to delve into why this happened, poring over my medical records and wishing I could be some world-class non-medically trained genius who can solve this mystery- to make it better. There are no amounts of books on loss, cherished items of remembrance, or moments of escaping with tv that can take this away.

This is loss. This is pain. Grief. The heavy ache of unspent love.