A Slow Healing Process

I thought I was pregnant last month.  I had all the symptoms: nausea, vomiting, headaches, frequent urination, etc.  Setting aside my reservations, my excitement started mounting.  How could it not?  Sickness is a good thing, for me, in determining a viable pregnancy.  I felt the phrase “the third time is the charm” might apply this time.

Except it didn’t.  Because I started my period a couple weeks later–right on time. (And, to confirm this, I also took a couple pregnancy tests.)  With the nausea, vomiting, and all the other lovely things that now accompany me constantly.  You know, without a pregnancy.

To say I was angry is an understatement.  Ben and I thought for sure all my symptoms meant the one thing we really want–another baby.  Instead I was greeted with the mother of all cramps and her crimson venom.  Once the bleeding started, I texted Ben telling him that I did not want to have any more kids.  I was done with pregnancies, done with fertility stuff, done with everything.  He called me on his lunch break and let me talk.   And cry.  Because I cried a lot.

When he came home that night, he held me.  He let me vent without saying one contradictory word.  He let me rage against my body, my period, and against God.

(Have I mentioned I married the perfect guy for me?)


Andrew is learning to climb on and off furniture.  As I have taught him many times that the safest, and most effective, way for him to climb down is feet first, I must now let him learn the painful lesson of not following my guidance.

When he starts crawling off head first, I tell Ben, “Let him go, he needs to learn by falling on his head.”  Which he has, slowly.  It can be hard to watch him fall, but I know it is the only way he will learn.


Right now, God is letting me fall on my head.  I don’t know what I am supposed to learn through this process, but I do know it is mighty painful.

This recent period was a frightful reminder of my miscarriages.  (Two! In the same year!.)  It brought me to the lowest depths of depression I’ve been in since I can’t remember.  Along with the sadness, I embraced bitterness.  A bitter person is not good company, as Ben has unfortunately experienced.  I’m not proud of the person I’ve been over the past couple weeks, a big reason this space has remained unoccupied, however I understand, and Ben understands, the complicated emotions that assailed me over something that I’ve had once a month (besides pregnancy) since I was 14.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I have had some recent revelations that have forced me to evaluate many parts of who I am and who I want to become.  While I don’t intend to be vague, I am still figuring out the different pieces and at the moment cannot adequately articulate what they mean.  But, if you’ll be patient with me, I feel ready to write about them one at a time.

Yeah, I guess that means I’m back.

***Image via FreeImages.



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19 responses to “A Slow Healing Process

  1. Oh girl, I am so sorry. How horribly cruel to have that happen after 2 miscarriages. I think all your feelings and venting are totally warranted – I wish I would have known when I visited, I would have cried with you!

    When I was going through a hard time 5 years ago when my closest sister was in Primary Children's almost dying, this song really SERIOUSLY helped me get through. I listened to it every day she was in there. She eventually got better. But this song helped me a lot – hope it helps even just a little:

    Can't wait to hear all about what you will be writing about!

  2. Oh, Amber. I can't even think what to say. I hope the pain goes away? I know it won't entirely, even after it gets duller. I hope you find your way down this tough, tough road? I know you will, but you'll never forget the journey. I suppose, friend, I wish you peace, more than anything else. You are in my heart tonight.

  3. Man, your uterus just can't catch a break! Glad you're back. For better or worse. 🙂

  4. Amber, I am so sorry that you are feeling this way, but I am glad you have a husband and family that is supportive of your emotions. Sending you hugs and lots of xoxo.

    I'm grateful to see your words again in this space.

  5. I am very glad you are back, but saddened by the circumstances that surround the return of your words in this space. I'm thinking of you, and sending white light your way.

  6. ShannonL

    So sorry you are going through this, Amber. But glad you are back and able to share your thoughts and emotions with us. Maybe it will help a little with the healing process, too. Hugs to you, my friend!

  7. You're not alone. I wailed and moaned and banged my head against a wall. I felt like the world no longer turned. I stopped recognizing myself for my insatiable need to be pregnant, to 'work' right. Each time my period came, I felt like my body was doing me injury. Why!?! Trust and faith were in short supply.
    But, those women I know who have suffered more then one miscarriage in a year, and I know a few, they are powerful. They love fiercely, their knowledge of their blessings set off by the starkness of loss.
    Hugs, and understanding.

  8. While I didn't have any miscarriages, I did struggle with getting pregnant. I know the frustration and disappointment very well. Be strong – for everything there is a reason (or so they say). Love what you have and try to be content with it for now. I know easier said than done.

  9. Sometimes, I think that falling on the head is half so we can turn to someone else who is experiencing that pain and say, "Oh I know honey, I've felt it too." I don't know why the pain has to happen in the first place, but it isn't entirely senseless. What I went through two years ago (so similar to what you're going through now – it's eerie) felt pointless…without meaning. But then I read a post like this, and I get it, I understand. And I think maybe it wasn't senseless after all.

    Love you, Amber…so sorry for the pain you're going through, but amazed by the strength and growth you're embracing through the process.

  10. Welcome back. I've missed you soo!
    I'm so sorry that you went through that this month – it must have been devastating. I thought I was pregnant last month – even though I'm on the pill – because my body was exhibiting all the symptoms, including being late by two days -which I never am. I even took a pregnancy test and was devastated.
    I'm happy you have your perfect guy – who lets you rant and I hope that one day soon you'll dreams will come true. In the meantime, lean on your wonderful husband, rely and trust that God does care about you, and surround yourself in the love of your two gorgeous little ones.

  11. Amber, I'm sorry. I know what it's like to want to be pregnant each month and not be. I remember eating for two each time I thought I was pregnant too. I can say this: you'll end up with the family you're meant to have; that God has a greater plan in mind for you, greater than your plan for yourself and accepting that (falling on your head?) is probably the job of a lifetime. Love from someone else who continually falls on her head, Linda

  12. I am sorry you were so disappointed. That is really hard.

    I fall on my head a lot too, and then I make notes to myself so that I remember how to fall better next time.

  13. CK

    I'm so sorry, Amber. I hope you're able to figure out the different pieces, and that writing about them frees you from your sufferings.

    Praying for your heart to heal…

  14. I'm so sorry you're going through this difficult time. I have had fertility troubles, and it's so hard to yearn for something and to have those hopes dashed every single month. Not to mention the heartbreak of two miscarriages. I wish I had some wonderful words to share, but please know that I am praying for you.

  15. Please allow me to add my voice to the chorus of friends who are glad to see you back, but so, so sorry to see you hurting. My wish for you is continued strength and resilience. I will look forward to reading whatever you have to write, whenever you want to write it. xo

  16. I am thinking of you and sending healing thoughts your way. Mean it.

  17. Amber, I've had three miscarriages before I had what I used to refer to as my miracle child, and only time could heal the pain that each one of them brought. I know what you're going through, so do what you must to feel better. We're all here for you, and wish you nothing but the best.

  18. I am so, so sorry for your pain and for all that must be overwhelming you. I wish you didn't have to fall on your head. But I'm glad you're back, writing here, because you do it with such clarity and frankness and grace that it seems to hold healing potential. I hope you find it restorative, slow but sure.

  19. I am so sorry you have been hurting so much. It just isn't fair. But I am so pleased to see you here writing. I do hope that writing – and having all of us here reading – does something to help you heal and figure things out. xoxo