I was celebrating life and experiencing death...at the same time.
Birthday balloons and decor flooded my view from every direction. Laughter, chatter and music classics bounced against the walls of the banquet hall. I felt an electrifying energy all around. Whenever you mix the three effs together— family, food and fun— the only possible outcome is magic.
I had danced the night away, in shoes that from the outside appeared to be painful to walk in. They weren't. For once. In fact, I looked great and thought I felt the same way.
Then suddenly, a pain wiggled its way into my body and shut down all the positive currents that were once surrounding me.
For a moment I stood there.
In the middle of the floor.
People all around.
My heart beating faster with each moment that passed.
I brushed my hand discretely over my belly. I knew there was something more happening inside. My little seed of happiness was not turning into a huge ball of anxiety.
I walked quietly to the exit door. As soon as I hit the hallway, out of the view of the party-goers, I raced to the bathroom as if I was the last victim being chased in a horror film. Instead, there was no scary monster behind me. Just my fear.
In a stark bathroom stall, with walls that appeared to be closing in on me, I lifted my skirt. I could already detect something was wrong.
There was moisture.
What was happening?
It was a question that was already being answered, but I was unwilling to accept.
It had to be on my terms.
I was not ready to let go.
I thought I could leave for a few minutes and that no one would notice. But I soon heard a familiar voice outside my stall, accompanied by a string of clicks from high heels.
It was my cousin. She wanted to know if I was okay.
The short answer was, "No."
That's all I could offer, in a faint voice that was trying so desperately to be strong.
My sniffles overpowered the DJ's music as it crept into the bathroom from the other room.
The boom of the bass was echoing through the halls.
The throbs were in sync with the ones being felt in my abdomen.
I stood there.
At one time, hopeful. But even the most optimistic person has to face the truth.
My fate was staring me in the face, or at least leaving a trace down there.
I undressed more to reveal what I had already suspected.
I wasn't just losing my mind. I was also losing my child.
All this happened in what felt like an eternity, but in reality, I was only held captive in this horrible scene for five minutes.
In an instant, I decided to head to the local hospital. An overcrowded emergency room greeted us at the automatic door. I was in no mood or condition to "have a seat and wait patiently." I did not want to fill out any forms, give my medical history or pretend to read the fine print I so willing agreed to with my shaky signature.
I needed confirmation. Or not.
Maybe I wanted to run. Or stand still.
Ignore. Cry some more.
That's all I heard. Hearing my name immediately shut down the whirlwind of emotions I was feeling as I walked steadily towards the emergency room doors. I was relieved and panicked at the same time...with great reason.
My hope exited the room instead of floating.
I changed into a hospital gown. I was now a patient, with no patience.
Or perhaps a victim, depending on the outcome.
A nurse took my vitals, drew my blood and asked me to urinate in a cup. It was a twisted form of deja vu. Almost like the first doctor's visit when you believe you're expecting, only this time I was on the other end of the excitement spectrum.
Phones were ringing. Orders were being given. Sirens were going off. Chaos is what it was. But I sat on the edge of the bed with only a thin, blue curtain separating me from the rest of the world.
An eery calm became the backdrop to this new scene I was in.
I twiddled my thumbs, looked up at the ceiling tiles, held my head down, cried and held my stomach...in a repeated cycle of panic.
The waiting game is only for the strong. And I was as weak as a dandelion on a hot, summer day. I was wilted. I needed something as refreshing as water, or good news in this case, to breathe new life into me.
The curtain slid back.
I jumped. My eyes widened.My heart sped up.
The nurse's eyes lacked the optimism I so desired. She tilted her head and forced a semi smile.
"I'm sorry sweetie. You're no longer pregnant."
I'm not sure there is an easy way to deliver those words. She tried her hardest to give it to me simply, without going all medical terms on me. But somehow a few of those terms managed to slip out.
Blah. BLah. BLAh. BLAH!
And then she said what I already knew, but never wanted to hear. "It's better now, than later."
I knew what she meant, but I did not want to buy into the reality.
How about it's better that it not happen at all?
Those were the words I needed to comfort me like my great-grandmother's afghan.
But that is the way this story ended.
The fact is, a miscarriage does happen for a reason. It ultimately means that something has gone wrong. I'm all for spontaneity, but not in this form.
I still remember this day. Every detail. Every moment.
I'm never quite sure if I am suppose to forget it all and move on, or, embrace my lost and trust that it was suppose to happen.
I may never figure out the answer, but I do know that blessings come in all forms.
Keep planting those seeds of hope.
Let the wind carry your spirit and spread your joy all around.
And when the time is right, which only God knows, your seeds of hope will sprout into a miracle.
Let no one stand in the way of the sunshine that was meant for you.
Find the courage to accept your blessings.
Deuteronomy 7:13 He will love you, bless you, and multiply you. He will also bless the fruit of your womb and the fruit of your ground, your grain and your wine and your oil, the increase of your herds and the young of your flock, in the land that he swore to your fathers to give you.