Today I stared at the Christmas letter I wrote just a few short weeks ago. The Christmas letter that I inexplicably never sent to anyone even though I've promised many people the pictures that were going to be sent along with it. In this Christmas letter, I excitedly shared the news that my husband and I were finally expanding our family.
I'm at a loss to explain why I didn't send it out a month ago. When I didn't send it out before Christmas, I figured that I would send it out as a New Year's greeting. I never sent it then either. The letter and accompanying pictures sit, largely ignored, on our desk. Now it serves as a bitter reminder of the abundant joy that I had in my heart.
Why didn't I send out this letter to anyone? Did I know all along, somewhere deep down in a place that I would never acknowledge, did I know that this baby wasn't meant to be born to me? I found this pregnancy far more difficult than the one I had with my son, but I don't know that I feared that it wouldn't last. I didn't on any conscious level anyway.
I'm still waiting for the final part of this process to be complete, yet still clinging unrealistically to the hope that there might still be the tiniest heartbeat in my baby. I know it's going to hurt when it happens and, in a weird way, I'm looking forward to the pain. I'm hoping that the physical pain will be so great that it takes my mind off the emotional hurt I'm feeling.
As is my custom, I'm trying to find the good in this situation. It's really hard to find anything to give thanks for in this situation, but what shines out to me is that this pregnancy gave me ten-weeks of joy, heart-filling joy, that I haven't felt in such a long time. Yes, I'm suffering now, but I wasn't just a few short days ago. And, for that, I'm thankful.