I remember the early days of my very first pregnancy, blissfully cloud-walking at the thought of becoming a mother.
I remember the sound of my parents’ voices when they heard the news that I was expecting their first grandchild.
I remember looking at nursery furniture and baby clothes, with a grin that simply would not wipe off my face.
I remember the crushing weight that collapsed onto my chest in that ultrasound room at 10 weeks–not only had the baby died, but the baby had died 5 weeks earlier and my body simply didn’t "get it".
I remember lying in my bed, blinds drawn and phone off, wondering how I would ever face the world without that little person inside me.
I remember that I couldn’t place my hand on my belly for weeks.
I remember the painful things that well-meaning people would say, and how I would physically cringe: "At least you weren’t attached to the baby yet," "You can always have another one," "This is actually a blessing"…
I remember marvelling at how I could feel so much pain and so much peace at the same time.
I remember learning that the hole left in my heart wouldn’t be filled by another baby, or anything else–that it might just stay there.
I remember rocking Adam, my next-born, and realizing with wonder that if the first baby had been carried to term, we wouldn’t have conceived Adam. And I remember being flooded with assurance that our God is sovereign, and very good.
It was ten years ago this week, but I still remember. That little hole in my heart is still there, but it no longer hurts–it’s more of a "souvenir" of experience I don’t want to forget. My home and heart are full of happy, noisy, funny memories enough to mull over for a lifetime. But with my treasured box of few tangible reminders (sympathy cards, hospital records, and even a faded pregnancy test) I remember–I will always remember–my few short weeks as that first little baby’s mother. And I smile.