Just as suddenly as this baby, and the joy that came with it, appeared, she was leaving.

I stumbled out of the bathroom in a daze. I walked into the living room and sat on my chair. I picked up my computer, and began to play online games. No one even knew I was pregnant. Who do I turn to for support? How do I break that news? I stared blankly at the computer screen, praying for the pain to end. The pain in my abdomen, and the pain in my heart. So. Much. Pain.

As I stared at the computer screen, I said blankly, “I’m bleeding. I thought you should know.”

Mr. looked up, slightly confused. “What do you mean?”

As though he should “just know”, I responded matter-of-factly, “I’m bleeding out of my vagina.”

“Oh. Are you ok?” He asked.

“Yeah. I guess so.” I replied. I mean, what was I supposed to say? I wasn’t ok. My baby wasn’t ok. My world wasn’t ok.

Mr. continued working on his computer and a while later, he says, “Hey… Do you think Option A or Option B?” As he turns his computer toward me.

Angrily, I yelled, “My baby is DEAD and you want me to care about a stupid website?!? How dare you?!” I then focused my attention back on my screen.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“I mean, I’m bleeding and cramping, and our baby is dead.” I answered. This time not in anger, but in admittance. I repeated myself, “I’m bleeding, and our baby is dead. My baby is dead.” I began crying. The kind of cry where no sound comes out, just the constant flow of hot, salty tears and an occasional gasp for air.

Mr., confused and concerned, says quietly, “I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I did tell you.” I said, anger returning.

“No, you just said you were bleeding. You didn’t say anything about a miscarriage.” And there it was.

Miscarriage.

I hadn’t said it, I hadn’t even thought it yet, but all of the sudden, there it was, staring me in the face. As I replayed Mr.’s words over in my head, I began to skew them.

No, you just said you were bleeding. You didn’t say anything about a miscarriage…

You just said you were bleeding. You didn’t say anything about a miscarriage…

You are bleeding, it’s only a miscarriage.

It’s only a miscarriage.

Then I began adding my own commentary to the words [I thought] he had said.

It’s not like you were even that pregnant. No one even knows. It’s not like it’s even a real baby… it’s only a miscarriage.

Wait. What?! Not a real baby!?! How did I allow myself to get to this place? The place where I think my baby doesn’t matter. The place where society starts to whisper in your ear… No. This is my baby. Whether I was 7 weeks pregnant, or the baby was 7 years old, I still lost a child. A precious life, no matter how long lived.

Are you allowed to grieve a child you never knew, and only knew about for a week and 3 days?

I think so.

So, the grief continued.

I denied it. I was angry. I thought about the what-ifs. I cried.

And then, it hit me. My baby, that I lost, was still just, “the baby”. “The baby” needed a name. I needed “the baby” to be “________, my baby”.

We thought and prayed about what to name our little love.

Should we give the baby a boy name or a girl name? Or a unisex name? What should the  name mean? Should it matter what the name means? Should we use a family name for the middle name like all of our other children?

Somehow, I don’t really know exactly, we decided on a name. A girl name.

Mara Cai

Mara is Hebrew for “bitter”.

At first, I was so bitter toward everyone, including myself and God. What did I do to deserve this? I know the answer. Nothing. I didn’t do anything to “deserve” to lose my baby.

Cai is Welsh, meaning “rejoice”.

Now that the pain is subsiding a bit, I can genuinely rejoice in the thought of joining my baby in Heaven one day.

Together, her name means, “Rejoice after bitterness”.

And I do rejoice. I still cry sometimes. But mostly I rejoice. I rejoice for my baby’s earthly life of 7 weeks, but more so for her eternal life in Heaven. I rejoice that she never had to endure the pains of this world. I rejoice that her heart is whole, and can never be broken. I rejoice that she is being loved by the best Father there is. I rejoice that I got to be Mara’s mom for 7 short weeks. I rejoice that because of God’s love and sacrifice, I will meet her one day.

So, for those of you who read the title of this post, and were expecting a joyous little bundle in 9 months, this one’s for you:

And baby makes… an angel.

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