Our Dear Sweet Pea

Dear Sweet Pea,

On January 21, 2014 you changed our whole world. I had an inkling feeling in my gut that you might be with us so while your daddy waited in line to purchase our stuff at Target I snuck over to the pharmacy and purchased a test. What felt like a lifetime later my suspicions were confirmed and you were my little secret for about two hours. Your daddy and I rode up north to a birthday dinner and I almost spilled the beans so many times. By some miracle, I kept my lips sealed until we arrived at a very  special place. Standing where your dad first told me he loved me and then later  asked me to be his wife, I asked him to take a picture of us in that same special place. After a few outtakes he glanced at the phone to confirm the picture was a good one and woah, was he shocked to see what had popped in the picture!

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Pregnant!

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“Are you serious?” He asked? I nodded and showed him our proof. We squealed, we danced, we prayed. We were so thankful, so excited, out of our minds elated. As we drove to the birthday dinner we considered keeping you to ourselves for a little bit but we just couldn’t. We were going to be parents and we wanted everyone to know about our “Made in Mexico” blessing.

I couldn’t type another blog because how could I tell the other half of our honeymoon story without including you? Every time I tried to write it, I came up short for words. In spite of harrowing hornet hikes, ruptured eardrums, a near death bee sting, every medicine imaginable, and a thieving cab driver, we managed to come home with you, our first baby. You were the punctuation to that story, bigger than an exclamation point and louder than Caps Locks. You were our sweetest reward for our months of waiting for the privileges marriage would bring. You were so beautifully and intentionally made.

We bought you a baby sombrero while we were in Mexico (juuuuust in case), the tiniest sombrero we ever did see. Before we even knew we had you, we imagined adorable baby pictures with your baby butt and your sombrero. You would grow up to hate those pictures but that wouldn’t stop us from showing them to all of your friends. Your daddy and I are great like that.

Over the next few weeks we imagined holding you, helping you grow, we imagined teaching you how to be hilarious. We prayed every day that we would be good enough parents for you. As my body prepared to hold you, we prepared our hearts as much as we could for our new journey.

Super Bowl Sunday was the first time we feared we would lose you. Late in the evening I started bleeding. Your dad rushed me to the emergency room to see what could be done. We tried to be strong for each other but were so very scared. After tests and tylenol we were told to wait it out. The doctors gave us a very  ambiguous diagnosis. Even with  50/50 odds for a  favorable outcome we chose to believe the most positive 50%. You were our miracle baby, we were holding on to our faith.

Weeks went by. We did follow up tests, each doctor visit was neither overwhelmingly good or bad. We took a weekend break to San Fransisco and allowed ourselves to celebrate fully your new life.

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When we came back, BAM! There on the ultrasound, we saw little flickers of pixels that showed us what we were so afraid to believe could be true, your heart beat was growing strong inside of me! Finally some good news we could rest on, we were so very happy. Your daddy talked to you every morning, kissing you and praying for you, thanking God for every moment we had with you. Every moment was more than we imagined having on that awful Sunday we thought we lost our Sweet Pea.

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Could you feel us sending our love? I changed everything I could, every bad habit I had. Coca Cola bubbles, strong morning coffee, wine with dinner… Nothing was worth your health and safety. Vitamins, gallons of water, gluten free… Anything we could think of to keep you with us was in the cards for us now. It was worth it. Before we got married people asked us if we were going to wait to try to have kids. “Don’t you want your freedom?” they would ask. You were our freedom. You were the best choice we had made. We never missed going out, we had been out. You were our adventure. You were the sweetest thing.

As days went by we compared your size to fruit. You were the cutest sweet pea we ever could have imagined, we couldn’t wait to see your changing shape. We did another ultrasound after more spotting and you stayed the same. You were the same size with the same flickering heart beat on the screen but we charged the size comparison to viewing you on a different machine. The midwife told us that while the spotting wasn’t great, your small sweet pea size could be because you were tucked into me, hiding from the camera. Blood work was next followed by more tests. We were hopeful. Waves of nausea proved that you were still with me and I was more than okay with that. Bring on the nausea if it meant another day with you.

On a whim, we chose to have an ultrasound outside of our doctor’s office. We brought your Grandma and Grandpa H to see you, this was going to be the magical ultrasound. This would be our good news, we were so ready.

It took one look into the nurse’s sad eyes to know something wasn’t right. I gripped your daddy’s hands as I scanned the screen. Where were the flickers? Where was the olive sized baby?

“There’s no heart beat.” The nurse half whispered to us. She measured you countless times. At 9weeks2days you were still measuring 6weeks1day. There had to be something wrong with the machine, the science was flawed. How could I have stopped bleeding and still lost my baby? The look in your dad’s eyes broke my heart, that was were I found the truth. Your heart, your soul, had left us. My heart and my body weren’t ready to let you go. We went home numb, broken. How did this happen?

Tests and more follow up tests showed that you were gone. Tears, Sweet Pea, the saddest tears flowed from our eyes. Your grandmas, your grandpas, aunties and everyone who knew you wept. Your daddy wrapped me in his strong arms and our hearts  broke together. Each day, each moment comes and goes and each one brings their own torrent of emotions. Some moments hit like a ton of bricks, I am left without air to breathe or answers to the impossible questions. Some moments bring peace, I imagine you with my Nana and her babies that passed before her, it makes sense that she would hold you as tenderly as I wish I could.

At 10weeks3days I will have a quick outpatient surgery and you will really be gone. It is impossible to comprehend, too sad to imagine, a quick end to a six week battle. If we could will a heartbeat back into your tiny body we would. If love and faith were enough, you would be safe and sound and in close to a year we would tell you a crazy story about how you gave us a great scare when you were just the size of a pea. As it stands, we have to take comfort in knowing that we may never understand the whys, the hows, or the just not fairs of your short story. The only thing we know is that you are in the most holy place waiting to meet us one day. Our little 6week1day Sweet Pea, in a few days my womb will be empty but you will always be in our hearts.

With all of our love,

Your Mommy

7 Comments Add yours

  1. Debbie Seccombe-Buckmaster says:

    Oh dear you two my heart breaks for you. I know the excitement and anticipation coupled with the constant worry that things are ok. I’m sure the dr. Will discuss with you the future and what precautions to take. My prayers go to everyone and to your sweet pea who will be waiting and watching for your reunion. May God bless. Hugs

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  2. Barby says:

    My sweet girl (and Daddy). I understand your loss. The grief that overwhelms you and makes you feel like you are drowning. Know that you are loved. Try to think of the baby in the arms of Jesus. How bittersweet to think that Wayne met him before you did and is probably loving on him right now. Words seems so empty. I know. But we have to trust that God will be with us and walk through our pain with us. He has felt the painful loss of His own son. He is close to the broken hearted. I will pray for your hearts to heal. I love you and am here if you need to talk or cry. Big hug from me, Barby

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  3. Ola Carter says:

    Your heartbreaking experience takes me back to our first pregnancy which we lost at about 6 wks. That was my first encounter of a heartbreak that cannot be compared to any other. Even today, I wonder “who” that little soul was that I never got to know. I feel for you in your grief and pray that you and Q can hold on to your faith, nurturing each other while the pain is so acute.
    Love, Ola

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  4. shedoesblog says:

    Ashlie- thus makes me so sad, I was reading with such excitement, but what a blessing to be a mumma, even for a shirt time, god knows and my prayers are with you. Be kind to yourself x

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  5. Kristin Ruck says:

    Ashlie, I’m sorry 😦
    I know we don’t know each other well, but I understand your pain — Steve and I lost our first baby as well. It is a sad path to walk through, but our little ones are safe with God. And we’ll always love our babies, even though we don’t get to hold them for awhile.
    One verse that I really held onto was Isaiah 40:11: “He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to His heart.”

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    1. Oh, Kristen. I am so so sorry for your loss. Seeing your baby now gives me hope for our journey. I thank you for sharing with me, miscarriage is such a hidden subject and can feel so isolating. Lots of love to you, my friend.

      Liked by 1 person

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