Lucy was born too soon 5 years ago today at 6 weeks 6 days. I am fortunate to have one photograph of her that a sweet ultrasound tech gave to me years later, when I finally had enough courage to ask. Mark and I were packing for our trip to Hawaii (paid in full with cash, by the way) when I began to cramp and spot. I had an appointment for an ultrasound so that we could go on our trip with no worries. Well, the ultrasound reveled that the baby had stopped developing and was dead. Dr. Bishop saw me and gave me the run down on why miscarriages happen. Not new information to me. He told Mark and I that he did not want me flying anywhere until the baby had passed or I underwent the d&c. Either option grounded me passed when were going to fly out. Trip to Hawaii off. After a year of trying to conceive, all of my efforts were in vain (or so I thought). No baby. Great. Little did I know that God, the master of all plans was already at work. My dad was sick. Very sick. In fact he would live only a month more in the year of 2003. There also was a little boy named Luke that was 6 months old that would soon become a piece of my soul.
(Luke in Nov. 2003 after my dad died)
When I think about Lucy, I think about the camping trip Mark and I took when we knew that I was pregnant. We spent hours by the camp fire dreaming about our baby. I think about how difficult and how hard I tried to finally achieve pregnancy only to be disappointed. I think about the clomid I took to ovulate the vein sticks I had when my blood was drawn repeatedly, the phone calls, nerves and cycle disappointments. I realize that I never really grieved solely for Lucy because my brain never had a chance to process the information because my dad was so sick and died so shortly after. The two losses are in a way tied together in my mind and when I grieve for one I grieve for both.
Psalm 139: "your eyes saw my unformed body"
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