She’s not here anymore.

I didn’t know why I was so sad, looking out at the beautiful magnolia tree in our backyard, in full bloom, with the warm spring breeze gently blowing into the house. But I was sad, and it didn’t make sense. I was 11 weeks pregnant. Everything was going great. My husband and I were as deeply in love as the day we got married, even more so. We had 6 happy, healthy kids, and a full life. Then I slowly became aware of something that I knew without knowing how – I realized that she wasn’t here anymore.

Our 8-week doctor’s appointment had gone great. It was so wonderful to see our little Edith, see her heart beating, our tiny peanut looking like all our other beautiful kids when they were that little. A miniature miracle, a visible sign of the love my husband and I have for each other. We had so much to look forward to, so much to plan for, so much to hope for, so much to love. But she wasn’t there anymore, and I slowly realized why I was sad. She was gone.

It was just me.

There was no one else in the room with me, no one between me and the beautiful tree, no one sharing the spring breeze. It was just me again. I was by myself.

No one talks about miscarriages. Maybe it’s too painful to share? Maybe it’s just no one wants to hear about it because it’s too sad to think about, you can’t do anything about it, no one knows what to say, what to do. But we could. We could help each other heal. We could simply just be there for each other. We could be that other person in the room. If we can’t be with each other through the difficult times, how can we really, fully, share the wonderful things too?

She wasn’t there anymore. And she was before. And I knew that truth with every fiber of my being. There were no cramps yet, but they would come. I hadn’t even started spotting yet, but I knew I would. That’s how it started with Isaac. Little Isaac, so precious, so loved, and not even here with us long enough to have that first exciting doctor’s visit. I remembered crying with my husband, holding each other, mourning our loss, sharing our grief with each other and with God. Knowing I wasn’t alone made it possible to bear the pain of the loss.

It was hard to lose Edith, and Isaac, and our other little ones that are so hard to talk about. But there are other babies who could have lived a full long life, only they were not given that chance. We need to talk about them too. We need to choose life. That’s why I’m so proud of Ohio for passing the fetal heartbeat law, giving babies a chance at life. Edith didn’t live long enough to play in our backyard under the magnolia tree, to laugh, to be held. But we still loved her. We still do, and that will never change.

God bless you, Edith.