Please be aware the following post contains references to pregnancy loss, including graphic mention of medical instruments.
The lowest moment of my life happened in a Wendy’s parking lot. That’s where I told God I hated his guts for allowing my baby to die and be removed from my body with a spoon.
I was obsessed with the image of a spoon from the moment the doctor explained the procedure to me. She told me about the instruments she’d use. “A curette is like a spoon…” My body didn’t believe it was no longer pregnant—I should have been around 12 weeks. I had carried around a dead baby for two weeks and that’s too long. I would report to the hospital and be put to sleep. She would officially end my pregnancy so my body could move on. The rest was up to me.
It was my first pregnancy loss after five healthy pregnancies and five healthy children. It’s been eight years, this month, and I still feel my throat buck when I remember those awful deep winter days and my matching despair. If God allowed my baby to slip away, why couldn’t he let my baby leave with a bit of dignity? Being birthed in pain and blood and tears, earlier than early, was better than being separated from me that way. The spoon way. In the sterile brittle of an OR, total strangers maneuvered me into position. I was utterly helpless because drugs took me out of me. These aren’t things a loving God allows, I told him.
A week later, I was still profoundly sad. Someone I love suggested to me it was time to move on and have some perspective. He didn’t understand. My response was to grab my bag, jump in the car, and speed away. I drove and drove and played The David Crowder Band’s “Deliver Me” over and over and over until I came to a smoking halt in that Wendy’s parking lot and said everything I’ve said here. And more. Things I can’t share, things only God and I know about babies and women’s bodies and spoons.
Things got better. Months later, I had another pregnancy loss and experienced many of the same feelings, but never found myself in a parking lot. Our sixth child was born a year and a half after my first pregnancy loss. Safe and sound, a daughter astounded my arms after holding four sons in a row. That little future woman would hopefully know motherhood the same way I know it—a surrender to the will of God and sometimes the tools of humankind. I never want her to feel that pain, of course.
But without those losses I wouldn’t have her. She was the whispered promise I couldn’t hear above my own screaming and maybe, at that moment, I wouldn’t have wanted her. I’d want who was carved away by that spoon.
(edited to add a heads-up regarding the graphic nature of this post)