Finding Purpose, Community, and Hope while Grieving an Ectopic Pregnancy & Infertility

GriefMiscarriage

Oct 25

by Nicolette Shipley

Last spring I was blissfully unaware that my baby was growing outside of my uterus. My husband and I were on cloud nine. I couldn’t stop touching my stomach and talking to our second child. Though only the size of a grain of rice, it was already a child in my arms. I ordered a shirt to share the news with our five-year-old. She had been praying for 2 years for a sibling. I will never forget the joy on her face when we told her. Or the time she spent talking to my stomach in the coming weeks. By the world’s standards we told our families and our daughter “too soon.” But, knowing what I know now about the valley of grief, I am thankful we weren’t alone in it.

In late April we honored the memory of our baby in heaven. Gone too soon to know the gender but affectionately named Rose by her big sister. It feels a little bit like an out of body experience to honor the life of a child you never met. A child who only lived within your body. A child we never held. A child we never watched learn to walk and talk. Yet, Rose feels just as real as my 5-year-old. How does a mother balance the here-and-now and the promised not-yet of heaven? As my mom says, how do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. Or as Elisabeth Elliot lovingly admonished: do the next thing.

I take my days as they come. It’s amazing what the rawness of grief does to you. How it completely breaks you down and tears apart every wall you ever built around yourself. And the outcome of that? The Lord has built a beautiful new creation in its absence. He has carried me. Held me. Sat patiently with me as I yelled and wailed on his chest. He has loved me in a way that I didn’t know existed by walking me through a pain I didn’t think I could survive. He has helped me live my life with a purpose, on purpose. And a big part of that purpose is Rose.

Sharing our story.

Sharing her name.

After we lost her, I decided I was not going to grieve quietly within the walls of our home. I needed to speak her name. I needed to write. I needed to tell others about her. I needed other moms to know they weren’t alone. Over the last 11 months I have listened to podcasts and read books and blogs from moms who’ve lost their children. Whether in the womb, at birth or to other earthly tragedies. At first, I felt like I didn’t deserve to share the title of bereaved mothers with these women. How could a mother like me not feel that way when we are met with empty phrases like: “Well, at least you lost it early,” or, “It wasn’t an actual baby yet. It was just a clump of cells.” Somehow trying to quantify the weight of our grief to the number of weeks we carried our babies. But, as I listened to mothers who faced life after loss I learned a term that will forever stay with me… The Fellowship of the Afflicted.

We have entered a community of women who understand the befores and afters of loss. These mothers are acutely aware of life before and after they lost their babies. They can tell you dates, times and weights. They can tell you where they were when the pregnancy test confirmed the miracle inside them and where they were when it all ended. They can tell you their story and lovingly sit and listen as you weep living through your own.

This Fellowship has taught me so much. I have learned the value of community. I’ve learned to let others help me when the weight of loss is crippling. I have learned to live my life hand-in-hand with grief rather than fighting it when it appears. Some days grief is a quiet house guest who knocks and waits patiently at the door. Other days it barges into my home without warning. On those days and all the days in between, I have learned to listen. Grief is the evidence that Rose existed. Grief is the evidence of the love we had for our child, even though we never had a chance to see her sweet face.

I do not have this all figured out. I don’t know what life will look like when big milestones continue to roll around. But, I do know His truths are the same yesterday, today and forever.

He is with me.

He is all-powerful.

He is not anxious or fearful.

He is sovereign.

He will not leave me or forsake me.

And the same God who holds me holds Rose. Knowing she is healed and whole in a place where words like ectopic, viability and infertility do not exist gives me peace. He is a good father and I believe He cares for all of his children. And just as He is with me, He is very much with her.

I will continue to say her name.

I will continue telling our story so other moms can know they are not alone in their grief.

I will continue inviting others into The Fellowship of the Afflicted so we can sit and share our stories. And in doing so we will be drawn closer to our faithful Father who has not left any of us to walk this road alone.

My child may not live on in this world, but her legacy does, and I am honored to carry that with me until we meet in heaven.

Meet the Author:

My name is Nicolette Shipley. I am an Army wife currently stationed in Georgia with my husband and our 5-year-old daughter. We lost our second child to an ectopic pregnancy that ruptured. And in recent months found out we can no longer have biological children.

Connect with Author: Email Nicolette