Two years ago, I stumbled across a medical report in my patient portal, one that I had never seen before.  The medical report was titled “Tissue Exam,” and it was from my D & C procedure after I had a miscarriage in 2017. 

With the startling realization of what I was about to read, I clicked on it. It hurt to read the heart-breaking contents but doing so delivered a little closure to that painful period in my life. 

After I miscarried, I often wondered what became of the tissue that was extracted, whether it was donated to research or discarded, and if so, how.  I still don’t know what became of it, and maybe it’s better that way, but now I know this: the size and color of the dead tissue that was once my living, loved baby. 

“Received labeled “products of conception” is a vacuum container which is opened and shows small fragments of tan-brown tissue.  The recovered tissue fragments measure 5 x 3 x 1.5 cm.  The tissue fragments are entirely submitted in three cassettes.”

My one pregnancy, my only chance to be a mom whittled down to tissue fragments.  And when the tissue disintegrated, so did my dream of motherhood.

Because I never got pregnant again.  We consulted a fertility specialist who said I wasn’t a candidate for IVF using my own eggs.  Our options were limited to donor eggs or donor embryos.  And while those are certainly viable options for some, for us, it just didn’t feel right.  Considering the expense involved and not having a guarantee of success, assisted reproduction was a closed door for us. 

Adoption wasn’t an option, either.  My husband was fine with us trying to get pregnant.  More than fine, actually; he was excited! He wanted me to be a mom, and he wanted us to have a baby of our own. He was crushed when we lost the pregnancy.  But he was nearing 50 then and already has a son of his own, so he didn’t think adoption was something we needed to pursue.  And that was a decision I understood and accepted.  It was a hard choice but the right choice.

And since pregnancy never happened again naturally, motherhood never happened for me.  A long-held dream dissolved with my declining egg count.

I’ll never be the mother I always saw myself being.  But I can be the stepmother I need to be now, the one I want to be faithfully.  I can love the people I do have in my life.  And I can care for all those whose life path intersects with mine – children at church, neighbors, the man with the sign on the street corner, friends, and family. 

I have a lot of love to give.   

And I can do just that.  I can live a meaningful life despite the fact that my one pregnancy ended in tissue fragments.  That tissue was scraped out of me; I didn’t feel it at the time, of course, because I was under anesthesia. 

I‘ve been feeling it ever since, though.

I feel sadness at not being a mom, but I also feel peace.  My heart bears the deep, wide wound of infertility – a scar I will carry for the rest of my life, but one that has healed. 

And healing is a good feeling.  Knowing that the death of dreams can never drown out the life inside me.  Knowing that I can be broken-hearted yet remain whole.  And knowing that no matter what happens, no matter how hard the hurt is, there is a greater reality.  God’s love is bigger than the biggest hurt I face.

And that truth enables me to find healing and to keep going, even when dreams disappear and prayers go unanswered.  I hold on to what matters most.  I hold on to Him – to life eternal and love unfailing.