Two weeks late. Two pink lines.
“Honey, are you ready to be a daddy again?”
Calling everyone we know.
Tired. So tired. Just waiting for Grace to nap.
Queasy. Just a bit queasy.
Gerber commercial on TV.
“We’re havin’ a baby! Whoop…whoop!”
“If it’s a girl, can we name her after my grandma Shelly?”
Groundworking a bucking horse.
“Whew, that’s a lot of work for this pregnant lady!”
Taking shorter walks,
because I was pregnant and protective
of my unborn baby.
Woke up one morning in my eighth week,
wide awake and perky.
So perky.
Like I wasn’t even pregnant.
Playing with Grace in a motel parking lot.
“Come here, honey, quick.”
Picking her up, walking back to the room.
Before I make a mess.
Folding up a cheap washcloth while dialing the cell.
“Hi, Tami, can you come pick up Grace?”
I need to go to the doctor. I think I’m having a miscarriage.”
I cried.
I sobbed.
Doctors can’t help
or make it stop.
It was too late before it began.
Laying down to sleep.
Sleep could stop the thoughts.
“I should have gone to the doctor sooner.”
“I should have had my thyroid checked.”
I should have started prenatals already.”
But sleep couldn’t stop the blood.
The constant, bright red reminder.
Did you know it takes days to miscarry?
I didn’t know that.
Now I do.
Telling my husband.
Telling family and friends.
“That’s why a lot of people don’t tell anyone they’re pregnant at first.”
Really? No shit.
“At least it happened now. That’s easier than having a baby who doesn’t live.”
Yes, the sooner my baby dies, the better.
“Jo, I’m so sorry you’re having to go through this.”
Thank you.
Hiding in my house.
“Grace, baby, come here. Mama needs a hug. Thank you, you’re the best hugger ever. Mama loves you.”
Holding Grace for her nap,
because she is alive.
And real.
And I can.
Venturing up to the barn,
where the smell of manure and leather mean safety.
Saying hi how are you
to the cowboys,
and surviving.
Roping the dummy,
because a rodeo is coming up.
Roping at the branding,
because I can now face people again.
Becoming a mother alerted me
to the fragility of life.
Some lives are so short,
barely a vapor in the wind.
A handful of heartbeats,
a few long naps,
and they’ve disappeared.
My baby died.
I wish it hadn’t.
I miss it.
I will have another,
but I can’t have this one back.
Two sympathy cards,
one picture,
and this poem
are all that I have to remember this tiniest of babies.
This picture was taken at the Jordan Valley Rodeo this year, where we told everyone we knew plus a few strangers we were expecting our second baby on January 12th. I love looking at it because I look so happy, but I hate looking at it because it makes me sad.
Jolyn Young 
You are so very brave and strong to have written and shared this. My hat’s off to you…you kind of made me cry. ā¤
Thanks Becky! I shared it because I know so many others have similar tales of loss as well. I hope I can think of it one day without crying.
My Gramma heart aches for you, Jolyn! Been there, twice. I know how you feel.
Wish you were near by so I could hug you tight.
Thank you so much. I’m sorry for your losses as well. I’m sure they are sharp in your memory still.
I fought back tears, thank you for sharing & my prayers are with you ā”
Thanks, Jess.
So sorry for your loss, little one. Wish you were here so I could give you all 3 a big hug. Thinking of you! Julie
Thanks for writing this. It’s beautiful. Phil and I miscarried once before Trinity, and once after her. Both I “know” were boys, even though I have no “proof”. Matthew Tanner and Caleb John. I also miscarried once before Phil and I were married with my ex-husband. I “know” that Trin is that little girl I miscarried before. Trinity talks almost daily about Sautry, her imaginary friend, who is kinda a little mischief maker. I can remember being soooo scared when I found out I was pregnant with Trin, I was scared up until we heard her heartbeat. Then, I relaxed a bit. After Trin, when I miscarried again, I thought, be grateful you have a miracle to hold. Jo, I feel ya, sister. There really are no words for the pain, but you expressed it beautifully. I love ya, sister. Hang in there. I know God has a plan. But one of the scary things I’ve been finding out is that much of our food supply is intentionally being modified to cause infertility, the feminization of men, and sterility in the third generation. Please, don’t take my word for it. Do your own research, but check out the movie, Thrive, learn about GMO foods, and the huge amounts of pseudo estrogens in our daily household products like lotion, shampoo, soaps, etc. It’s crazy. I have become the reluctant activist. I never set out to become so educated in this but there is something crazy sinister going on. My two neice in laws have both had miscarriages within the last 12 months. They are both in great health and under 35. The amount of healthy women having miscarriages and c sections is truly mind boggling. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be sooo wordy. I guess you opened me up. Thanks, Jo. My deepest deepest condolences to you and your family. I love you! You’re awesome. Love, Chrissie
ps, you and your sister’s growth chart are still where you wrote them, on the wall by laundry room š
I hope you find comfort knowing that God heard your words as you wrote them & He understands. God bless Jolyn.
I just found your blog today – and I was reading a couple of posts and found this one. Wish I could give you a hug through a computer! We were learned in Aug we were expecting (our first) and I will never forget that crisp Sept day when I lost it. There is no way to express the sorrow and grief that follows. I heard the same things you did – and tried to understand it was for the best. Anyhow – for what its worth – thank you for sharing your story.
Thank you, and I’m so sorry to hear about your baby as well. June 5 was when I lost mine…we’ll always remember those dates, won’t we? God willing, I hope you find the courage to try again when you’re ready. I’m just now feeling ready to have another baby – I already have one, and they sure are worth all the heartache š