Last Thanksgiving I was told, by my oldest son, that I was going to be a grandmother. I was pretty tickled and really looked forward to being able to spoil my first grandchild. Two weeks later, my daughter in law called me and said she was having trouble with the pregnancy. She had started spotting and her doctor told her that he didn’t think she would carry the baby to term. On January 5th, my 43 birthday, I took a call from my son, who was in tears. He said that his wife had miscarried early that morning. To be expected, he was devastated. This was supposed to be his first child after all. I was there for them, calmly listening and giving words of encouragement for a couple of hours.
After I hung up with him, I curled up on my bed and cried. I felt as if I’d gone through my miscarriage again. I guess I have grieved since then. Not only grieving the loss of my first grandchild but grieving for my son. What should have been a wonderful, joyous time has turned into a time of sadness for them. I wish I could take away his pain and give them back their precious baby. Truthfully, their loss hurts my heart even worse than my own did.