Love, Loss, and Rainbows

It’s December 28, 2023.  I’ve just celebrated my first Christmas with Robert, my boyfriend of three months, his family, and my five-year old son Rowan who I share 50/50 custody of. I’m lying face-down, getting a massage to help alleviate pain in my shoulder from overexertion during my workout the day before. As the masseuse presses into my back, I’m suddenly hyper aware of my aching breasts. An alarm goes off in my brain: take a test.  

I reassure myself that this is just another instance of my classic paranoia as I had just been to my OBGYN three weeks prior, where I took a test that was negative.  Gussie, a young nurse practitioner, reassured me that IUDs are one the most reliable forms of birth control, with an over 99% effectiveness rate. Yet, here I am, holding the digital test with the word pregnant saturated in bold blue letters affirming the impossible.  Hours later, Robert and I are sitting at my dining room table, with eight positive pregnancy tests neatly lined up in a row. In the morning, I book the first appointment available with Gussie.  As she walks into the exam room, Gussie exclaims, “This is rare, so, so rare.” 

She shares that the urine test indicates I’m 2-3 weeks pregnant and informs us of my two options of either leaving the IUD in place or removing it—both come with the risk of miscarriage.  Suddenly, I flash back to the last time I was in this exam room, over five years ago, when I discovered I was pregnant with my firstborn son. That pregnancy, however, came with an unexpected twist: I learned about it 29 weeks in, a phenomenon known as a cryptic pregnancy. This delay was rooted in my mental health struggles compounded by a substance use disorder, during which my mind dissociated from reality to shield myself from overwhelming pain of repressed childhood trauma magnified by my loveless marriage. 

Now, although I find myself in the same exam room, the circumstances couldn’t be more different. Sitting beside a man who I’ve recently fallen in love with and still have so much more to learn about, I feel a powerful wave of emotions. I burst into tears—a cascade of anxiety, fear, and joy interwoven in a way that feels almost sacred. Robert crouches in front of me, gently holding my hands. In a calm yet resolute tone, he says, “Remember, we serve a powerful God.” In that moment, I’m struck by a profound realization: this newfound, sober love hasn’t distanced me from reality—it’s brought me closer to it, grounding me in a deeper awareness of my mind, body, and soul than I’ve ever known.

I opt to have the IUD removed, reasoning that leaving it in poses a greater threat to the pregnancy.  I’m to return for another blood test to gauge the viability of the baby after the New Year’s Holiday.  Before we know it, it’s New Year’s Eve. As the clock strikes midnight, I hang my head in shame and tell Robert, “You shouldn’t marry me just because I’m pregnant.” With my voice quivering, I continue, “Why would you want to marry me?” He kneels before me, takes my hands into his, looking me dead in the eyes and says, “You are not broken.” All at once, the glass facade of my identity—constructed from lies I believe about myself—shatters, scattering ragged pieces at my feet.  

On January 2, I go for the blood test that will determine the fate of our baby.  The following day, I wake as the sun begins to rise and follow the warm golden beams to the restroom. Glancing down, I see a pool of blood—so much blood. Dropping to my knees in prayer, I beg God to not allow this miracle to die.  Less than an hour later, Gussie confirms the truth that is too painful to bear: the pregnancy is non-viable. I climb into my son’s vacant race car tent bed, curl into the fetal position, and allow myself to feel the agonizing pain of losing a child I never knew I truly wanted until they were gone forever. 

Gasping for air, I call Rowan’s dad and arrange for him to bring Rowan to meet me for lunch at our favorite restaurant. As I sip on a soothing cup of tea, I hear Rowan yell, “Mommy!” I run to him, sweeping him into the warm embrace of my arms. With sincere concern on his face, Rowan asks, “Mommy, why do you look so sad?” Fighting back tears, I say, “Mommy lost something, baby.”  With precocious compassion, he replies, “That’s okay, mommy, I’ll help you find it.” He proceeds to draw a picture and presents me his finished masterpiece featuring stick-figure versions of us holding hands, with a rainbow arching in the background. 

As I take in Rowan’s artwork, I’m reminded of the process of creating a stained-glass window—vibrant shards carefully shaped, detailed with patterns, and fired to fuse into a breathtaking masterpiece. In the same way, when my life shatters, God gathers the broken pieces, crafting them into something only He can envision, each shard stained with the imprint of love and loss. Though I long for the rainbow of better days, in this simple moment of connection with my son, I’m profoundly grateful for the way love and pain forge together, forming a radiant mosaic of stained glass that is my life.