“There’s the heartbeat! Everything looks good! I think this baby is going to be healthy and just fine! Congratulations!”
Those words echoed in the room during our 12-week appointment with our daughter, Aly Joy. It felt surreal, and yet, we had already walked through so much to get here. Two miscarriages in just two years had left deep scars, though nestled between them was the joy of our healthy little Ruby. Our first miscarriage happened just two months after our wedding. It was devastating—we never even got the chance to see our baby. We followed medical advice to wait a month after the bleeding stopped before trying again. Almost immediately, we were blessed with Ruby. Even though doctors reassured me that miscarrying a first pregnancy was common, the first weeks with Ruby were shadowed with worry—every twinge, every quiet moment without her movement, every bathroom trip filled me with anxiety. Yet, every check-up revealed a thriving baby, and slowly, the fear began to ease.
We embraced Ruby’s arrival with gratitude and joy, vowing to wait until she turned one before trying again. But just two months after her first birthday, we were pregnant. Excitement and hope flooded us from day one. At our first check-up, we couldn’t wait to see the baby, to hear a heartbeat. Then the NP turned the monitor toward us and said, “Here’s the baby… but there’s no heartbeat. You should be eight weeks, but it looks like growth stopped around six weeks. It may not have ever had a heartbeat.”
Shock and heartbreak consumed us instantly. I had accepted that miscarriage could happen once, but not now—especially after Ruby. What followed was the longest month of our lives. We waited, hoping my body would naturally miscarry, but each week brought nothing. Eventually, we faced a difficult decision: take medication to end the pregnancy ourselves, or undergo a D&C under anesthesia. Mentally exhausted, we chose the D&C. The procedure was over quickly, but the grief lingered. Two days later, while trying to get out of the house for dinner, intense contractions hit. Clutching the car door, bent over in pain, I endured an hour at home in fetal position, followed by a long cry in the bathtub—mourning another loss, questioning if my body could ever carry a healthy baby again.
One piece of hope came from my doctor, who reminded us that fertility is often higher immediately after a pregnancy or miscarriage. Encouraged by Ruby’s healthy arrival after our first loss, we decided to try again right away. My cycles had been irregular, but the D&C helped regulate them enough to track ovulation. For the first time, we actively tried—using apps, timing cycles, and all the “tricks” we could find. Month after month brought negatives, and each disappointment chipped away at our hope. By the third month, I hadn’t even gotten a period, making us question if tracking would be possible.
Two weeks later, after a wedding, I decided to take one last test. Alex stopped at Dollar Tree to grab a cheap one—at this point, testing had become a full-time hobby. Three drops of urine, three agonizing minutes, and then… two lines. Positive. Tears streamed down my face as I ran to Alex. “Alex, there are TWO lines!” We held each other in the laundry room, crying, praying, and thanking God. We promised to love this baby, to care for them, and to trust Him through the pregnancy.
Our doctor confirmed the tiny heartbeat that same week. Six weeks along, our fourth child was growing strong. Weekly appointments until week 10 were nerve-wracking, but each time, the heartbeat remained steady, and our confidence grew. By 12 weeks, we finally reached what doctors call the “safe zone.” Every week after, our excitement deepened. At 16 weeks, we tried to discover the gender, but baby refused to show. At 18 weeks, our friend Audra brought an ultrasound machine to her home so we could take more time. After 30 minutes of waiting, she confidently said, “It’s a GIRL!” Writing “Daddy’s Girl” on the picture, we were thrilled.
But joy quickly turned to despair. A few days later, something felt off. Audra returned, tears in her eyes. “I can’t find a heartbeat. I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Alex froze as I collapsed onto his lap, crying out in disbelief. We returned home silently, clinging to each other, praying for a miracle. The next morning, the ER confirmed our fears: no heartbeat. Our doctor gently explained our options—a D&C or induction—and we chose to be induced so we could meet and hold our baby.
Labor was painful and surreal. Contractions left me crawling on the bed, passing out briefly, yet when Aly Joy arrived, even at just three ounces, every moment was precious. Nurses cut the cord, measured her, and handed her to me. I held her tiny, red body, memorizing her features—especially her lips, which looked just like mine. We named her Aly Joy, carrying the same initials as Alex, just as Ruby carried mine. Though her time with us was brief, her impact was immense. The cord had wrapped around her leg and neck in a figure eight, causing her death, but in every other way, she was perfect. Holding her was worth every ounce of pain, a memory I will treasure forever.
We held a funeral for Aly Joy, where Ruby met her “seester.” Even at nearly two, she showed love and curiosity, carrying Aly’s picture and showing her toys as if teaching her. The day was heavy with grief, yet a strange peace accompanied it. God’s presence reminded us that Aly’s time on earth was brief but intentional, and that we had honored her life fully. Watching Alex cover her grave, tears streaming, I held him close, accepting our reality together. Trusting God didn’t remove the grief, but it gave us strength.
Instagram has been a place of healing for me. After our first miscarriage, I felt isolated, walking through darkness alone. Sharing our second loss opened doors to support and encouragement. Messages from women who felt less alone because of our story have been countless and deeply meaningful. Henly, Elly, and Aly Joy—our three little joys—are treasures, whether on earth or in Heaven. Our story is hard, but sharing it sheds light on a journey many endure in silence. To anyone experiencing loss: you are not alone, and there is hope. We grieve, we heal, and we persevere together.
P.S. We are expecting baby #5 – May 2020!
