How My Baby Survived My Miscarriage

One day after everything had been surgically sucked out of my uterus, I met my baby.

Not in the remains from the surgery. Not even in a photograph of the carnage.

But inside my body. On an ultrasound of my Fallopian tube.

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There, nestled in the nook of a narrow tube, I see her. Or him. Whatever it is, it’s clearly still growing inside me. Pressing against my Fallopian tube until the delicate tunnel is about to rupture.

“We need to perform another surgery.” My doctor can hardly believe what he’s saying. “Today.”

I nod, unable to peel my eyes off this bean-shaped treasure. I thought I’d already said goodbye to this baby. This baby who, apparently, could still be alive.

The little black peanut looks so innocent, cuddled up cozily in the tiny tube where only 1-2% of pregnancies occur. If only it had traveled an inch or so further, I could have welcomed him or her into my arms next spring.

In that moment, there’s nothing I want more than that baby. To learn the sound of his laughter or discover her greatest passion. To reach out and touch it, even if my fingers only graze a glass screen.

There’s nothing I want more than to prove to this baby I can be a good mother.

But that option doesn’t exist.

Tubal pregnancies are very dangerous,” my doctor continues, an added layer of seriousness in his voice. “If we don’t perform surgery and your tube ruptures, you could die from internal bleeding. If we do the surgery, I will most likely have to take the Fallopian tube.”

I nod again, like I’m consenting. Like I have consented to any of this.

Then, after bursting through the front doors of the doctor’s office, I sink onto the curb with my husband where the Texas summer clings to me like my diagnosis. Hot, sticky, grimace-worthy.

What’s worse: Knowing your baby could kill you or finding out your baby could still be alive and now you have to kill it?

The thoughts are too heavy to bear. But they’re also too heavy to shake.

“Do you trust me?” God asks, the same way He did when we first heard about the miscarriage.

I can’t think, let alone trust. Trusting something—even God—feels risky. Naive. Almost irresponsible.

I can only do what I’m instructed. Like a mindless drone.

And right now, I am being instructed to have another surgery. So I agree. I sign the papers, and agree to lose my baby—again—along with half of my future fertility.


When I wake up, the drugs are strong. I don’t know where I am or who’s beside me. All I know is I’m shivering away the anesthesia, and each twitch sets my stomach on fire.

Someone throws a warm blanket on my head.

“You look like Mother Mary!”

I swear that’s what a nurse says, but it might just be my own lame, delusional humor.

They tell me my husband is waiting, and that I have another visitor as well. Someone they call a ‘lady friend’. In my doped up state, I smile, and somehow know to look for my sister-in-law.

Then they roll me down the hallway in my casket of warm blankets. I’m buried in heat. And I’m still freezing.

Finally, I see his face. My husband. My best friend. The captain of our team.

“The doctor said everything went fine. Your Fallopian tube was ruptured. Apparently, it had also twisted up and attached to your abdomen wall.” He gently touches my hand, making sure to avoid the IV needle and tubes shooting out of my arms like wild veins. “Doc said that saved you.”

For a moment, the drugs stop tugging at my eyelids. Even the shivers stop.

“Do you trust me?” God asks for the umpteenth time since this all began. This time, I hear Him through the madness and finally grant Him an answer. Finally allow Him to stay.

Funny how His tone never waivers. Never condescends. Never says, “I told you so.” Not even now, when He totally could. He doesn’t even force me to trust Him or state it as a command. He simply asks.

Do you trust me?

Because the truth is—whether I trusted Him or not—He’s been on my team the whole time. Long before I even knew I needed a teammate, He was there.

Before I knew anything needed to be fixed, God knew.

And He chose to fix it. He chose to save me.

I imagine Him flawlessly twisting the tube and attaching it securely to my abdominal membranes. Tying the delicate tube into a knot that would stop the blood. Creating the perfect tourniquet before the injury even took place.

But this isn’t the first time God’s done that for me.

Long before I knew I needed a teammate, He was there, willingly hanging on a cross. His own blood gushing from his body without a tourniquet to stop it.

Before I knew anything needed to be fixed, God knew.

And He chose to fix it. He chose to save me.

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