You can't walk into THAT place without feeling nauseous, like you're going to cry or be short with someone or the unthinkable is going to happen again. You can't step on that scale, be in that room, see that nurse without remembering the day you thought that for a split second God somehow forgot about you. That His angels took a break while on duty and Satan snuck in the back door when no one was looking. Going back in there has never gotten easier. Everytime I feel the taste of bile, my eyes start to burn and I want to run away. But let's just be honest- that was Satan's plan all along. To hit me with a bone rattling left hook that shook me to my core then to make me relive it with little jabs every so often. He's crafty, that jerk. It's impossible to explain miscarriage to someone who hasn't experienced it. It doesn't matter how far along you are, which pregnancy, or who you had told; it is the mourning of never getting to see someone you've loved with all your heart. Never knowing their eyes, their hair, their tiny fingers and toes. Never getting to console their cries with your kisses or hearing them say I love you, mommy. That's the loss that no one can understand. That you would never want anyone else to go through, yet you wish they would get. That NEVER goes away, is just buried under days and months and years. So there we were sitting and waiting (and waiting because they overbook themselves every.dang.day). I had never been so anxious. The same sweet nurse, the same schpill, the same packet of info we had shoved back in her face through tears last visit. The same machine wheeled in. I honestly had my eyes closed so tight for a second I thought the electricity went out. Then the same static noise. And the waiting. Would we hear silence and whispering and see "the look" or would we leave smiling today? Then, out of static came a teeny tiny heartbeat. In that moment I felt like Jesus had just battled Satan and returned what he had stole from us last year. And really, He did.