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Why Im glad I told people I was pregnant, even though I miscarried
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Emily Edmonds holds her baby shortly after giving birth this past September. - photo by Emily Edmonds
It was too perfect.

My husbands family was in town for the weekend. One of his sisters had called earlier with news she was pregnant. That Saturday night another sister told us she was also expecting, her due date just a week after her sisters.

All the baby announcements made me start thinking and counting. The next morning I took a test. As nonchalantly as I could I pulled my husband away from our company to show him the two pink stripes.

Should we tell everyone? I asked.

We weighed the options for a good five seconds before we decided to share. It would be fun, we concluded, to tell his family in person and the timing was unbelievable. Secrets were never my strong suit anyway.

That night we made our announcement surrounded by family and followed by cheers and tears.

Three grandbabies in one year, my mother-in-law said, wiping her eyes.

My husband and I immediately started making plans: what names we liked, which room would be the nursery, what we wanted to do before our little one was born.

The excitement, dreaming and planning continued for three weeks until the night I noticed some spotting. My stomach sank as I told my husband, and my mind raced with questions. What if? Five hours later cramping began and the blood became heavier.

The next week we received confirmation of the miscarriage, although it wasnt much of a surprise judging from the empty sac on the ultrasound screen and my falling HCG numbers.

Because we had told family members about the pregnancy it had been easy to tell a few close friends too. And then a few more. We soon realized we had a decent amount of backtracking to do.

Now, two years later, I still tear up thinking about the miscarriage. But it was also one of the times I felt the most overloaded with love.

The day after we received the news, my friend took me out to lunch for a good chat while her kids climbed on the jungle gym at Chick-fil-A. When she dropped me off at home, our neighbors were at my front porch, their 3-year-old son holding a bouquet of cheery flowers that he presented to me with a dimpled grin.

That weekend my husband and I took a trip to see family for Easter. The hugs and attention helped assuage the emptiness. I was even comforted from strangers who just happened to say the right things.

I was surprised to hear similar stories from family and friends, whether it was stretches of infertility or miscarriages, sometimes two in a row. Their empathy gave me strength and hope.

The phone calls and texts continued. A family friend a fertility doctor spent 45 minutes giving explanations and advice once I mustered the courage to call him.

There were still occasions when I burst into tears. Every picture of a baby bump or ultrasound on Facebook pinged my heart. I dreaded the day when I finally threw away the positive pregnancy test stored under my bathroom sink. But even though the sadness sometimes stung, I felt happy.

Nine months later I stood in the bathroom at my in-laws house looking at another set of positive stripes. I felt nervousness mixed with excitement, hope dotted with trepidation.

Then I reminded myself of the lesson I had learned the previous year: life is good, even when it isnt. I raced to find my husband, pull him aside again and share the news.

Three granddaughters born within one year, my mother-in-law said as she held my dark-eyed baby, born on a beautiful morning last September.

It was too perfect.