My husband and I had been trying to conceive for a while. We lost a baby in 2015, and after years of heartbreak, we finally decided to try again. Just as we were starting to feel defeated, the moment came: two pink lines. We were overjoyed, eagerly sharing the news with family and friends, imagining the future. But our joy was short-lived. A few weeks later, I discovered I was miscarrying. I lost that baby on May 4th, 2018—the day before my 25th birthday.
We didn’t wait long. As soon as we could, we started trying again. I tracked everything meticulously, hopeful yet cautious. A few months later, the moment arrived: another positive test. I held it in my hands, trembling, tears streaming down my face. It was real. We were expecting our rainbow baby.
I scheduled an appointment immediately for confirmation. They confirmed the pregnancy but ordered HCG blood tests to track my levels. When I called a few days later, the news crushed me: my levels weren’t rising as they should. My pregnancy was considered non-viable. I fell to the ground, crying, heartbroken.
Soon after, spotting began. Then the bleeding became heavy. I called my doctor, desperate for answers, begging to have my hormone levels tested. He refused, telling me to “consider my options” and that there was nothing he could do. I let things pass naturally, grieving alone, my body and heart aching unbearably.
The next day, I insisted on testing my levels. After arguing, they finally relented. My progesterone was dangerously low, and still, nothing could be done. I was told to go to the ER if the bleeding worsened. A few days later, it did. I could barely walk. I carried a small sticky note with me for comfort: “Exodus 23:26 – no one shall suffer miscarriage or be barren in your land.” I prayed as I walked into the hospital.
An ultrasound revealed a completed miscarriage. Confused by contradictory test results, I left feeling numb. I scheduled a new OBGYN appointment immediately—refusing to return to the previous doctor. My new doctor reassured me, promising to help uncover the reasons behind my losses.
At the ultrasound, I expected an empty screen, bracing myself for the heartbreak. My husband held my hand tightly as the technician scanned my womb. Then, with a soft smile, she pointed to a tiny flicker on the screen: my baby’s heartbeat. My world froze. I whispered, “Are you sure?” But there it was—a small, defiant light. My husband’s hand squeezed mine, tears in his eyes, and for the first time in days, hope stirred within me.
My doctor confirmed it: my baby was alive and had a strong heart rate. He couldn’t explain the bleeding, but he encouraged me to trust God. We went home, cautious optimism in our hearts. Every morning and night, my husband prayed over me and our baby. I clung to my sticky note, reading it over and over for reassurance.
The bleeding continued for weeks, passing large clots, each moment terrifying. But through every check-up, every ultrasound, my baby clung on. Despite medical uncertainty, our rainbow persisted. The love, faith, and prayers surrounding us became our lifeline.
Eventually, the bleeding stopped, and the rest of my pregnancy progressed beautifully. Around 37 weeks, I was induced due to Intrahepatic Cholestasis of Pregnancy (ICP), a condition that can be dangerous for the baby. On March 23, our little miracle arrived: Emerson Joshua Carr, healthy, perfect, and full of life. He is our rainbow, our misdiagnosed miscarriage turned miracle, and the light of our world.
Looking back, all the pain, tears, and uncertainty now feel like a distant memory. Every moment was worth it for him. Emerson reminds us that miracles can happen, and sometimes, hope truly is stronger than fear.
