I made it to 12 weeks. My doctor called it a miracle. I just wanted it to end. The pain, the court hearings, the unknown. In my mind it would have been easier to have miscarried that day. Then I wouldn't have to eat to nourish a life I was just going to lose. I felt selfish for wanting it to happen. In my mind I had no other reason to live. Once I miscarried, I'd make my plan. But I never did miscarry. I made it to 16 weeks and then 20. The whole time I was angry I was still pregnant. At this point there was no danger of miscarriage. Everything sounded and looked great. I was miserable. I wanted out. I had spiraled into a deep depression that I hid from my husband and my entire family. I was merely walking through the motions. Our 20 week ultrasound came.
And then I saw her tiny, precious face. She saved me that day. She had kept me alive this long. She gave me strength to go on, strength to seek help, strength to care for our little family. Strength to seek God's forgiveness. I would never be the same again. She was our little miracle. She saved me.
(Side notes: Our car insurance company was able to persuade the family of the deceased to not sue us but to take a hefty settlement from them instead. We hired an amazing defense attorney and after many hours of community service, my husband's record was expunged. Speed nor alcohol were reasons in the accident. The young man was not wearing a seatbelt.)
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