The 12-Hour Rule

A New Cultural Norm

The cramping started in the middle of the night, waking me from a peaceful slumber.

I should take some ibuprofen before the cramps get too bad.

But I can’t take ibuprofen; I’m pregnant.

If I’m pregnant, then why am I cramping?

Panic filled my body as I raced to the bathroom.

For the next three days, I told my boss I was sick. I couldn’t tell him my first baby had died, because I had never told him I was pregnant. Hubby and I stayed home and mourned alone. If my mom had died, I would have received bereavement days. Instead, my unborn baby had died, and my company had no bereavement days acknowledged in the employee handbook. I used 24 hours of sick time and tried to heal.

But healing is hard when you’re healing alone. Hubby and I had told no one. We didn’t tell our parents. We didn’t tell our friends. I didn’t tell my college roommates, and I didn’t tell the one person I am closest to - my sister. Our culture tells us we need to wait until we are 12 weeks pregnant before sharing the news of the precious new life God is knitting together. You might miscarry, is the logic. Wait until the pregnancy is viable. The chances of losing the baby are greatly reduced after 12 weeks.

But this is illogical logic.

Hiding my pregnancy prevented people from praying for my baby. Every morning, Hubby and I go for a 2-mile prayer walk. We have people divided into prayer categories: immediate family, extended family, those who don’t know Jesus, missionaries, the sick, the struggling, and the pregnant mamas and their babes. My baby never had the chance to be prayed over, because I treated my pregnancy like it was a big secret.

But what if I had told people? Then I would have had to share with them that my baby died. And what is wrong with that? Because I told no one, I felt a deep sense of failure and shame when I miscarried. It seemed backward that so many unwed teenagers get pregnant when they don’t want a baby, but my infertile womb had been crying out for a baby for years. I couldn’t understand what God was up to. Was I being punished? Is there shame in the death of a baby? No. But a pregnancy kept secret certainly left a big stamp of shame on this mama’s heart.

If I had shared my pregnancy with people, I would have had a support network. Yes, Hubby and I would have made those difficult phone calls, but we wouldn’t have mourned behind closed doors. More than anything, I wanted to cry on my sister’s shoulder and have her hold my hand through the most difficult part of my life at the time. Instead, she stood apart, left outside of my grief because I had closed the door.

As the years have passed, the heartache has diminished, but never completely disappeared. It rears its ugly head when the doctor says, “How many pregnancies? How many live births?” It comes flooding back every December, as we ignore the birthday that never was. And the heartache turns to rejoicing when I realize every day I am one step closer to meeting my first child.

I saw a former piano student last month, and she shared that she and her husband are expecting, but it was early yet, and she wasn’t telling anyone.

Why aren’t you telling anyone?

Well, you know, just in case I miscarry.

And if you miscarry, do you want to grieve alone?

I guess I never thought about it.

Do you want people praying for your baby?

Of course!

How can they pray if they don’t know you’re pregnant?

I hereby propose that, as a society, we establish a new cultural norm.

The 12-Hour Rule:

Share your pregnancy with everyone close to you within 12 hours of finding out. Ask them to pray for you and your baby. Surround your baby with a prayer network.

It just might last a lifetime.

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