For over a decade now, I’ve scoured the shelves of my local library and bookstores for the types of literature that speak of women’s suffering—especially, the stories of women whom have grieved over losing a child. In 2004, I found myself part of a community that I did not want to belong to, a reluctant joiner. Reading about how other woman had lost their babies didn’t make me more depressed about my miscarriages, no. Actually, knowing I was not alone, that support existed, and that my feelings, experiences, physical and emotional wounds, and attitude about what I was going through was quite normal—all of it became an integral part of my healing journey. Our stories, no matter how painful they may be, need to be shared.
Miscarriage and infertility has affected me in dire ways. When I lost my first child, I knew I would never be the same. Honestly, I thought I would never get over the physical, not to mention, emotional toll losing her did to me. It wrecked me so. Yet, I survived it, five times more, even.
Today, I can reflect on the journey and realize, that with each baby loss, my capacity for compassion and empathy, tolerance and patience toward others, and myself, has grown in ways that may never have occurred if I hadn’t lost so much. The woman I am today is simultaneously stronger and softer, because of the suffering I have endured.
What I have learned along the way, with each subsequent baby loss, is that you must, must, must—only when you are ready—speak of your loss, share your story, and let your heart grieve in all the zig-zag ways it will. I’m so thankful for those book authors and bloggers I discovered, and for their courage to scratch open their wounds of baby loss to help me, and others like me, grieving a miscarriage and a child lost far too soon.
Once you open yourself up to the truth of your loss, you will begin to heal. You’ll cease feeling haunted by the what if’s. What could I have done to prevent this? What should I have done differently? Will this happen again?
In sharing your story, you will find that you are not alone in the loneliest, most shockingly isolated time of your life. People will begin to open up about how miscarriage and infant loss has affected them, as well. You will discover that a friend of a friend has lost multiple children, too. That a college friend has lost a niece to SIDS. That your elderly neighbors lost their first child, and a set of twins, at six months along. Your best friend will struggle to get pregnant for the first time. She’ll go on to have a beautiful girl, and when ready to try again after a healthy pregnancy, she will struggle with secondary infertility and her own repeat miscarriages. Your college roommate, who lives 3,000 miles away from you, will text you a devastating message that she just lost her third, and she is giving up all hope of opening up her heart and womb to another chance at bringing life into the world.
You will begin to become jaded, thinking about nothing other than all of these gut-kicking losses—and how none of it makes any sense. All the suffering is overwhelming—just too much. Much too much. Though, you must find the will and the way to carry on.
This is where you allow the stories of so many other parents’ heartbreaking losses reach you, speak to you, guide, inform, and empower you to move on—although, forever changed. Prayer is a healer, too. (So is a little self-care and more frequent indulgences, such as luxurious bubble baths, weekly massage, an afternoon movie, pilates and yoga class, and more nature hikes.)
One morning, you will wake up and find your footing and breath once again. You will gain strength, and surprise yourself with your resilience. Some of that resolve you will gather from your newfound community of loss. You will learn to reveal your pain in healthy ways, and begin to be able to offer comfort and support to others’ going through the nightmare of miscarriage, and losing a child. You will. You may not want to be the baby loss expert, but your loss has enormous purpose, and your baby’s life has tremendous meaning—especially because he or she lived such a short time.
You can be brave and find treasure in the tragedy. You can turn your loss into hope for yourself and others. You can find a glimmer of hope in the murk of despair.
You will smile again. I promise you, you will. You will be able to face a shopping trip inside a mom- and baby-filled Target, and for once pass the baby section without bursting into tears. You will, one day, be able to stop sending regrets for the baby shower invites of beloved friends and family members growing their families without trouble or tragedy. You’ll actually one day want to hold those new infants in your arms, and will be able to without grief washing over you like a waterfall of despair. You will find yourself truly happy for your friends and family, and these new lives. You will.
Don’t rush the grieving process, though. You take your time, knowing you’ll get to a place of peace and hope in your own way. One day—you will. Maybe not today, maybe not even by next October. However, one day—your day—will come. I promise you that.
What has helped you reach a level of peace and hope after losing a child?
Sweet little flower of heavenly birth, you were too fair to bloom on earth. ~ Author Unknown
Miscarriage is quite a unique type of death experience. It haunts your mind and heart in ways that are difficult to put aside. Not only are you losing a child and the dream of that little person, but you often never know what went wrong to cause the child’s life to end so soon. The grief process after a miscarriage can be a lonely, arduous time.
Although you might feel like hiding away, try to share the truth of your pain with those closest to you. Reach out and be honest, raw, and open about what it is like to lose a child so suddenly. What I have learned over the years is that no one truly understands what you are going through—especially the incredible strength miscarriage and baby loss asks and takes from you—unless the person has experienced the same type of trauma, themselves. You can still try, though. It is worthwhile to include your loved ones in your grieving process, if only to honor the life of the child you grieve for so desperately.
At first, the well-meaning friends and family you open up to might be uncomfortable with the level and intensity of your sadness as you grieve for the child you will never see, hold, nurse, nor raise. They may try to comfort you with what feels like unsympathetic comments such as:
“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.” (Sorry, but this life I carried inside, actually did mean something to us. It was our child.)
“It wasn’t really a baby yet, anyway.” (As if a pregnancy test and a beating heart on a screen one day, but gone the next, can be denied.)
“Don’t worry, you’ll get pregnant again soon!” (As if they know this for certain—they don’t. And even if you do become pregnant soon after your loss, the next child will never replace the love and dream you had for the child that never lived.)
Feel free to tell your loved ones the truth—that you are grieving because you just lost a child. Explain that the heartache you feel is over all the hope and dreams you had, but have gone away. Gently inform that just because the baby hadn’t been born at an age when they had a fighting chance to live, his life still had meaning.
Invite your family and friends to join you on your grievous journey so they can reach a clearer understanding of miscarriage and baby loss. Allowing these loved ones to hold your hand along the way will open up their eyes and minds to the right and privilege that is yours alone to honor and cherish your miscarried babies in any compelling way, and how you’ll forever carry their memory imprinted on your heart.
How have your family and friends helped or hindered your ability to grieve a miscarriage?
“Some people say it is a shame. Others even imply that it would have been better if the baby had never been created. But the short time I had with my child is precious to me. It is painful to me, but I still wouldn’t wish it away. I prayed that God would bless us with a baby. Each child is a gift, and I am proud that we cooperated with God in the creation of a new soul for all eternity. Although not with me, my baby lives.”
― Christine O’Keeffe Lafser,
In America during the month of October, advocacy campaigns support a list of worthy national causes, including those meant to raise awareness and support for the early detection of breast cancer, anti-bullying attempts, and domestic violence prevention. Though, a campaign in October that reaches the closest to my heart is the one that was deemed integral to supporting mothers and fathers devastated by pregnancy and baby loss.
In an effort to do my part to support those grieving the loss of a baby, as I have suffered six times before, I will be devoting my blog posts this month of October to spreading awareness and support. (Please feel free to read some of my blog posts and what I’ve shared in the past about my miscarriage experiences.) The blog posts I feel compelled to share this month will reflect on my personal story of miscarriage: how each of my baby losses have shaped, molded, and changed me; how The Husband and I have coped over the years with so many losses; how we have chosen to honor each of our angel babies; and what the grieving feels and looks like now.
My greatest hope for October is that you will join me in spreading awareness of pregnancy and baby loss, perhaps by lending your support to those suffering this insurmountable pain, and honoring all the children that gained their angels’ wings before their precious feet ever touched the ground. Thank you, gentle and kind readers.
Have you suffered a miscarriage or experienced the loss of a baby? What support do you wish you had during that time of loss and grief? Does sharing your story—through writing, creating art, talking about the experience, or honoring your child(ren)in a special way—help at all?