Category Archives: Miscarriage

Inner-peace and perspective

24 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by in Blessings, Friendship, Glorifying God, Lifelong friends, Love, Miscarriage, Peace, Prayers, Writing

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If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.  ~Mother Teresa

Today is a new day and for this, I am glad.

Yesterday was equal parts tragedy and healing. The only way I came through it was by the prayers and heartfelt sentiments from my husband and beloved family and friends. Love surrounded me, engulfed my being, took hold of my heart and the pain seemed to fly away on angels’ wings. Only a few times before have I been so aware of His graces showering over me. I needed a showering like that yesterday. So, if you prayed for me or sent some goodness my way, I thank you with heartfelt gladness.

Somehow, running mundane errands and walking a bit through Uptown with Baby Girl (while my other little loves were happily learning and playing at their schools) was just what I needed. We spent a quiet, low-key, no-hush sort of day together and it was the perfect ailment to my hurt and the illness she’s been fighting the last few days. After the morning school drop-off, I could not go back home. I just couldn’t face housework and small reminders of loss. And, deep down, I knew that what I truly needed was a change in routine. That meant heading outdoors with my Baby Girl to breathe in the fresh, late-summer air and let the sun shine down upon our cheeks and shoulders while we listened for the birds chirping their mid-morning tunes. For a moment, I pondered going for a hike, but she was still too ill to take on much more than a small outing. Instead, she and I walked and wondered together—hand in hand–marveling at God’s beauty all around us, rejoicing in the change of pace from our typical Friday.  She was so well-behaved while I finished those few errands. So well-mannered, in fact that the extra time we had allowed us to peruse around new shops, and revisit some old favorites. We strolled along admiring so many precious things, and I have to admit, we indulged in a little retail therapy, too! (What’s a girl to do when she sees a designer bag that she’s been coveting on super-clearance sale? [For Me] Or, a stuffed animal cat donning a tutu? [Of course, for Baby Girl] I mean, a beautiful purse and a cat wearing a tutu! What can be better than that?) Some things are just meant to be had.

All shopping was done and we found our way back home. To my amazement, peace surrounded me the moment I entered inside. The sense of contentment was felt in the air, but also deep inside me. I knew the prayers were working.

Graces were abundant as I received some unexpected, thoughtful, sentimental treasures throughout the day. First, there was a gift from a best friend who, unfortunately, understands my pain because she, herself, has suffered through three miscarriages. Firstly, the cards this woman writes to me are treasure troves in and of themselves. I have saved every single one of them that she has penned to me over the years as our relationship has grown into the deep and profound friendship we now share. The card she sent for me to read yesterday is filled with words so wise and heartfelt that moved me in so many ways. Her written words are a keepsake—a reminder of love from a kindred spirit. The physical gifts she presents are equally meaningful and lovely. Yesterday’s gift was no exception. A beautiful treasure to receive, it now hangs prominently in our front entryway and will be a daily reminder of how blessed we are to have a family to cherish—a combination of loved ones both here on earth and in heaven.

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The gifts of expressive love continued as I heard a knock at my front door and found the local flower delivery person holding a beautiful white floral arrangement for me. I did not have to wonder who would send me such gorgeous flowers in the middle of the day—none only than one of my dearest, oldest, best friends. This woman—someone I have considered an honorary sister for the last 18 years—has lifted me up in prayer countless times, sends me uplifting Bible verses via text or email, and spoils me with beautiful flowers at times when I least expect such a gift. She lives 2,500 miles away, now, but there are days when it feels to me she and I are closer than ever before. She is my sister in Christ and her soft-spoken words and graceful ways have blessed me abundantly.

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My children, unknowing and innocent, went about their day as they always do. But, I noticed that I was being awarded from them extra compliments and physical affections. The Boy even exclaimed, “Mom, you are the best cook ever!” A miraculous exclamation coming from this seriously picky eater! Baby Girl needed held and rocked more than usual, was hugging and kissing me all day long. The Girl, was kind in her exchanges, helpful around the house, and even finished homework without complaint. I wasn’t going to question the meaning of it all. So, I took it in as small gifts of love and sympathy from my three little loves.

The Husband and I share in this grief, of course. But as men often do, he expresses his feelings of loss and needs for recovery much differently than I do. I tend to be outward with my emotions while he holds back. I write, he runs. Yesterday, his little ways of checking in on me, coming home with a bouquet of my favorite flowers, letting me cry as much as I need to, allowing me to have a couple of hours to myself to exercise and be alone—these are his gifts to me. For his ability to sense what I need in times of sadness, somehow knowing exactly what I need when I can’t even tell him myself, having an insider’s edge to my innermost being—these are gifts greater than any other.  God knew what He was doing in matching The Husband and I together for life. I trust that my prayers for My Husband over these grieving months have helped him come to terms with losing another child, too.

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When I wrote that love letter to my angel baby, John, I felt it was time to put into writing all that I had been holding inside. Now that I have released my thoughts, I feel lighter and more at peace than I have in the last six months. Writing truly is therapy. So are love, friendship, and prayer. Today, I am thankful for another day to love and be loved, to write, and pray.

Lamenting the meaning of this day

23 Friday Aug 2013

Posted by in Birthdays, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Tough days

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God is closest to those with broken hearts. ~Jewish Saying

Let your tears come. Let them water your soul. ~Eileen Mayhew

Dear John Victor,

Today would have been your birthday. But, God had other plans. This has taken quite some time getting used to as I loved you from the very moment I knew I was carrying you inside. Today, on this due date that should have brought such miraculous joy, I can’t help but grieve all that has vanished in losing you. Your pregnancy was a welcomed surprise and an anniversary gift to your father and me. Your life—no matter how small or short-lived—was a blessing and a joy to us and to those with whom we shared the news.

Lately, insomnia keeps me awake and all I think about is you. Alone with my thoughts and heartbreak, I dream about how much better today would be if I was holding you instead of reliving the painful memory of miscarrying you. Sure, having you here now means that my abdomen would have to be sliced apart then sewn back together again—a horrific scene I would endure time and again just to bring you safely into this world. You would have been worth it all. I’d withstand anything—more cuts and scars, the nausea and six weeks of post-surgery healing—in order to see your angelic face, nurse you to health, sing you to sleep. I’d give anything to replace the pain in my heart brought on by your absence—a void that nothing seems to fill.

Somehow, you were made for greater things—for holiness and grace—but, I suppose, not for a life lived on earth. It’s a beautiful image, really, thinking of you dwelling in Heaven among angels and saints—as perfect as can be. Most days, it brings me comfort and peace knowing that you never had to feel or witness the pains and injustices of this world below. The not knowing you in the flesh business has me wishing at this precise moment—stemming only from my own selfish intentions that you could be here with me today— that you had the chance to know your father and co-creator, to live among your three siblings who’d love you to pieces, to be a part of our family and the life that we’re left to live without you.

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However incredible it is to think that you are in Heaven along with my other four angels who went before you, I lament. Lamentations that instead of being prepped for a cesarean section surgery this morning to birth you into the world, I remain desolate and nurse the pains of an empty womb. Sadness and loss about my wounded heart surround me today. Despair lives in not knowing how to quench the thirst of this void that remains which nothing seems to satisfy since my body failed in growing you.

They say time is a great healer, and well, I’m not always so sad—not every day, at least. So, please don’t worry about me.  Your dad takes wonderful care of me and he and your siblings make life joyful and complete. You would have enhanced the joy and completion of our family life immeasurably.  

My arms feel emptier today. My heart aches a little more for all that was lost six months ago. The separation is hard now, but I know it won’t always be so. My faith tells me that there is hope in the afterlife and that one day, if I’m lucky enough, my arms won’t feel so empty, nor my heart so heavy. Until that time comes, August 23rd will always be your day.  

Thank you for opening my eyes, heart, and womb once again to such a miracle—life. This time, for a short time, yours. Sweet son of mine, I promise I will never forget you. How could I?

With love,

Your Mom

(“In Heaven” Photo credit: Daniel Pascoal / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND)

Helping the healing process: Miscarriage

13 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by in Miscarriage, Peace, Tough days

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I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it.  ~e. e. Cummings

A person’s a person, no matter how small. ~Dr. Seuss

A little while, and ye shall not see me: and again, a little while, and ye shall see me, because I go to the Father.  John 16:16

As I sit comfortably in The Husband’s reading chair with my feet propped up on the matching ottoman and covered in my and Baby Girl’s favorite snuggling throw, I look out into the quiet night waiting for a predicted rainstorm of horror and terror to make its appearance. And I’m a little bit afraid to fall asleep. All my life, I have been a deep sleeper. Storms projected to hit in the middle of the night unnerve me. So, I sit unsettled about this storm and as I try to write my anxieties away, I can’t help but think of my dear friends who, as I type these words are dealing with their own horror, waiting for their personal storm to pass.

Last week, these favorite friends of mine shared with us the grief in their hearts that they are losing another child—their fourth—to miscarriage. For them, this makes three miscarriages in a row.  My own experiences with miscarriage aside, I can’t begin to express deeply enough the pain and sadness I feel for them and their family. These friends of mine are beautiful, decent, moral, giving, loving, healthy, young people. Their only living child is much like her parents—a beautiful, sensitive, loving child.  She deserves a sibling to love. Her parents deserve to be freed from their trauma and heartache every time a pregnancy test renders positive. It just does not make sense to me—the suffering and loss one couple must endure.

Years ago, I tried to make sense of my own losses. “Why again? What am I doing wrong? What are the doctors missing? Will I be childless forever?” And the questions continued in my mind and sat still in my heart for many, many years. These unanswered questions and debilitating doubts only deepened the wound of infertility for The Husband and me. They never fully left even with fostering The Girl, after carrying The Boy to term, having The Girls’ adoption finalized, nor later with Baby Girl’s surprisingly easy pregnancy. Only recently was I able to break free of the horrible hold those chains of infertility and miscarriage held over me. But, then I miscarried again—after the three kids came–and some of the old heartache resurfaced. And the doubts? They doubled along with the grief.

Through the painful infertility years, I felt misunderstood and alone. No one I knew at the time had had a miscarriage which made going through each one even worse. I felt like a failure in so many ways and that I was failing my husband in his dream to become a father. Of course, I realize now that these feelings and thoughts were unfounded. It took me awhile to figure out that God’s plan was larger than my own and more fulfilling than I could have ever imagined for myself. But as I was living in the drought of infertility—and I mean a deeply physical, emotional and spiritual dry period—what made it worse was that I felt wrong for grieving so hard. So many, well-meaning, lovely people in my life wanted me to just get over my feelings and leave the questions alone. But how can you ever truly get over the loss of a miraculous life? Four lives, no less. Infertility was a tough road to endure then, and the scars that remain from that time are deeply sewn.

For anyone reading my words tonight, I beg of you to be sensitive and compassionate toward a loved one you know who has miscarried their child. Be extra-supportive in your actions and tender in your words to them. Bring a home-cooked meal or send a gift card. When it’s all said and done, a miscarriage can take weeks to complete. Keep checking in, keeping praying, keep offering help and love. Even if you don’t get it–couldn’t imagine what it might be like to lose a child you never even held or named–please go above and beyond for your friends. And when in doubt, hold your tongue. Take it from me, well-meaning phrases like, “It just wasn’t meant to be.” Or, “Be glad for the child(ren) you already have.” Are not helpful, aren’t really for you to declare, and can add more pain to their suffering.

For anyone reading these words who have had in the past or are now experiencing a miscarriage (also infant or child loss) you have my deepest sympathies. You are not alone. Your grief is justifiable and real. Your loss, unimaginable. You will one day have peace and joy again, but you’ll never be the same.

To Everything, There is a Season

13 Wednesday Mar 2013

Posted by in Change, Miscarriage, Seasons, Tough days

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No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn. ~Hal Borland

Freshly fallen, a white powdery snow blankets the outside world that I gaze upon through neglected windows covered in a cold winter’s film. This pure white snow is almost angelic in its appearance, a delicate blanket to the green life that teases our hopes and speaks to our senses with the beauty that is sure to come, almost speaking in whispers, “See? Winter isn’t always gray. Winter can be beautiful, too. Don’t rush these days. Enjoy the peacefulness that winter can bring. See the beauty in a precipitation of white. The flowers will come, but spend time now admiring the quiet stillness of winter. Soon you will have your spring.”

It has been a long, difficult winter for me as I battled with my heart feeling locked into the melancholy characteristic of Earth’s coldest season. So, I’ve been ready for spring almost as soon as the first snowfall. Presented for months with colorless days, cloudy skies and harsher temperatures, it feels as if I’ve been living one gray day after another, sloshing through the wet cold, desperate for the sun, grief compounded by feeling stuck—a prisoner to my own internal mourning and the despondent weather outside—feeling a pain deeper than the mounds of snow piled high against the house, my heart struggling to feel much joy.

The season didn’t begin with such intensely low emotions—quite the opposite, actually. Happiness and warmth filled our homes from Thanksgiving through the middle of December when Husband and I celebrated 10 years of married life. Remembering the beauty of the winter day on which we were wed, this year’s celebration was even greater as we learned another child would be joining our family. We spent a night away, relishing in our delight, enjoying truly compatible conversation and dreaming of the future ahead as we solidified the love we shared for each other. Christmas was magical and a new year was chimed in with elation, albeit we had an early night. We woke with so much to be thankful for and our hearts swelled with gladness. Although, before January closed in on us, our plans for a new child were compromised as my body told a different story.

Losing a child at any stage of life is a unique and searing kind of pain. Miscarriage and infant loss is a pain that is often misunderstood and ignored by our loved ones because it’s difficult to understand if you haven’t experienced this type of loss for yourself. My loss in January was my fifth miscarriage and it wasn’t any easier because I’ve suffered this type of loss before. Actually, it was worse—physically and emotionally. In a way, my grief was compounded. The loss of a child at any stage of that child’s life will be the greatest grief a parent will bear—whether you get to hold him in your arms before he departs to the Heavens, whether you raised your son or daughter and shared a lifetime of memories, and even if you only loved her in your womb and she dies before she ever is kissed—the grief over the death of a child can break your heart in half.

As the skies clear and the weather warms, for me, the promises of spring can’t come soon enough. Each day now brings the world closer to the hopefulness of new life. Our days will be painted with glory in tiny buds on trees, young green leaves sprouting from the branches, daffodils and tulips filling up flowerbeds, and birds chirping their songs of glee. Life is a miracle, a joy, and a gift. This, I haven’t forgotten, but spring will be a welcome reminder to my heart.