The Story I Won't Forget
One of the hardest parts about miscarrying has been feeling
like I am the only one who thinks about my baby, remembers he exists, and is
grieves that he is gone. He feels like this grand and heavy, remarkable story, that I try to tell but that everyone else forgets or doesn't want to talk about. Next week is his due date. Can you imagine how
different my life would look right now had he not passed away? I would be
having a baby in like 5 days! I think back to 5 days before Eli was born, and
EVERYTHING was about Eli. That’s ALL Jesse and I talked about, and everyone
talked to us about it, even strangers who saw me about ready to pop! -And it
was INCREDIBLE! Because Eli was coming!
March 21st, my second son is supposed to be
arriving into the world, taking his first breath outside of the womb, crying
his first cries, and rooting around until he finds his milk, his ‘’mommy ni-ni,’’
as Eli calls it. He is supposed to be wiggly, and snuggly, and gummy. He is
supposed to coo, or, if he is like his brother, make little bird noises all
through the night. He is supposed to inaugurate for Jesse and me a multi-month
long fast from sleep, a triatholon of poopy diapers, wet clothes and bed
sheets, and drool. Eli is supposed to be jumping up and down in joy over a baby
brother and asking all sorts of questions about him and wanting to help take
care of him and saying his name in his cute little toddler voice. My family is
supposed to be coming in from out of town to meet their new nephew, and Jesse
and I are supposed to be moving our little baby into our new bigger apartment,
just in time to make it immediately feel cramped because we now have 4 in a
2-bedroom instead of 3 in a 1-bedroom.
Instead, Jesse has two meetings. Eli is going to Grammy and
Grampy’s, and I’m finishing packing. I’m able to bend and move, run and jump,
work myself to exhaustion….eat whatever I want. Things I wouldn’t be able to do
if I’d just delivered. My body is small, thin, normal. I’m supposed to be round
and rolly and snuggly and wearing only yoga pants because nothing else fits. My
family is coming to visit and helping us settle into our new apartment, and
then going site-seeing in NY. There is no new cousin to welcome.
And at the moment, I don’t feel like thinking about how this
was not outside God’s control and sovereignty and not outside God’s redemptive
purpose. Yes, those things are true. But the fact that they are true do not
disallow me from feeling intense grief over the loss of my child’s life. We
should grieve that this world is not how it is supposed to be, that it falls
short every day. We should grieve and long for a world where all is made right.
I don’t grieve without hope. I am not hopeless, but I grieve. I grieve.
And it reminds me that I want to try to share even more
about my grief because grief matters. And somehow, we got to this place as a
society where we try not to talk about the losses in people’s lives, or we talk
about them quietly, behind closed doors, and not with the people who are in the
process of trying to DEAL with them. We tell our children about a death in
someone’s family or that someone lost their baby, but we say “now don’t say
anything to them about it when you see them; I’m just telling you so you’ll
understand what is going on.” I can remember clearly, to this day, when my aunt
miscarried. I was around 10 years old, and I had been so excited that she was
having a baby. She was the only one without little children at that time. I
couldn’t wait for my new cousin. Then one day, as we were driving down the road
to go visit her, mom told me that she’d lost her baby. She explained the whole
thing, very gently and respectfully. We talked about how it was a very sad
time, but I remember being instructed not to mention anything about it when we
got there because we didn’t want to upset my aunt. I mean, I understand why my
mom said that. It’s something we often tell our kids because we don’t want them
to say anything distasteful or awkward. But the truth is, I remember feeling so
bad for my aunt, and feeling sad myself, and just ignoring it and trying to
play with my other cousins. Could that have been one of the starting points of
teaching myself that I should ignore grief? And to this day, I’ve never asked
my aunt about her miscarriage. I just thought of that this morning. She
probably has a testimony to share. She probably has no idea that her baby
mattered to me even though I was just a little kid. I wonder if she felt alone,
and like no one thought about her baby? I wonder if it would have comforted her
to hear from her little niece whom she loved that she was sorry for her loss
and missed that little baby.
A little over a year or so ago, my friend lost his dad
unexpectedly. We were all shocked and grieved. For months, I was just devasted
for him and the rest of his family. I didn’t ask about the loss, however. I
didn’t want to bring it up and make him sad. Whenever I saw him, he seemed
okay, so I didn’t want to upset his mood or ‘remind’ him of it, (as if he could
have forgotten). But I wondered how in the world he must be coping with such a
shocking and unexpected loss. Then one day, while at a conference (about grief),
it hit me like a jolt of lightening! Just because I wasn’t mentioning his dad’s
death did not mean that he wasn’t thinking about it! Just because he looked
okay, did not mean that it wasn’t in his mind all the time! I was trying to be
polite and thoughtful, but perhaps I was robbing my friend of the comfort from
his empathetic sister-in-Christ. I finally got up the nerve and sent him a
note. (I was still too timid to mention it in person, and I didn’t want to
chance I’d ruin his day or something). So in the note, I told him that I hadn’t
asked how he was doing because I hadn’t wanted to upset him but that I thought
about him and his family a lot and wondered how he was doing. I told him that I grieved for him and prayed
for him, and that if he ever wanted to talk, I would love to listen. He didn’t
respond to my note, but literally the next week, we were sitting down in a
group at lunch. He was sitting beside me, and he just started to share memories
about his dad. It had been months, and I’d spent many lunches or times with
him, but he was for the first time talking about the loss in front of me. Could
it be coincidental? Maybe. But after lunch that day, I remember thinking that
maybe he hadn’t shared before because he
didn’t want to burden people. Maybe my invitation made let him know it was
okay to bring up a ‘sad’ subject. I don’t know. But I feel like we live with this unspoken rule that we aren’t supposed
to talk about these sad things because we don’t want to upset each other.
But actually, that’s the biggest and most deceptive line of thought! Not
talking about the sad stuff leaves us isolated in our grief and feeling alone.
We should, albeit gently and respectfully, acknowledge one another’s losses and
pains. We should check in on the people we care about unless they specifically
ask us not to bring it up!
So I had this revelation about grief in regard to my friend
and his father approximately 3 months before I lost my baby. My baby would be
born next week, so that makes it almost a year since I first realized this… and
now my ‘’revelation’’ applies to myself! My child would be here next week, but
he won’t be here. There is a large space unfilled with snuggly baby cries and
filled with a pain of loss in a broken world. His life matters. His life has
altered….everything. My world is completely different because he existed…and
because he passed so soon. Nothing is the same as it was before July 10th,
the day I found out he existed. Nothing is the same as it was before August 16th,
the day I found out he passed away. Nothing is the same as it was before
September 27th, the day I found out he was a boy. Nothing will be
the same after March 21st, the day I wake up, without a new child,
and remember that he is with God, and this is our new reality. Even if no one
ever acknowledges or thinks about our child, this reality is still true. Life
is changed for us. That is not a hopeless thought. It is somber. Yet, it will
also be filled with times of testimony by faith of the fruit his life has
produced. The feelings are peppered together in this world of already and not
yet. Life can’t be just happy thoughts always. Jesus was not afraid of
embracing reality, the uncomfortable… look how he spoke to the woman at the
well in John 4. He brought up her situation with men, gently, kindly, yet honestly,
and he brought redemption. Or the woman caught in adultery- he didn’t deny she had
been in adultery. He just said he did not condemn her and that she should sin
no more. Similarly, he doesn’t deny grief or avoid its acknowledgement. At the
tomb of Lazarus, right before he raised him from the dead, he stopped, and he
cried. He wept with the people. He validated grief. I hope bravely and respectfully
to walk through grief with my friends and family as they endure it… I pray for
the courage to love boldly. And I pray that God will send people into my life
to walk with me through my grief and love me boldly. I thank him for the people
he’s used thus far. I pray we can all be more aware… and I think back to myself
as a young 10 year old… and I wonder, would an extra-long hug from her niece
have offered a tinge of affirmation and comfort to my Aunt? I don’t know. I
think I’ll reach out to her and ask her now… that will require boldness in me.
I suppose I can practice what I ‘’preach.’’ Heh.
To my precious baby, I miss you so much. I want to live
strongly, fully, and honorably to God in honor of you as well. I stumble. I
struggle. My eyes fill with tears. I just wish I could hold you in my arms.
Thank you for just existing. In my dreams, I will tickle your tummy and you
will laugh robustly like your brother. In my dreams you will snuggle your head
under my neck until it fits just perfectly. In my dreams, you will meet the
world in wonder, eyes wide, taking it all in. In heaven one day, I will embrace
you in joy. I love you to the moon and back little one. I will never, ever,
ever forget you. You are in my heart always, every second of every day. You are
a part of us. We are blessed to be your earthly family, sweet boy. Love, Mommy.
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