A Worthy Accomplishment
In Luke 9:31, angels speak to Jesus of “his decease, which he should accomplish at Jerusalem.” What an unusual turn of phrase! We don’t usually think of death as an accomplishment, something to strive for. Rather, we use terms that suggest inaction or defeat like decline, pass away and lost his battle. But if you’ve spent any time at the bedside of a terminally ill patient, you will know: dying is hard work.
Turmoil
I wonder if your body is getting ready to have a baby?
February and March were arduous. Winter dragged on. The strain of deciding to try again morphed into the raw suspense of actually trying. I was overwhelmed by the exigencies of mothering my six children, and exhausted by my grief, which hadn’t really diminished in spite of my expectations that it should. I contemplated taking antidepressants (at that point in my life, the possibility hung over me like an admission of failure) but decided not to because of the risks to another pregnancy.
Grieving
“It’s as if my soul is being stretched to accept what before was impossible.”
Eight days after my D&E, I wrote in my journal: “I told my parents almost a week ago, ‘I always thought grieving meant crying. I didn’t realize it meant hurting.’ Even then, I didn’t realize it also meant anger, dimness and confusion, doubt, mistrust, depression.”
At first, the grief was overwhelming. I spent every moment on the verge of tears. . . .
Losing Loila
I can’t overstate the loss I felt going into the hospital for a D&E. I was losing the possibility of delivering my baby naturally, the closure of having a body to grieve over. . . .
Two More Words
“I’m sorry” implies empathy, and empathy is powerful.
I received a wide variety of responses when I told my friends about my miscarriages. They ran the gamut from “You wouldn’t have wanted a handicapped child,” and “It’s a good thing, actually. Mother Nature takes care of the ones who can’t survive,” through “Oh well, I hope you can be as brave as someone else I know,” to a friend who hugged me and wept and just said, “I love you so much!”
Naming Loila
It was half a year, and more, before I gave “the baby” a name. Why not sooner? I can’t remember now, to what degree I just didn’t think of it, and to what degree it seemed too presumptuous. I’d never heard of anyone naming their miscarried child. It wasn’t till I suffered my second miscarriage that it became necessary to give them each a name, just to tell “the babies” apart.
To another parent grieving the loss of a miscarried or stillborn child, I would strongly urge them to name the baby. Miscarriage is grief in a vacuum - the emotional impact of losing a child with nothing concrete on which to hang that grief - no mementos, no pictures, not even memories. A name is tangible; it is an identity.
Between 2005 and 2008, I lost four tiny babies to miscarriage. In an effort to help others who may be experiencing similar losses, I want to share the story of that journey. If you click on the title above, and then follow the “Next in Miscarriage Journey” links at the bottom of each post, you can read through my story sequentially.