October 3, 2014
Sitting on that seriously uncomfortable bed in the ER, I am asked the same set of questions that I have been asked more times than I can count.
“How many pregnancies have you had?”
The reaction is usually the same... shock. That question is followed quickly with the next question.
“How many live births?”
They usually relax a bit at that point. As the typing continues, they typically work through the litany of comments I have heard thousands of times.
“Wow. That’s a handful.” “I only have 3, how do you do it?” “I bet it’s a party at your house.”
This was the scenario I experienced a few days ago.
Following 5 hours of waiting, I sat listening to the doctor lecture us about the dangers of repeated pregnancies after being informed that the ultrasound showed no evidence of “fetal remains”. All along, all I could think about was the fact that I had made every attempt during the 2 previous days, in which I knew I was miscarrying, to prevent the tragic loss of my precious baby down that dreadful porcelain grave.
To some, this discussion may be too “disgusting” to read about; yet to many, many grieving women, it’s important to process this rarely conversed about topic.
My first miscarriage took place at 11 weeks gestation. We named her Felicity. The greatest mercy during that time was the fact that we were able to collect her remains and properly bury her. The entire family was present to grieve the loss of their sibling. To this day, Felicity continues to be “real” to my living children. They have a memory of her, though it’s a sad memory.
However, my other miscarried babies were much earlier in development, and despite my efforts, their remains were not able to be collected. So... where does that leave us in our grieving process? A little lost I think.
A funeral is an important part of grief. To me, witnessing a loved one descend into the ground gives a finality to their life. It’s a final good-bye. The pain of that last farewell is what proclaims the deep value their life held. Our pain proves our love; and thus, their importance in our lives. To love someone, we must show respect and honor to them all the way to the point where we are permanently separated from them.
The porcelain grave is no place for my prized gifts from heaven, but I am not to be blamed. There is no one placing fault on my shoulders, it’s just a feeling of disconnect and incompleteness. Over the last several years, I have had difficulty sorting out my emotions concerning my lost babies. LOST... that is the key word. I feel like they are lost, no sense of finality was given.
We have named our LOST babies. We will be donating a bench in their honor on our favorite trail. And I have tattooed a tribute to each one on my back. What more could I do?
I refuse to allow this newest LOST baby to be lost to me. Even though I have lost him forever down that dreadful porcelain grave, I have sought peace with God.
He knows I desire to honor his gift.
He knows I accept all of the children he has given me.
He knows I am weak and imperfect.
I know that I can trust God’s plans.
I know that my babies are still a part of my family.
I know that these souls are not lost at all.
They are with their creator and I will be rejoined with them some day.
We have named our little child. Samuel. I had a strong suspicion that it was a boy and I have always loved that name. I will be adding his tribute to my back within the next few months. Other than those few things, there is not much more I can do. Yet, the best thing I can do is remember that despite the way this baby left this life, he is at peace now.
MAN! I am so sorry that I couldn’t have honored him better. It’s not fair to him. But I choose to believe that the best way I can honor his life is to live mine the best I can, trusting our creator and loving his father and siblings.
Miscarriages are messy; yet, life is always beautiful.