{In which YOU Share} On Death and Loss and Miscarriage and How God Can Still Be There
I had another reader respond with a desire to share her story of waiting.
It's a story of incredible loss and pass and devastation. But there's hope, and such grace. (Do read to the end. But just a fair warning, you may want to read with a tissue.)
Patricia's Waiting Room
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I felt drawn to his grave. I felt a measure of comfort knowing there was a physical place where he was still with me, though dead. He was only 5 months old when he died. It wasn’t a quick unexpected death like SIDS. It felt more like a long ordeal. He was born with congenial heart disease. What that means is his heart didn’t form properly. After lots of procedures, operations, hospitals, and doctors, at 5 months old, my sweet, precious baby boy died.
I stood over the grave and cried. I recited, “The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want…” I told myself to be strong. I kept thinking of the phrase you see on funeral flowers, “Rest in peace.” The thought struck me, how could my little one “Rest in peace,” if I was wailing and carrying on. I stood and told my son, “Go on, and be with Jesus, momma’s going to be ok. Don’t you worry about me. I’m going to be fine. I love you.” With new found resolve, I left and tried to move on.
Most everyone was supportive. They tried to comfort, pass on wisdom, insight. The problem wasn’t with them, it was with me. I felt dead inside, dark, and empty. I knew rationally that I loved my husband, but, to be honest, I didn’t feel it. As time went on, people got on with their lives. I felt left behind. They seemed happy, and I felt stuck in grief. They didn’t know what to say to me, nor I to them. Grief can be so isolating. I felt like a mom, but had no child to mother.
My husband was after me to go back to work. We fought. I wasn’t happy. We were still both grieving. We fought some more.
Then the day came, a spark of hope, my period was late. I took a test and, yes, I was pregnant. The joy didn’t last longer than a month. Cramps signaled the end.
Again the day came, a spark of hope, again my period was late, again I took a test and again I was pregnant. Again, cramps signaled the end.
I cried a lot. I already felt somehow responsible for my son’s condition and death. Then with the miscarriages I felt like, boy, there must be something terribly wrong with me, a failure. God must hate me, and I must have somehow gotten on His “bad things are going to happen to her” list. I was convinced God had such a list, based on my experience. Though to be clear, I didn’t know God any more than occasionally attending Sunday school growing up, and I certainly hadn’t read the Bible.
My doctor advised me to put off, wait awhile before trying again to get pregnant. He advised me, given my history, to see a genetic specialist if and when I got pregnant again. I finally gave in and went back to work. I wasn’t happy; it just kept me busy.
The day came; a spark of hope, my period was late. I took a test, and, yes, I was pregnant. I made an appointment with the genetic specialist. By the time I saw him I was 3 months, further along than the last two times. He asked me a long list of questions, ordered my son’s records to be sent to him and I made another appointment to see him. At my next appointment he told me what my chances were on the possibility of something being wrong with this child. He advised me of the tests I could undergo to find out if there was something wrong. He described amniocenteses, where he would draw out some amino fluid from the sac, send it out to be tested, and I would get the results back when I was 5 months along. He then asked me point blank what I would do with this knowledge. If it came back that something was wrong, would I be able to end this pregnancy? I felt confronted, challenged, betrayed. I had naively thought I went to this doctor for the well being of my unborn child, and he was opting abortion as a solution for a problem. I went home upset. My husband and I discussed the matter. My husband, the ever rational, thought if the tests came back with something wrong, then we should end the pregnancy. He cited financial expense, but I knew it was the emotional expense of another ordeal. I didn’t know what I’d do. Though I loved my son, I didn’t want to go through it again. And then the thought of a late term abortion, no, I couldn’t do that either. I cried, prayed, and cried some more. I prayed, “Oh God, I can’t do this, you make the choice. Please, make the choice for me.“ The cramps started the next day and lasted long into the early morning. The miscarriage wasn’t like the others. This one was like labor, and when the fetus passed, it looked like a very small, tiny infant. I placed it in a plastic cup to be taken to the genetic specialist for examination. I felt defeated, desolate, and hopeless.
I went back to work. I tried to move on, but my heart was breaking. My husband slept peaceful, but I couldn’t. I sat up on the couch crying, pleading, praying, “God, what’s wrong with me? I’m so sorry, please, can’t I have a child, even if there’s something wrong it. God, I’ll take ‘em , love ’em, please.” There came a silent peace over me.
When my period was again missed, this time I didn’t rush out to get a test. I was two full months before I made an appointment to be seen by a doctor and only then because of the severe morning sickness. I had made up my mind; I wouldn’t be seeing any genetic specialist. I would take and love the gift I was given, as is. Even though I wanted this child very much, the gloom of the past years was with me. I kept anticipating a miscarriage. There was this ever present dread. Seriously, I was in full term labor still feeling like “I can’t do this,” when the doctor said, “Push, now.” I heard her cry for the first time. The doctors made their examination and proclaimed her healthy, but it wasn’t until I held her and made my own examination—healthy, pink, and beautiful—that hope began to rise in my heart.
Wouldn’t it be nice and I wish I could say that everything was fine after my daughter was born. She was, I wasn’t. Physically I was fine; emotionally, spiritually, I was a wreck. I still carried some beliefs about me, and about God. I needed to learn to trust again. I needed to believe that God loved me, that He was for me and not against me, that bad things were not my destiny. What I needed most was to really know God, not my idea of God, but Him personally. In October of that same year, when my daughter was 5 months old, I knelt down beside my bed and asked the Lord into my heart. I can’t say with all honesty that when I got off my knees there was a miraculous change, but it was the start of the process of healing.
My husband and I are still married, and we have been blessed with three more healthy children (that’s 8 total between heaven and earth). I look back on this time and while some may call their waiting rooms a place of promise, while I was in it, it was a place of great pain. It is only in hindsight that I see the promise—the hope. I have no regrets, no accusations, no blame, just a great sense of a beautiful, costly gift been given. Though it changed me forever, if given the choice I would change nothing. Where my heart was once filled with darkness and death, there is the preciousness of how fragile life can be, and yet there is love, an overflowing, over whelming , over taking love. One day I will see my son again, and he can introduce me to his siblings, the ones I’ve never met.
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{The name was changed to preserve anonymity. This story was shared with permission.}
Between yesterday and today, I am feeling a little wrecked. God is changing my heart and my way of seeing. Grace is infinitely possible. I don't understand it. I am feeling that broken-but-somehow-full thing I talked about when I asked for your stories, I guess I just didn't fully anticipate what that would feel like. I would love to hear from you in the comments. I bet Patricia would as well. :)
As a reminder, This is someone's personal story. Please be sensitive in your comments. I want this to be a safe place and an encouraging place. Also know that when you put yourself out there by telling your story, you want to know that you are okay, that your story was heard. Perhaps at least leave my friend a simple "thank you for sharing" type response if the story touches you? If you or someone you know is facing this kind of devastating grief, we'd love to pray. Just leave a comment or send me an email.
Should you want to share your story, it's not too late, send it here: conqueringhousewife{at}the-cadence{dot}com or click here to email me right now. Read this post to hear my heart behind sharing your stories.
If you want to read about what God does when we are waiting, click the "Waiting Room" Graphic in the sidebar or click Sept 2012 in the archives on the sidebar (pretty much all of September was dedicated to waiting).
By Grace,
Amanda
