Through my miscarriage, the loss of my baby, I have come to realize that there are formulaic things people say, well-intentioned but misguided. People don't seem to realize that certain phrases just don't provide comfort in certain situations. Other people's pain makes us uncomfortable, and it is instinctual to want to fill uncomfortable moments with words. People are also uncomfortable with their inability to explain why someone is suffering, so they try to find words that they think will help them do that.
Though I understand this basic human reasoning, and have probably made the same mistakes myself, I have found myself lately wishing people knew better. I've mostly been patient, and have accepted people's words as loving gestures. I've tried my best to have grace with everyone, because I know no one would intentionally hurt me. But nonetheless, I decided to make a list of things I wish people would not say to me to explain away my loss.
It was God's plan. I've always been a "God's plan" kind of girl. I have used this phrase often to explain my own changes in life, both losses and wins, and to comfort others in the same way. Then, when the three-year-old daughter of one of my best friends passed away unexpectedly, I finally realized how painfully unhelpful those words really are in a time of loss or grief. In my situation, I don't believe any part of God's plan includes me walking around with a dead baby inside of me for several days, and then having to have it vacuumed and scraped out of my uterus. I believe that God has a plan for me, but it didn't include this tragedy. This tragedy just happened, and though I'm sure someday I'll see how it fits INTO the plan, the phrase, "God has a plan," does not help me or comfort me in this saddest of times. Silence is better.
You'll get pregnant again. No one knows that. And really, people don't know that's even what I want. It is what I want, but people don't know that. What if I never wanted to try again because I was too fearful? Or what if my doctor had told me that I was unable to have another baby? Saying this is proclaiming that you know more than you could possibly know about both mine and God's 'plan'. It's also dismissive of this pregnancy, this baby, as something that can easily be replaced. This baby was special to me, not just a poor shot for which I've been given a mulligan.
Without my miscarriage, I wouldn't have the children I have now, so in a way I'm thankful that it happened. Several women have expressed this feeling to me, and I completely understand the logic. For me personally, I had not planned to have three children. Therefore, if I am lucky enough to get pregnant again and have a healthy baby, I know I will look at that baby and see it for the miracle that it is, just as I do my first child. I know at some point I'll look at that baby and feel thankful for him or her, no matter the circumstances that led to his or her existence. I also know that this is a gesture of sisterhood from women who have been in my shoes before. However, to me, at this moment in time, these words imply that one baby's life is more important or worthy than the other's, and I just can't reconcile that with my feelings for my angel baby.
It wasn't meant to be. Would you say that to a woman who lost a living child? Because really, anything you wouldn't say to someone who lost a living child, you shouldn't say to someone who has miscarried. It's completely understandable to me that others may not see a fetus as a living child, but to me, it was. I formed a bond with that baby from the moment I discovered the miracle growing inside me, and every day of those blessed 16 weeks, I read about what my baby was doing developmentally inside me. I talked to the baby, sang to the baby, rocked back and forth with my hand on my belly and prayed over the baby. Before my baby stopped developing, he or she had a beating heart, fingers and toes, the ability to insert his or her thumb into the mouth, eyes that could move side to side, the beginnings of a developing voice, and next to come were fingerprints. So to me, this baby existed, and therefore was meant to be.
The timing just wasn't right. Actually, the timing was perfect, or I wouldn't have been pregnant in the first place. Saying this dismisses the perfectly timed miracle that was growing inside me. It implies that something just quit working because of a mechanical defect or because it was throwing God's plan off schedule.
You'll see your baby in Heaven. While I believe this to be true, it does not comfort me now, here on earth, while I'm aching to hold my baby in my arms.
At the end of the day, I realize that people need to say something to make themselves feel better, to feel that they have comforted a friend in need. In light of that, here is a list of things that HAVE comforted me through this loss.
I love you.
I'm so sorry for your loss/pain/grief/etc., or just I'm sorry.
I understand, because I've been through it before. Caution: This line only helps if you actually have been through the same experience before. Be cautious with this line.
If you need to talk, I'm here.
I know there is nothing I can say to ease your pain. It helps to know that people recognize this fact.
How are you doing? Someone who has experienced this type of loss doesn't get over it as quickly as you forget that it happened. Especially a mother who has lost a baby who once grew inside her belly. Her heart will ache even when she gets back to living life, when she goes to dinner parties, when she laughs and plays with her precious first child. Her heart will ache, she will feel empty inside, and she will feel alone in her pain, so don't forget to check on her.
If you have a loved one who has experienced the loss of a child, say something, but be careful and thoughtful with the words that escape your lips.
If you are a parent who has lost a child, I welcome you to comment about words that have hurt or helped you along the way.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Saturday, June 21, 2014
God Speaks
God spoke to me today.
But before I go forward, I must go back.
Two weeks ago yesterday, my husband and I waited expectantly while our doctor tried to locate a heartbeat for our sweet second baby at our 16 week appointment. When he was unable to find the heartbeat using just the Doppler, he assured us everything was fine, but sent us to a second room for a scan to get a better look at the baby.
Looking back now, I knew at that point that something was wrong.
This pregnancy was completely unlike my first, with morning sickness and general discomfort that lasted through each of my waking hours until the 14th week. During the 12th week, I began to experience pain in my hips and groin that made it uncomfortable to walk, sit, lay, pick up my first child, and perform normal daily functions. I assumed all those discomforts were due to the relaxin that was preparing my joints for my second childbirth, only a short 16 months after the first. I assumed all the new pains I experienced were due to the close spacing between my pregnancies, and the fact that my body had never fully recovered from the first.
But looking back, I knew. I had spent countless moments during this pregnancy worrying that I was robbing my first son of his well-deserved alone time with mommy and daddy. I had fretted that I would never have enough room in my heart to love a second child as much as I loved my first, perfect child. I was concerned from the beginning that my morning sickness was a bad sign, but I chose to believe rumors I'd heard that morning sickness was an indication of high levels of good hormones, and was a confident predictor of a healthy pregnancy. I had never felt quite settled throughout this pregnancy, but I chose to ignore the signs and feel hopeful and positive, because surely nothing could happen to my baby.
But looking back, I knew. Just that morning, in the restroom mirror at work, I had paused briefly and thought how strange it was that I could see the outline of my belly button, where just the day before it wasn't visible because of the tightness that had developed due to my growing baby. And only days before this doctor's visit, I had told my husband I wished this visit was a sonogram visit, because I felt the need to see, rather than just hear, our baby. I knew something was amiss, but again I chose hope and positivity.
When our doctor brought the image of our baby up on the screen, I had one last fleeting moment of hope when I saw the outline of the human form, including a beautiful profile of his or her face that I'll never forget. But my final moment of hope was quickly destroyed, replaced with a cascade of emotions and events that spiraled out of my control before I could even take a breath. According to the doctor, our sweet baby had stopped developing around 14 weeks, and now had no heartbeat.
I had been walking around with a dead baby inside my belly for two weeks. Aside from the devastation and sadness I felt at that moment, I'll never forget thinking how strange it was that I was certain I had just felt the baby move that morning, and several other times in the past two weeks. I was certain of these baby flutters, and I never questioned myself because I had so recently gone through the first pregnancy.
Over the course of these last two painful weeks, I have felt more coinciding emotions than I thought possible.
I have felt guilty...for not recognizing something was wrong and insisting the doctor check on my baby sooner. For not being as excited about this pregnancy as I was about the first. For not watching how I ate, drank, slept and exerted myself as carefully as I did with my first. For not spending as many hours with my hand on my belly in prayer as I did with my first. For dancing with my fifth graders when I knew I needed to rest. For any moments of fear or panic that my sweet baby might have felt when in distress. For not being able to save my baby.
I have felt embarrassed...for not being cognizant of the fact that something was wrong. For thinking there was a baby moving inside me who was actually dead. For having a body that failed me and my sweet angel baby. For grieving the loss of a child I never even got to meet in person. For not being able to save my baby.
I have felt angry...for being forced to walk around with a dead baby inside me for three more days while I waited for a D and C procedure. For having to have a baby vacuumed and scraped out of my womb. For listening to the non-cynical, optimistic side of myself who told me everything would be fine. For believing that God wouldn't let anything happen to my baby. For all the well-intentioned but insensitive things people say to someone who has lost a child. For the fact that my baby wasn't big enough for the remains to leave any ashes for us to cherish. For not being able to hold and love on my baby before sending him or her to Heaven. For not being able to save my baby.
BUT...I have also felt thankful...for friends and family members, even distant acquaintances, who have reached out in this saddest of times to offer condolences, words of comfort, acts of service, and countless other blessings. I have felt humbled by friends who have lost living children, who have graced me with the honor of considering my loss in any way comparable to theirs. I have felt blessed every moment of every day by my sweet, first baby boy and my loving husband, without whom this experience might have consumed me completely.
I know I have barely begun to grieve, and I know there are so many more ways in which I will feel all of these emotions and more that I can't yet comprehend.
But through all the sadness, the shame, the anger, and the blessings, I have so wished I could lean on my God. I have so wished I could reach out to Him and ask Him for guidance. That I could count on Him not to let me down, and that I could trust that He would lead me, comfort me, protect me, and more importantly, welcome my sweet angel baby home.
But I haven't been able to do this, because I've been struggling with my faith for several months now. Through a progression of tragic events, my faith has been chipped away, dulled by the realization that this God in whom I have so blindly trusted and who I have so faithfully followed, doesn't exact His power to stop bad things from happening to good people, even those I love and even those who are too tiny and defenseless to protect themselves. This realization has caused a rift in my relationship with God that I have been unsure could ever be repaired.
I have spent countless hours in the last year arguing with and pointing my finger at God, and then apologizing for my lack of faith, and for the fact that I am too hurt and angry and confused to speak to and believe in Him. (I have wondered in the last two weeks if all of this arguing and finger-pointing is what caused my baby to be forsaken, which has led to more guilt and anger.)
But today, in my car, God spoke to me.
It needs to be said that though I am not a cynic, I am hesitant to believe in God's ability to speak directly to us. For example, I believe that God places the sunset in our view to remind us of His glory, but I do not believe that God would place a note in my mailbox written by His own hand (a la The Shack). For this reason, what I tell you here seems hokey even to me, but I implore believers and non-believers, cynics and optimists alike, to allow yourselves to be inspired by my story and reminded of His grace, presence and power in our lives. (Disclaimer: HIS refers to God in any form you choose to accept.)
Through the last two weeks, I have had little time to feel my pain. I have had little time to sit and cry, to dwell in this dark place, to be consumed by this all-consuming grief. There have been unforeseen circumstances that have forced me to step up, be strong, and power through each day as though nothing has happened. I personally think I've done a stellar job. ;)
But sometimes, I cry. When I'm in the bathroom alone, I cry. When I'm up and no one else is awake, I cry. When I'm in the car, I cry. I allow myself a few moments to fall apart, and then I pick up the pieces and finish the day.
Today, God found me in my grief, spoke to me, and then moved on to finish His day.
As I drove to a hair appointment, I stared blindly ahead, ignoring the lines on the road, but somehow staying inside them safely enough to get me where I was going; a fine analogy for the last two weeks of my life. I turned on Kari Jobe radio on Pandora, because I felt in need of some spiritual therapy, and music is always my best medicine.
The first song playing was, "You Are For Me," by Kari Jobe. Aside from the fact that this happens to be one of my favorite faith ballads, the words were exactly what my heart needed to hear. "I know that You are for me, I know that You are for me, I know that You would never forsake me in my weakness. I know that You have come here, even if to write upon my heart, to remind me who You are."
I began to cry, unable to sing along due to my failing voice of faith. I cried through most of the song, and as it ended, I whispered a begrudging apology to God. "You took my baby, and this pain, it is so all-consuming, I can't breathe. This grief is filling me until there is no room for You, and I don't know what to do."
As the next song began to play, I actually laughed through my tears. I laughed, because I knew in that moment that God had found me, listened to my cries, and spoken to me.
The next song that played was, "I Will Carry You," by Selah.
The night before I heard this song for the first time, these are the words I read on Amazon as I searched the internet for books of faith on grief. The book I read about was titled "I Will Carry You: The Sacred Dance of Grief and Joy," by Angie Smith.
When I saw the title of the song on my console and heard the first few words, I thought to myself, "No. Way." I was still in tears over the last song, and as the song began to play, I listened intently to this woman's journey through the birth and loss of her child, and how her faith is still centered on God, even though her dreams had been crushed by this tragedy.
I continued to cry then because I knew God had found me in my weakness, and had reached out and handed me a song, not to heal me or make my pain go away, but to let me know that He was still there, still watching me, still loving me. God knows me, and He knows that music is the place where I linger for every blessing, celebration, tragedy and sorrow in my life. Music is my heart, and God came to me, in my heart, and spoke to me.
In the smallest of ways, this began to dissipate my anger, my hurt, and my finger-pointing, and it opened the door for healing and the rebuilding of trust. In no way does this make the pain of my tragedy less present or more bearable, but it does provide me some comfort in knowing that even though my faith is being tested, God has not forsaken me. God still believes in me, even if I'm having trouble believing in Him.
For the believers, optimists, cynics, and non-believers alike, I hope you can put aside the hokey evangelicals, the big business of church, the hypocrites, and the crazy-talk of someone who just lost a child, and believe for just a moment that the same God who spoke to me today is there, watching you and loving you too.
-Dedicated to our sweet Angel Baby ('Avocado' Henry). We will miss you always.
But before I go forward, I must go back.
Two weeks ago yesterday, my husband and I waited expectantly while our doctor tried to locate a heartbeat for our sweet second baby at our 16 week appointment. When he was unable to find the heartbeat using just the Doppler, he assured us everything was fine, but sent us to a second room for a scan to get a better look at the baby.
Looking back now, I knew at that point that something was wrong.
This pregnancy was completely unlike my first, with morning sickness and general discomfort that lasted through each of my waking hours until the 14th week. During the 12th week, I began to experience pain in my hips and groin that made it uncomfortable to walk, sit, lay, pick up my first child, and perform normal daily functions. I assumed all those discomforts were due to the relaxin that was preparing my joints for my second childbirth, only a short 16 months after the first. I assumed all the new pains I experienced were due to the close spacing between my pregnancies, and the fact that my body had never fully recovered from the first.
But looking back, I knew. I had spent countless moments during this pregnancy worrying that I was robbing my first son of his well-deserved alone time with mommy and daddy. I had fretted that I would never have enough room in my heart to love a second child as much as I loved my first, perfect child. I was concerned from the beginning that my morning sickness was a bad sign, but I chose to believe rumors I'd heard that morning sickness was an indication of high levels of good hormones, and was a confident predictor of a healthy pregnancy. I had never felt quite settled throughout this pregnancy, but I chose to ignore the signs and feel hopeful and positive, because surely nothing could happen to my baby.
But looking back, I knew. Just that morning, in the restroom mirror at work, I had paused briefly and thought how strange it was that I could see the outline of my belly button, where just the day before it wasn't visible because of the tightness that had developed due to my growing baby. And only days before this doctor's visit, I had told my husband I wished this visit was a sonogram visit, because I felt the need to see, rather than just hear, our baby. I knew something was amiss, but again I chose hope and positivity.
When our doctor brought the image of our baby up on the screen, I had one last fleeting moment of hope when I saw the outline of the human form, including a beautiful profile of his or her face that I'll never forget. But my final moment of hope was quickly destroyed, replaced with a cascade of emotions and events that spiraled out of my control before I could even take a breath. According to the doctor, our sweet baby had stopped developing around 14 weeks, and now had no heartbeat.
I had been walking around with a dead baby inside my belly for two weeks. Aside from the devastation and sadness I felt at that moment, I'll never forget thinking how strange it was that I was certain I had just felt the baby move that morning, and several other times in the past two weeks. I was certain of these baby flutters, and I never questioned myself because I had so recently gone through the first pregnancy.
Over the course of these last two painful weeks, I have felt more coinciding emotions than I thought possible.
I have felt guilty...for not recognizing something was wrong and insisting the doctor check on my baby sooner. For not being as excited about this pregnancy as I was about the first. For not watching how I ate, drank, slept and exerted myself as carefully as I did with my first. For not spending as many hours with my hand on my belly in prayer as I did with my first. For dancing with my fifth graders when I knew I needed to rest. For any moments of fear or panic that my sweet baby might have felt when in distress. For not being able to save my baby.
I have felt embarrassed...for not being cognizant of the fact that something was wrong. For thinking there was a baby moving inside me who was actually dead. For having a body that failed me and my sweet angel baby. For grieving the loss of a child I never even got to meet in person. For not being able to save my baby.
I have felt angry...for being forced to walk around with a dead baby inside me for three more days while I waited for a D and C procedure. For having to have a baby vacuumed and scraped out of my womb. For listening to the non-cynical, optimistic side of myself who told me everything would be fine. For believing that God wouldn't let anything happen to my baby. For all the well-intentioned but insensitive things people say to someone who has lost a child. For the fact that my baby wasn't big enough for the remains to leave any ashes for us to cherish. For not being able to hold and love on my baby before sending him or her to Heaven. For not being able to save my baby.
BUT...I have also felt thankful...for friends and family members, even distant acquaintances, who have reached out in this saddest of times to offer condolences, words of comfort, acts of service, and countless other blessings. I have felt humbled by friends who have lost living children, who have graced me with the honor of considering my loss in any way comparable to theirs. I have felt blessed every moment of every day by my sweet, first baby boy and my loving husband, without whom this experience might have consumed me completely.
I know I have barely begun to grieve, and I know there are so many more ways in which I will feel all of these emotions and more that I can't yet comprehend.
But through all the sadness, the shame, the anger, and the blessings, I have so wished I could lean on my God. I have so wished I could reach out to Him and ask Him for guidance. That I could count on Him not to let me down, and that I could trust that He would lead me, comfort me, protect me, and more importantly, welcome my sweet angel baby home.
But I haven't been able to do this, because I've been struggling with my faith for several months now. Through a progression of tragic events, my faith has been chipped away, dulled by the realization that this God in whom I have so blindly trusted and who I have so faithfully followed, doesn't exact His power to stop bad things from happening to good people, even those I love and even those who are too tiny and defenseless to protect themselves. This realization has caused a rift in my relationship with God that I have been unsure could ever be repaired.
I have spent countless hours in the last year arguing with and pointing my finger at God, and then apologizing for my lack of faith, and for the fact that I am too hurt and angry and confused to speak to and believe in Him. (I have wondered in the last two weeks if all of this arguing and finger-pointing is what caused my baby to be forsaken, which has led to more guilt and anger.)
But today, in my car, God spoke to me.
It needs to be said that though I am not a cynic, I am hesitant to believe in God's ability to speak directly to us. For example, I believe that God places the sunset in our view to remind us of His glory, but I do not believe that God would place a note in my mailbox written by His own hand (a la The Shack). For this reason, what I tell you here seems hokey even to me, but I implore believers and non-believers, cynics and optimists alike, to allow yourselves to be inspired by my story and reminded of His grace, presence and power in our lives. (Disclaimer: HIS refers to God in any form you choose to accept.)
Through the last two weeks, I have had little time to feel my pain. I have had little time to sit and cry, to dwell in this dark place, to be consumed by this all-consuming grief. There have been unforeseen circumstances that have forced me to step up, be strong, and power through each day as though nothing has happened. I personally think I've done a stellar job. ;)
But sometimes, I cry. When I'm in the bathroom alone, I cry. When I'm up and no one else is awake, I cry. When I'm in the car, I cry. I allow myself a few moments to fall apart, and then I pick up the pieces and finish the day.
Today, God found me in my grief, spoke to me, and then moved on to finish His day.
As I drove to a hair appointment, I stared blindly ahead, ignoring the lines on the road, but somehow staying inside them safely enough to get me where I was going; a fine analogy for the last two weeks of my life. I turned on Kari Jobe radio on Pandora, because I felt in need of some spiritual therapy, and music is always my best medicine.
The first song playing was, "You Are For Me," by Kari Jobe. Aside from the fact that this happens to be one of my favorite faith ballads, the words were exactly what my heart needed to hear. "I know that You are for me, I know that You are for me, I know that You would never forsake me in my weakness. I know that You have come here, even if to write upon my heart, to remind me who You are."
I began to cry, unable to sing along due to my failing voice of faith. I cried through most of the song, and as it ended, I whispered a begrudging apology to God. "You took my baby, and this pain, it is so all-consuming, I can't breathe. This grief is filling me until there is no room for You, and I don't know what to do."
As the next song began to play, I actually laughed through my tears. I laughed, because I knew in that moment that God had found me, listened to my cries, and spoken to me.
The next song that played was, "I Will Carry You," by Selah.
The night before I heard this song for the first time, these are the words I read on Amazon as I searched the internet for books of faith on grief. The book I read about was titled "I Will Carry You: The Sacred Dance of Grief and Joy," by Angie Smith.
As I read the book's review, I again felt guilt as I pondered how much harder this woman's journey must have been than mine. I decided to order the book because it seemed such an inspiring story of faith, but I was unaware there was a song by the same name.
In 2008, Angie Smith and her husband Todd (lead singer of the group Selah) learned through ultrasound that their fourth daughter had conditions making her “incompatible with life.” Advised to terminate the pregnancy, the Smiths chose instead to carry this child and allow room for a miracle. That miracle came the day they met Audrey Caroline and got the chance to love her for the precious two-and-a-half hours she lived on earth.
When I saw the title of the song on my console and heard the first few words, I thought to myself, "No. Way." I was still in tears over the last song, and as the song began to play, I listened intently to this woman's journey through the birth and loss of her child, and how her faith is still centered on God, even though her dreams had been crushed by this tragedy.
I continued to cry then because I knew God had found me in my weakness, and had reached out and handed me a song, not to heal me or make my pain go away, but to let me know that He was still there, still watching me, still loving me. God knows me, and He knows that music is the place where I linger for every blessing, celebration, tragedy and sorrow in my life. Music is my heart, and God came to me, in my heart, and spoke to me.
In the smallest of ways, this began to dissipate my anger, my hurt, and my finger-pointing, and it opened the door for healing and the rebuilding of trust. In no way does this make the pain of my tragedy less present or more bearable, but it does provide me some comfort in knowing that even though my faith is being tested, God has not forsaken me. God still believes in me, even if I'm having trouble believing in Him.
For the believers, optimists, cynics, and non-believers alike, I hope you can put aside the hokey evangelicals, the big business of church, the hypocrites, and the crazy-talk of someone who just lost a child, and believe for just a moment that the same God who spoke to me today is there, watching you and loving you too.
-Dedicated to our sweet Angel Baby ('Avocado' Henry). We will miss you always.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)