The Disqualified Grief

There is something that's been weighing on my heart lately... and to be honest I've been hesitant to write about it because I haven't been sure if many of my readers would understand, or would want to read about it. But the reality is that I always told myself I would be honest on this blog about what I'm thinking and feeling. I've always said this blog was more for the writing than it is for the reading.

So here goes.

It has been 8 months since my miscarriage. I should be over it, right? At least that's what so many people tell me (or at least suggest to me in not so many words.) I never understood the pain of miscarriage until I went through one myself. And the biggest surprise of them all, when I went through my miscarriage, was the lack of empathy.

Hear me out. Yes, there were many, many people who were there for me. There were listening ears and flowers and cards and homemade meals brought to my door. There were people who loved, cared and understood. But there were so many people who disqualified my grief. Let me explain. I had many conversations about my miscarriage that went something like this:

"Sorry about your loss." 

"Thank you.

"How far along were you?"

"10 weeks."

"Oh so still very early. The baby must have been very small. You didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl, right?" 

And whether they meant it this way or not, there it was. Instant disqualification. As if the life of my baby was truly nothing to grieve over. I mean, my goodness, how could I grieve? I didn't even know the sex.

Here's the biggest thing that disturbs me about this attitude that I have seen so much of since losing my child: If we consider ourselves "pro-lifers" than we've got to take a second look at this issue. If we stand on the sidewalks with posters, or re-post that Facebook meme about a life being a life no matter how small, than we've got to take a drastic second look at our own hearts on the matter of miscarriage. If the life of an aborted baby is "atrocious" and "murder" and "grievous", then why is the baby who is miscarried not worthy of so much more grief and attention and HONOR? We expect women to sweep it under the carpet. Don't announce your pregnancy until after your first trimester, because well goodness, what if you lose it? Much better to sweep the loss under the carpet where it won't upset anyone. Right? 

I have FOUR children. Not three. I have FOUR. But I say three because it gets real uncomfortable when I bring my loss to the table. I say three because I don't want to hear the disqualification of my fourth child. I don't want to hear people dishonor her by saying "she doesn't really count" whether they use that plain of English to say it or not. 

I have seen people get offended by the picture that commemorates my fourth child on my mother in law's wall. She has a drawing that hangs there next to photographs of my three living children--a drawing that depicts a child in the arms of Jesus. A drawing that honors the life that was. A drawing that honors my child, who I loved fiercely. A drawing that honors LIFE. A drawing that says, This life mattered. This life didn't simply disappear unnoticed. This life, existed and is remembered. This life counted. This life is counted equal among the lives of my living grandchildren. Some people would call that drawing awkward. Uncomfortable. Unnecessary. 

I was recently watching the movie, "The Help". There is a scene in that movie where a young woman buries her fourth miscarried child in a shoe box in the backyard. She buried that child alone. Absolutely alone with her box, her dead child and her grief and some dirt. 

There is no funeral procession for the miscarried child. There is no final epitaph, no final eulogy, no flowers, no coffin, no cross. There is only that woman and her grief. But in an age where we Christians fight SO hard for the rights of the unborn, how can we look the other way when our sister loses her unborn child? We grieve the aborted babies, but we disqualify the grief of the miscarrying mother. Am I the only one who sees this massive disconnect as a tragedy? 

The reality is, I'm not "over it". Not even close. I remember my child every single day. I dream of her, I cry for her, I miss her. Little things will send me off in a heap of tears and leave me grieving, aching, hurting... empty womb and empty arms. I long for the day when I'll meet her in paradise. I long for the day when I'll dance with the angels with her in my arms. 

My grief is more than qualified. Mother, if you have lost a child before he or she even breathed their first breath.... your grief is qualified. That life counts. Those who disqualify it surely have not know what it's like to feel the birth pangs alone in your home waiting for a baby to come that's already dead. They do not know that to lose a child is to give birth to a life that's already ended. They can not know the pain and hurt and the loneliness of that grief. But what we can do, mothers, is to honor our children. To count them among our quiver. To honor them with a burial, a commemoration. To hang a picture on our wall or wear a necklace around our neck. To give them a name, perhaps. To write them a letter, or a song. To grieve them for the life that they were. A grief that is qualified. 

I Will Learn to Lean (Grief)

"You've brought me to the wilderness where I will learn to sing. 

You let me know my barrenness so I will learn to lean."

(Laura Hackett, "Beautiful Mercy")

 I'm happy right now. I want you to know that before I type anything else.  My heart is full of laughter, and my soul gives thanks to God. I wrote those words last night as I looked at three beautiful pictures of three beautiful children who bring so much joy to my life. I am so blessed to have borne them in to this world, and to know them as MINE. My children. My heritage. My loves. 

Grief is a funny thing. It shows up in the oddest of places. It's not overwhelming, as I imagined it would be. At first of course, it is truly all encompassing. But as time goes on, it becomes threaded into your life in a way in which you don't notice at first. But when you smile, and you feel real, real joy... but then at the same moment, a tear springs to your eye. That's when you know grief isn't absent in happiness. But we all must learn to bear both emotions in sync. 

I can smile, I can laugh, I can sing and dance with my children across a room, and I can be perfectly happy in that moment. But truthfully, the ache of grief is still there. I don't forget it. And I don't betray that which I grieve by smiling either. 

When I post a picture of my three beautiful babies, I won't forget that there should be a fourth. 

I never knew miscarriage could be quite so hard. I imagined, and I guess I imagined wrong. I loved the baby that we lost. For 10 weeks I carried it's life in my womb and for 10 weeks it heard my heart beat. 

It's been almost 2 months now since our babe went to be with Jesus. And in some ways, we are only just beginning to grieve. I've needed time. My husband has needed time. 

I began this post with the words to a song by Laura Hackett. They rang so true in my heart as I heard them sung. "You brought me to the wilderness where I will learn to sing. You let me know my barrenness so I will learn to lean." I have been wrecked by this experience. I have been taken to the ground and destroyed. There is a part of me that will never be again. I hope that doesn't sound despairing or hopeless, because I'm not. I realize that there are parts of me that have to be re-born. There are thought processes that have been erased and are being rewritten. There is a silence in my heart that waits with bated breath for God to speak into it. I am tranquil. I am tearful. I am released. I hold tightly to His presence and I wait for His next move. I am undone. 

I am overwhelmed with happiness, and I am overwrought with grief. I don't know any other way to express it. 

Little things remind me of the baby. An ornament my mother in law had made for us before the loss... of a couple.. pregnant as we would have been now. The weird way in which I picked out a Christmas card with four spaces for children's pictures. The opening of my closet to find the maternity shirt I had planned to wear to Christmas Eve service. Even though she never saw this world, there are reminders of our sweet baby everywhere we look. My heart is full. 

I don't understand loss today any more than I did before I'd lost. I look in the mirror and I feel older. 

God's goodness is ever present. His love is sure. His compassion is new. His tender mercies are precious. I lean into Him and I take a breath. And again I wait. In this precious time, in this moment where my fear, my joy, my anguish, my gratitude... where everything meets and every song sings straight to my soul and every word speaks to my heart. God is near. He never has been far.  He brought me here. He doesn't rejoice in my loss, but He holds me here.

I am leaning. And He is holding.

It's a Wonderful Life.

I'm moving forward. Some days I cry, some days I laugh. Most days I do both. I am adjusting to not being pregnant anymore and I'm adjusting to going from happy to devastated at the drop of a hat or the kind words of a friend or the sympathy card in the mailbox. I am moving forward through grief and loss, but I am also embracing joy and hope.

Christmas is almost upon us and the tree is up. The twinkling lights pull me right back to childhood. The familiar carols that never grow old brighten my spirits and bring movement to my feet. There are so many happy moments in this season that keep me smiling. The tears are still never far, but lately neither is the smile--and for that irony, I am thankful.

My hands are always full with my three wonderful kids. I love them so much and even more each day.

My hubby and I watched "It's a Wonderful Life" the other day.  I hadn't seen it in years. As we sat down to watch, the first thing I said was "Why don't they make a new one of this movie? It's so old!" But then as we got into it, I realized I know why they haven't made a new one. They don't need to. It's so pure and raw. It's so well done. I found myself getting so lost in it. And now as a parent, I understand so much of George Bailey's feelings all the more.

When Bryan and I met, we were at missions college. We had big dreams and big plans. We wanted to travel the world, preach the Gospel, get our hands dirty. We kept those plans and dreams well into our first years of marriage. We faced set backs and redirections but we kept the same vision. "Take the Gospel to the ends of the earth." And then we boarded that plane for South Africa. We landed and we hit the ground running. But an unexpected second child was on the way and the bank account was emptying. Our dream crumbled to dust right in our hands and we were lost. We came back to the States with a couple of suitcases and a couple of kids. We were confused. This wasn't the path we set out on. Bryan took a job he never wanted and I settled in at home to raise our kids. Far from the African continent and further from our starry eyed dreams.

A couple states and another kid later, and we still aren't where we thought we'd be. I don't know if the dreams that were whispered to our hearts will ever come true, but we are waiting on God. We have a lot of nights like George Bailey had. A lot of nights where everything goes wrong and we ask--just like George-- "Why did we have to have all these kids" and  "Why do we have to live in this crummy little town?"

But what if we didn't have it? What if the mess and the cribs and spills and the crayon covered walls and the dirty diapers and the crying at 1 am.. what if it was all gone?

What if Peyton with her clear blue eyes and her wild blond mane and her constant questions and her never ending passion and her constant asking to paint and her forgetting to pick up the crayons and her getting up seven times out of bed to ask for water and her "I love you Mommy" and her helping with cooking and her caring for her siblings and her dancing around the house with her party dress and her bouncing curls and her graceful movements... What if she was gone?

And what if Britany with her pudgy little hands and her smooth olive skin and her "mommy, help!" and her tearing of books and her spilling of milk and her smeared banana hands and her deep chocolate eyes and her full pink lips and her running nose and her little accident prone body and her slobbery kisses and the way she curls up in my arms and melts into me.... What if she never existed?

And what if Hunter who pulls at my hair and wakes me at 1 with his constant demand for my attention and his fussiness when I'm my most tired and his big blue eyes and his charming big grin and cuddles and his squirming and his putting everything in his mouth that he shouldn't and his screaming at me from across the room to hold him when all I want are 5 minutes of peace and his happy little face when I reach for him and the feel of his silky soft cheeks and the joy I feel when he reaches for me from across a room.... What if I'd never known him?



See, my life may have turned out quite differently from how I thought, or planned, or even dreamed. But my life is wonderful. And I wouldn't trade any of it for all the lofty dreams and sparkle in my teenage eyes. I never knew then what I know now. Love. The love of a marriage, the love of a family, and the wonderful life that those things have brought me.

God knows what He's doing. And, for the most part, we don't.

Our Loss.

Thank you all so much for the love, support and encouragement you have all offered us during this time. We are overwhelmed by the community we have through Christ.

**Note, I'm writing the account of my miscarriage for my own records and my own closure. I don't expect everyone to want to read this, and that's fine. I just feel like I need to write it. And if you feel as though it's something you want to read, please do. God is teaching me about life and about death. God is teaching me about His plan and that this tragedy is part of my story. I cannot ignore it or pretend it's not a page in my life's book.**

This week has been difficult to say the least. One week ago yesterday I woke up like any normal day... took my kids to a doctor's appointment, fed them lunch, put them down for their naps, all while cherishing the new life inside my womb. I even told a woman that day that I had four kids. Suddenly in the afternoon I started spotting, and I immediately knew in my heart that something wasn't right. I know it's common to spot in pregnancy. I know it's typically not even a red flag. But something in my heart told me this was a red flag. A really big one. I just knew something was terribly wrong. I cried out to God, I pleaded with Him. I realized so fully in that moment that I didn't just want another baby... I wanted THIS baby. This dear one that I had spent the past 10 weeks carrying in my very being. I wanted to look into the eyes of THIS child. I wanted THIS child to join our family... to sit around our dinner table. I wanted THIS baby to coo as I kissed it's soft belly. I wanted to know if THIS baby was a boy or a girl. I wanted to give birth to THIS baby. I wanted to know THIS baby. 

The spotting continued and I called my sister's doctor (I hadn't chosen one here yet) and he graciously offered to see me that afternoon. The moment the ultrasound flickered onto the screen, I knew it was over. I've seen many ultrasounds, and I immediately noticed the emptiness of my womb. The lack of a moving, squirming beautiful tiny baby. I covered my face with my hands and I wept. The ultrasound tech took her measurements silently. Her face showed no emotion and she remained silent even as my husband and I asked her repeatedly, "Where is the baby?" 

I had had a blighted ovum. Basically the baby was created, but then never detached from the uterine wall. Something stopped the baby from growing pretty early on. However, my body continued to move forward with the pregnancy. My symptoms continued, my belly grew, my womb grew. But the baby didn't grow. The doctor asked me if I'd like a D&C, but I opted to pass everything naturally. 

The miscarriage happened on Saturday. It felt like a lot like a real birth. I contracted, I felt the pangs of labor. But I knew no baby waited for me on the other end. I grieved. I cried, I moaned. It was horrible. I grieved for myself, my children, my family, my baby. I also grieved for the many friends I have who have already walked this terrible path. I grieved for friends of mine who have lost babies much further along than I was. I wept for the still births, for the miscarriages, for the deaths. 

I am still not fully recovered. As strange as this may sound to some of you, when I look in the mirror now, I see a different person. I feel like I've seen another side of life. Another side of pregnancy and child bearing. Pregnancy has always come easy to me. And for the first time, it didn't go the way I thought it would. It ended.  The life slipped right out of me.. and I had no control over it.

I don't know if everything I'm saying here is "right". I don't know if it's okay to voice all of this. But I know that these are the feelings inside of me. Something happened this week that sucks. That I'll never forget. I've been sad, I've been angry, I've been hard, I've been brittle. I'm on a roller coaster of grief and pain and misunderstanding. 

But weirdly enough, in the midst of all this, I know beauty will come. I don't get it, but I know it'll come. 

I'll miss my baby every day. I don't say that lightly. I already do miss him or her. One day soon we'll name this child and we'll have a proper memorial. We're not ready yet, but we will be. 

One day the tears might not spring as quickly to my eyes. One day I might not feel quite so brittle and empty. But I'll never forget this child. I'll never stop loving this child. I'll never stop missing my baby who I never held. I love this baby as fiercely as I love the three in my arms. The baby who heard my heart beat, who lived inside of me, who would've called me Mommy.


Thanks for being patient with me as I walk through all of this. Thanks for being there. All the comments and messages mean more than you know. So thank you.

Yet Will I Sing

"Though my song be taken from me

Yet will I sing.

Yet will I praise You.

Though my heart be slain within me, 

Yet will I trust.

Yet will I follow after You.

Because I know whatever You do, 

You do through the eyes of mercy...

There is a time for every purpose under the Heavens.

And though my weeping may last for the night,

Your joy comes with the light."

Our Glory Baby

It's with a heavy heart that I write this post.

This past week, we lost our precious fourth child. I was 10 weeks along. I don't have many words right now, and maybe in time I will. But for now, this beautiful song by Watermark has put words to the deepest feelings in my heart that I cannot yet fully express.

Here is what I posted on Facebook: 
Thank you all for being excited with us as we announced our fourth pregnancy. Sadly, our baby has gone to be with Jesus. We will forever love and miss our precious Glory Baby.

"Heaven will hold you before we do. Heaven will keep you safe until we're home with you.... Baby let sweet Jesus hold you until Mom & Dad can hold you... We will miss you every day and we will miss you in every way, but we can't wait for the day when we will see you... I can't imagine Heaven's lullabies and what they must sound like. But I will rest in knowing, Heaven is your home and it's all you'll ever know." (Glory Baby by Watermark)