So, to start, don’t misunderstand what I am trying to say. I do believe in God. I do believe he has a plan for us. I have a very strong testimony that God exists. A testimony that He created all of us in His image. A testimony that he loves us. And that we will one day all return to be by His side.
I cannot look at my son and question the existence of a higher power that has allowed me this miracle. He is a miracle. Just as every child is.
I just don’t think that His Plan includes the death of a child. I want to believe that His plan does not plot out our heartache to that extent. The death of a child is not a trial, to be used as a growing exercise. There is nothing that can prepare you for it. There is nothing that it can help change for the future.
Pointless.
Any of us that have experienced the loss of a miscarriage have all been told at one point or another, “It’s God’s plan.” Or “It’s for the best.”
Who the hell has the audacity to say that to a grieving parent?
So what you’re telling me is that it was God’s PLAN for my child to die?
If your 5 year old died, it would be horrifying, earth-shattering and devastating. If you are 6 weeks pregnant, it is crushing and excruciating. Though I have no doubt the two are different in many ways, both demolish your soul to the core.
I have not experienced the loss of an older child. I have no knowledge of the desolation that comes with that pain. And I don’t pretend to.
I have, however, had multiple miscarriages. 11 to be exact. 11 known pregnancies, lost. Most were less than 12 weeks. Three were more.
But mothers who experience miscarriage are not given the same grieving rights as those who lose an older child. It seems the newer the news of the pregnancy, the less rights we have. We are all supposed to keep silent.
Because it’s awkward. And no one knows what to say. Truth is… There is nothing to be said that will lessen the pain.
There are things to be avoided, however. Like, “It was God’s plan.” “It’s for the best.” “Maybe it just wasn’t good timing.” “At least you weren’t further along.” “At least you didn’t know your baby yet.” “You can always have another.” “At least you already have a child/ or children.” “It’s been XX days or weeks or months or years, Get over it.”
To all of these things, I have words that I would never have the strength to say to a “loved one” who said this to me. Not now. Not while I am in this much pain. But the pain will be here forever, so never will I tell you how that hurt.
Listening. Listening is all you want from a friend. You need to have your story heard. You need to know that she knows your child too. You need to be able to express anger, sorrow and fears, without guilt. Without the guilt you have already piled on yourself, thinking they feel the same anger towards you that you feel toward yourself. You need to feel valid to feel this way. And saying “It was God’s Plan”, or any of the other stupidly insensitive comments, only negates that validity. You would think it would be comforting to hear that, besides any reasoning, that there was a purpose.
It’s not. It makes you want to punch the other person in the throat.
These things are not being said to be hurtful for the most part. It comes from our loved ones who see the pain we are in, but could never comprehend it. They feel like saying something is better than nothing. Or they think they have the answer. They think they know how they would feel if in the same situation. Regardless of whether they have been through it themselves, they don’t.
Just as every genetic makeup is diverse, and every pregnancy is a little different from another, every miscarriage is unique. Some stories resound of similarities of yours. Some, you shake your head and thank God it wasn’t you.
It’s also remarkable to see the variances in coping methods and processes.
Some women, chose not to say a word. Chose not to allow themselves to be vulnerable. Whether they are actively deciding to hide their feelings, or it is just their way of getting through. They seem to just move on.
Other women, chose to speak up. Hence, the many books and support groups that we now have to comfort and console us. They chose to not be silent. They chose to be heard. They appear to be the strong ones. The ones who through their sorrow, are able to reach out and uplift another.
There are also some of us that cannot see out of the depression. Those who the devastation takes over. Some of us do not have the support of others. And sometimes even with support, their world has crashed down on top of them.
And still, some of us are all of these women. During different stages of our healing, we go through processes and changes. Changes that shape our lives. Your heart is forever changed.
Whether they only touched our lives for a moment or lifetime, it is still an eternity to a mother. From the moment of conception, that child is a part of your being. You are now a mother. You have a connection that will never be broken.
You don’t love him less than you love your other children. You have hopes and dreams of who she will be. You start calculating costs of diapers and formula. Knowing everything you do will impact your baby. YOUR BABY. Not your zygote or fetus. When we tell someone we are pregnant, we say “I am having a baby!” Not “I am having an Embryo!”
For some of us, we have tried for a child, for weeks, months or possibly years.
They are not a “thing”. They are not like the empty toilet paper roll or even a favorite pair of shoes. They are not replaceable! Trying for another is usually the LAST thing we want to think of. You don’t want to forget your child or REPLACE them. You are still just as blessed to have your other children as you were before your baby was here.
And for the lucky of us, we might still have another. However, your older or next child does not change the life that was lost.
6 weeks gestation or 6 weeks old, you knew this being. Your baby is now a part of your life forever. You knew your baby. You knew when she wasn’t happy with your choice in dinner. You knew when he got excited to hear daddy’s voice. She is more than just part of you. Your entire being is devoted to making sure he is safe.
There is no expiration date on grief. There is not that one magical day when someone says, it’s been so long, your done grieving now. No fairy to wave a wand. No day when you are better.
Being pregnant at the same time of a friend or family member is usually a fun experience. We get to talk about all of our aches and pains and gripes, with someone who is there, right now! They get it. They have the same fears and exciting moments.
Suffering a miscarriage while your friends and family are pregnant changes that.
It’s a bit of limbo. They don’t know what to say to not upset you. They seem to acknowledge their own fears of being in your boat, without knowing. They want to have the same relationship as when you were pregnant together. Sometimes these are the ones that can say most of the painful comments, whether intentional or not. They want you to be excited for them and their child.
But now, if they complain about heartburn, you sob. If you see an ultrasound, your world tailspins.
Still, you ARE so excited for them. You still love them and their child just as much as you did before. And you would never wish they were the ones going through the miscarriage. But you wish you were still pregnant.
It’s not fair!
No I mean it! It’s truly not fair! You didn’t do anything to be the one hurting.
The most devastating acts for me came from a pregnant family member. About three weeks after my miscarriage was my brother’s birthday. It was also the day of my next scheduled prenatal visit. I was still hemorrhaging. Not just bleeding, like an ultra-super pad and super plus tampon an hour.
I was spending the day with my mom, sister (5 months pregnant) and sister in law (7 months pregnant). My mom was feeling my SIL baby kick, and my Sis joined. My SIL asked if I would like to feel her move also.
I softly declined.
Today was not the day. I had just gotten an automated call from my OB’s office reminding me of my visit. I had to call the office back and remind them of my miscarriage. You wouldn’t think that would suck so bad, but it turned me upside down.
I quickly found a reason to dismiss myself from the rest of the day’s activities.
I called SIL a few hours later to explain myself. I felt that I had been insensitive to her feelings and I didn’t want her to think that I wasn’t excited for the new baby. I was! I just could not do it that day, is all. I explained to her why that day, I could not do the baby thing. It was the day not her. She seemed to understand and said she wasn’t offended; she just hadn’t wanted to exclude me.
I really appreciated her trying to be sensitive to me.
That night we went to her house for my brother’s birthday. It was a packed house. I believe it was close to 30 people.
Her friend and newborn were also there to celebrate. Her friend had sat quietly holding her baby while everyone ate, and when SIL was done, she asked her to hold the baby so she could get something to eat. SIL turned to me and said “Give him to Cryssi, she needs to hold a baby!” I thought she was kidding. I hoped she was kidding.
There was no way she could be so… vicious. No way, after what I had just explained to her that afternoon.
She wasn’t.
She turned and walked away, leaving me face to face with a famished new mother who looked like she hadn’t had a moment to herself, much less to eat with both hands, in the last week since he was born.
She asked if I minded.
I did.
I reached out my arms and accepted her swaddled infant, who reeked of breast milk and baby wash. I sat there, blank expression as he nuzzled himself into me and fell right to sleep.
I saw my mother and sister look at me like you look at an old woman who has just fallen and broken every bone in her fragile frame. They seemed to not know if this was a self-inflicted pain I was choosing to endure, or if it was a rescue needed situation.
My husband wrapped his arm around me and did his best to be comforting. I sat there for over an hour, reprimanding myself for each time I started to tear up. Spurring myself to look at him. I couldn’t.
Finally, his mother decided she felt it was time to nurse. I handed him to her, gathered my coat, my husband and son and left without saying a word.
Okay, so let’s go over this thought process. Because I am not grasping it.
If I am not able to suck it up enough to feel my brother’s unborn daughter kick, unable to look a pregnant woman in the face. What would make you think that I would want to tend your friend’s newborn, whom I have no connection to and no desire to be around, much less touching.
This to me is one of the more hurtful offenses. Taking it into your own hands to decide when a woman should be “over it”.
There is a day when you realize you haven’t thought about her for a week. You haven’t said her name for two. And you feel guilty. You feel like you are going to forget him forever and no one else will remember him. But the truth is, you will never forget. There will come a time when it’s not all consuming. It’s not every single thought you have. You have to forgive yourself for this. It’s only a coping mechanism that your mind does to preserve whatever sanity you might have left.
There is no reason. No explanation. A few of us get to find out when there was a defect. A clinical reason our child is no longer living. That is not an explanation. Why you? Why me?
It wasn’t anything you did. There is nothing you are responsible for.
It would not be different if you wouldn’t have picked up that box that was too heavy this morning. It would not be different if you didn’t fall off the monkey bars at 7. It probably wouldn’t be different if your genetics were different.
I have lots more to add, but… it’s 4:30 in the morning. I promised myself I wouldn’t sleep until I posted this. So, more to come.
