Lessons from daniel

Last Monday marked the two-year anniversary of my second miscarriage. A dear friend, who was right beside me during that dark time, stopped by with flowers. More specifically, she brought me an enormous hanging basket of fuchsias, one of my favorites. I confess, until I opened the front door and saw Erica there, I had forgotten what day it was. While I felt a bit guilty at first, I realized it signified something I am deeply grateful for: I am healing.

I decided to re-pot the fuchsia into a large terracotta planter, so it wouldn't be battered by the wind that blows hard against our north-facing front porch. I was initially heartsick by how roughed-up it got, how many delicate pink-and-purple blossoms and even branches broke off in the transition. I admit I even cried when I gathered them all up. The branches that were left seemed to stick out at odd angles and the plant just didn't look as lush and happy. Erica assured me fuchsias are hardy, that new branches would grow back, and over the next few days as I watered it faithfully, new buds and leaves did indeed appear.

Then, yesterday afternoon, I found out someone very close to me had suffered a miscarriage. My heart aches for her, because I know. I know. I haven't had the chance to talk to her yet, but thinking about what I would say--and more specifically what I would not say--got me thinking about what I have learned from my miscarriages.

If you have experienced miscarriage or stillbirth, or if you know someone who has, I hope these words may be helpful navigating through the grief, or comforting someone who is trying to do so.

1. There is no "good time" to lose a baby. My first miscarriage was at almost eight weeks and my second at nineteen. I grieved for each baby differently, but each was equally precious to me. The first one wasn't "easier" just because I didn't know the gender, or because I hadn't felt it move yet. In some ways, that was almost harder--because I felt like I didn't even know this dear little person who left me far too soon.

2.  People are going to be insensitive. I was surprised that some of the worst offenders were loved ones and people from church--those I expected would be more compassionate and sensitive. People I hardly knew offered to lend me books on grief. Books on weight loss. Folks who had heard I was pregnant, but not that I had lost the baby, congratulated me. Women who had miscarriages of their own took it as an open invitation to regale me with their stories--which I might have been ready for later, but at the time I was lost in my own sad story. I was told all kinds of things, some of them outright lies and others that were painfully true. I must not be a good enough mother to get another baby, God must be trying to teach me something I hadn't learned yet, my tribulation would help me have greater empathy for people I knew who had miscarried. That last one? True, but oh, the timing! No grieving mother needs to hear how her loss will help her to be more understanding to others; that realization comes with time and healing. In spite of having my feelings wounded even more deeply, I found relief in letting go. And I learned to say, "I'm sorry, but that's not helpful to me right now."

3. People are going to be amazingly sensitive, generous, and kind. I was the grateful and humbled recipient of meals, flowers, phone calls, gifts, emails, childcare, and Erica--the one with the fuchsias--came to the hospital with a tiny blanket she had made for me to wrap my baby in. I was surprised that sometimes the ones who had at first been insensitive later did things that touched me deeply. What meant the most were those who came to just sit with me in my grief: right after I got home from the ultrasound, at the doctor appointment the next day, in the hospital while I waited to go into labor, and in the weeks and months after. Sometimes I didn't want to talk, sometimes I did--and I appreciated so much those who were there to bear the burden with me in whatever way I needed at that moment. I learned to accept offers of help, and even to reach out and ask for what I needed.

4. Name the baby. A friend called me after my first miscarriage and gently asked if I would be interested in a book she had heard about, Naming the Child: Hope-filled Reflections on Miscarriage, Stillbirth and Infant Death, by Jenny Schroedel. She sent me a link so I could check out the description, and later gave the book to me. I found that choosing meaningful names for my babies helped me feel more connected to them, which in turn gave me some desperately needed closure about losing them.

5. Women and men grieve differently. My husband was not devastated the way I was at the loss of either baby. Rather than being resentful, I was grateful because he was stronger than me and I could lean on him. I learned to ask specifically for what I needed to work through my own grief, and I did my best to ask Jim about his own feelings and respect his needs. My biggest mistake was holding back my grief instead of sharing it with him as fully as I needed to. Months after my miscarriage, I was worried he wouldn't understand why I was still hurting or would think I just needed to get over it, so for a long time I didn't share my feelings with him--which was unfair to both him and me. Once I opened up, I was able to move forward with healing inside.

6. Healing takes time. Lots and lots of time. With both miscarriages, I reached a certain point where I told myself, "You should be over this by now. Move on." Later,  I came to realize that getting on with the day-to-day business of my life--caring for myself, my family, my home and my other obligations--could happen while I was still grieving. I tried hard to be open with my kids about what I was going through so that they would know it was okay to talk about their own feelings of sadness. I took small steps at re-entering society: shopping at the grocery store, taking my kids to the park, going to the library. Sometimes I found I was doing too much too soon; I wasn't ready to see my pregnant friends and all the babies at church, so I stayed home on Sundays. For weeks. I didn't put a statute of limitations on my sadness, and I found that letting it take as long as it needed to allowed me to grieve more fully and ultimately, to heal more fully.

NaPoWriMo #11: good grief

I know, I know--another poem about loss. What can I say? Working through grief is a good thing, and I'm still working.


Eight Faces of Loss

I wear the first
as I pull my eyes from an ultrasound screen
look my obstetrician in the eye
then tell my children
our baby has gone back to heaven
I tell them it is okay to cry
while I hold back my own tears.

I wear the second
as I buckle seatbelts
pull side door closed
stand outside our minivan
tears streaming, cell phone in hand
to break the news to my husband.

I wear the third
as I wait
wait for the drugs to work
wait for my cervix to ripen
wait for labor to begin
wait to see the child
I will only hold once.

I wear the fourth
as I come home to an empty house
my husband in Atlanta on business
my children with my in-laws
and finally
I fall apart.

I wear the fifth
as I drive my children home
from grandma’s house
tell them they had a brother
and his name was Daniel.

I wear the sixth
every time I see a friend
who is still pregnant
and walk away
without speaking.

I wear the seventh
as I turn inward with everything
that has already been said and felt
because saying it a thousand times
feeling it every moment of every day
will never be enough.

I wear the eighth
as I realize though I lost my child
I never lost faith
as I see grief and joy coexist
in the same second
as I learn I can navigate this place
for which I have no map.

NaPoWriMo #5: scraps

I liked the "scraps" prompt I used last year so much, I'm recycling it for this year. The scraps I used today are from a few lines I jotted down when I was in the hospital last June. My friend Erica, who had lost a little boy at 24 weeks just two years before I lost my baby boy, was with me.

She told me how after her own loss, she had felt like a field that had been plowed and planted, but with no harvest. Then, just a few days later, her milk came in. She was devastated, and in so much pain physically as well.

Erica's sharing her experience with me, and then being at my side through much of my own miscarriage, was a tremendous source of strength for me. So, this is a sad poem but hope comes after it.


Harvest

The field, planted
in fertile furrows
a rich corduroy of rows.

The seeds, sown
soak up rain
that smells of April.

We watch
we wait
for the first green shoots to appear.

And in the steady sun
of the growing season
they do.

Then, without warning
without reason
those fragile leaves
shrivel on their stalks
scatter in a gust of warm wind
and are gone.

They leave only empty arms
and one reminder
of the hoped-for harvest:

swollen, tender breasts
sagging under the weight
of unsuckled milk
that will
all too soon
dry up
and be gone.

NaPoWriMo #3: awad

For a few months now I've been subscribing to A Word A Day, which my friend Lizzie recommended to me. I've always been a word junkie, a voracious appropriator of new vocabulary, so I really enjoy AWAD because it features not only large words, but those that are unusual as well.

Back on February 24, the word for the day was "lacuna", which intrigued me--I really think it was the idea of an "empty space" that spoke to me--so I jotted the word down knowing I would come back to write about it.

Flash forward to this evening: here I am in need of a prompt, and voilà!


Lacuna

Here is a hole
a small space
as though I dropped a stitch
or two
in my neat row
of knit, purl, knit, purl
no one would ever know
unless I pointed it out.

Here is a hole
a narrow gap
as though I broke a teacup
or two
in my neat row
of plate, bowl, teacup, saucer
no one would ever know
unless I pointed it out.

Here is a hole
an empty place
as though I lost a child
or two
in my neat row
of boy, girl—
and that is all.

No one would ever know
unless I pointed it out.

Goodbye, sweet william

Loved 1999-2011. Missed forever after.

It's not you, it's me

Have I been a bit quiet lately? Yeah, I know. Recently it has come to my attention I'm not doing so well at communicating. Looking at my blog and the recent dearth of posts, I see yet another arena where I've shut down the lines of communication.

One of the things I've realized as I've tried to sort this out and identify what went wrong, is that grieving pretty much continuously for the last year has altered me, particularly in the way I define my boundaries with the outside world.

I don't know if the change is permanent; only time will tell. Old me tended to talk too much to everyone, about everything: my life, kids, thoughts, feelings, music, movies, art, you name it--I was the queen of 411 overload.

New me may talk from time to time to certain people who ask and show signs of actually listening to the answers, but I keep it brief, and I would really rather just keep it to myself. From time to time emotions spill out when new me has a ready listener, but I try to avoid that scenario. In fact, new me will actually retreat and hide when I see people I know I don't want to talk to, especially those over-sharers who seem to think I should listen to their problems, which I must understand because of what I've recently been through.

In other words, I tend to avoid people like old me.

I don't necessarily think any of this is bad. Being cured of the tendency to talk too much is probably a good thing. And I definitely think it's okay to be aware of my boundaries and give myself the space I need to grieve. I don't feel like there's anything wrong with avoiding people who have babies or people who want to rehash their own miscarriages if I'm having a hard time that day. I'm just not ready for that yet. But what is bad is when I shut down communicating to the people who I love, and forget to share with them how I'm doing.

So this is me saying we're working on doing better with the whole talking about feelings thing. Both of us.

Grateful

For the first time I can remember since this summer, I am finally feeling like all is right with my world. Not perfect, since my treadmill is still shutting down mid-workout after all my attempts to fix it, and just this morning our refrigerator threatened to go kaput (on the day before Thanksgiving, no less!), but still...

All is right.

I am myself again. I can write a poem--maybe a lousy poem, but I can write again. I can make my kids guffaw with terrible puns. I can pull out a screwdriver or vacuum cleaner to fix whatever breaks. I can be in the moment, whether it is sweet, stressful, or sad, and just be. I can breathe in and out. I can be happy, without fear that the other shoe will drop later this week, next month, or maybe even a year from now.

For this miracle, I give thanks.

Raking...

...is sometimes productive in unexpected ways.


Leaves

I used to revel in fall
to taste sweet amber light
to inhale life
with the crisp, smoky scent
of leaves spiraling down
in a thousand shades
of gold, crimson and brown

now each leaf
is gilded with lead
hurtling down
toward its inevitable decay
falling straight and hard
like a stone strikes the ground
like the hollow sound
of a heavy clapper clanging
the knell of death’s bell.

Día de los angelitos

I've mentioned in several previous posts that I have a thing for Día de los Muertos. Yesterday, the day after my baby would have been due, it was comforting to remember that November 1st is Día de los Angelitos, a day to honor children and infants who have died.


Día de los Angelitos

Yesterday
would have been the first day
for me to wrap you in a soft blanket
nuzzle you to my breast
stroke the down
in the warm hollow
at the nape of your neck.

Today
I pray if I cannot hold you
you are cradled instead
in the arms of heaven.

One month

Last Wednesday marked a month since the day I found out our baby died. Jim's parents were kind enough to give us a spot on the north edge of their property to bury him and we did it that evening, right before sunset. The grave is unmarked, except by a small Mayflower viburnum (Viburnum carlesii).

My grandmother had a Mayflower viburnum in her yard, and now my mom has a couple, too. They're a sentimental favorite in our family because (I believe) my great-grandmother had them at her home on Cape Ann, Massachusetts.

Last night was one month since I delivered the baby. After the sense of closure I felt once we buried him, I was a little surprised at how raw my emotions were when I took time to reflect. I've been keeping busy, so I don't think about it as much as I did even a week ago, but it's all still there, so much intensity just below the surface.

It will take time, lots of time. That's okay; I'm going the distance.

Hope

This morning I checked my blogroll and came across a link to this video on one of my favorite blogs.

I love Elder Holland because I remember him being the president at BYU when I went there so long ago, and he has always had such a gentle way with telling a good story. This made me cry, but for the first time in two weeks I cried with tears of hope.

Flying solo, day #11

Today I loaded the kids up and we drove to Yakima for a Costco run. Grieving or not, we were out of cheese and lunch meat, and two sandwiches away from no more peanut butter. My first foray back into being in public was relatively pain-free, at least until I tried to lift a 45-pound bag of cat litter.

On the plus side, I used fewer Kleenexes today than yesterday--though I'm still trying to sort through whether it actually makes me feel worse that each day I am crying a little less, that in a few months I will no longer feel this keen sense of loss, that someday I may forget how much I loved this little person who was with me for such a short time.

Flying solo, day #9

I went in for an ultrasound on Monday and we discovered that the baby had died. On Wednesday afternoon I was admitted to the hospital to induce delivery.

Friday night, just before 8 o'clock, I gave birth to a tiny baby boy. He weighed about 9 and a half ounces, and looked so much like Jim and Jimmy.

I got home from the hospital yesterday.

Physically, my recovery has gone smoothly--very quickly, compared to what I experienced after having Jimmy and Audrey by c-section--and that's something to be grateful for, as it's allowed my to channel my energy toward the much more arduous emotional recovery.

I've been surrounded by family and friends who have supported me, fed me, rubbed my feet, sat silently with me, held me while I sobbed, and left me alone when that was what I needed most.

Today I'll be spending a lot of time writing in my journal. I want to capture all this while it is still fresh in my mind, and before the kids return home later in the day.

All the wonderful thoughts, prayers and love being sent my way are very tangible to me, and I thank all of you. I'm getting through this, one minute at a time.

Flying solo, day #4

Yesterday I went in for my monthly prenatal exam, and we couldn't hear the heartbeat. My OB reassured me that often happens, for whatever reason--the location of the baby in my uterus, the placenta being in the way, etc. So he asked me to come in a couple hours later for an ultrasound, just to be sure everything was normal.

I brought Jimmy and Audrey along, thinking they'd be thrilled to get a sneak peek at their new sibling.

Right away, my doctor knew something was wrong: no movement, no heart beating. It was surreal in those first few moments, because I had felt the baby move, a gentle flutter, I thought, earlier that morning, and hadn't been worried even when the doppler didn't pick up the heartbeat.

Over the next few days I'll be undergoing a procedure to help me deliver the baby, and will probably be in the hospital for a couple days starting tomorrow afternoon. Already I've had so much support and help from family and friends, which has made this burden much more bearable. I'm so grateful to know that I'm not alone through this experience.

I also know that in the coming weeks as I sort through it all, that support will continue to be an anchor to me, as well as the deep faith inside me, which has actually grown stronger even in the last few hours. I don't know anything about how or why or what, but I know in time I'll be blessed with the grace to move forward, even not knowing.

If you call or email me and I don't pick up or respond, please know that I'm still grateful you're thinking of me--just in a very raw place right now--but no less grateful.

Blue days

In the middle of November, Jim and I found out we were expecting. This was planned—I'd even go so far as to call it a carefully orchestrated attempt to thwart the thunderous ticking of my biological clock—so I was really over the moon about it. Even though I was only five and a half weeks along, I told some family and a few friends; the elation was practically bursting out of me.

On Thanksgiving afternoon, a few hours after dinner, I started spotting. And cramping. My spirits sank in fear and long before I was ready to accept it, I think my body knew exactly what was happening. That night I called my mom, who's a nurse, and she gave me good advice about taking care of myself over the next few days. I also talked to the doctor on call at my clinic (which was closed over the holiday weekend) who told me I need to watch and wait for the next few days before I could be sure I was miscarrying.

So I watched and waited.

Deep down, though, I knew. On Monday, my doctor confirmed it. I told him, intellectually I could wrap my brain around understanding this was my body's way of taking care of a fetus that wasn't developing properly, and I knew it was ultimately easier than the alternatives of losing the baby further along or giving birth to a child with health or developmental problems. Knowing that intellectually was one thing; riding the emotional roller-coaster of grief and pregnancy hormones was another entirely.

I've been surprised at how much I've pulled inward and wanted to isolate myself, how difficult it's been to get out of the house or reach out and ask for help, let alone tell people, even close friends and family. I have girlfriends and family members who've been through this, too, and I've been deeply touched by the empathy of those women who know what I'm going through. But sometimes it's too hard to talk about it, or see people with new babies, or be around mothers-to-be with their soft swelled bellies who still have their babies to look forward to.

This is completely new territory for me, and some days, some moments, I'm at a loss for how to cope. I'm so grateful, though, for those who have supported me by bringing in dinner, taking the kids to play for a few hours, calling or emailing to check in on me, or even just giving me a good hug. Thank you, thank you. And I'm grateful for a loving, patient, helpful husband who anticipates what I need and does it before I can even ask.

The only way out of grief is through, and I will get through it. Each day is a little easier than the one before and I know I can continue on one day at a time, with God's grace leading me by the hand.