Alamanda

I just wanted to take a moment this time to remember my sweet baby.  It was my little girl who first told me her sister was coming.  My little girl was three and clearly had a close bond with her little sister.  We tried to convince my little girl that it could be a boy, but she kept giving me that look that said I did not know what I was talking about. She was so very wanted.  We'd been trying to bring her for almost a year, had a very painful miscarriage, then finally got to hold our sweet Alli.  We only held her for four months, but I feel so blessed to have held my sweet angel for that long.  I only wish it could have been longer.  Much longer.


She was a miracle baby.  A lot of people say it, but in her case, it's true.  I have something called Kell antibody, a condition that would treat every embryo, aside from the first, as a foreign danger to be fought.  It's much like an Rh negative situation, but with no treatment nor preventative measure.  One day, the baby can be healthy and strong, and the next, die of anemia because the body attacks the baby's blood through the womb.  From the 20th week, frequent ultra sounds are offered to keep an eye on the baby, to make sure the baby isn't anemic. If that were to happen, the only ways to deal with it would be blood transfusion or induction.  This condition should have affected her.  Of the human population, only 8% have Kell.  Of those 8%, only 2% are homozygous or have that problem with every birth.  Most people with Kell have a 50% chance of the problem.  We won the genetic lottery and are homozygous, guaranteed to deal with this every pregnancy.  And yet, she was not affected.  They watched her all the way through, and she was fine.  The specialist asked me why in the world this did not touch her.  I know now that it wasn't her time.  She was tiny, less than six pounds and honking like a gosling, but healthy at birth.

I mentioned before that she was close to the angels.  She seemed to spend more time bonding with people I couldn't see than those I could.  She had a special smile for pictures of Jesus.  Her baby blessing talked about how close she was to Jesus.  I get the feeling in retrospect that she had only one foot on earth, and the rest of her was always on the other side of the veil.

She loved her mommy so much.  It was hard to deal with colic from her second month to her third, but outside of those two months, she was an angelic baby.  Especially during those two months, she'd fall asleep on me, only on me, and scream if I put her down or try to hand her off to anyone else.  She wanted to cherish the time she had with me.

Alli was a bit of a music critic from her first week.  Starting at one week old, she listened quietly to hymns, to children's songs, and to Celtic music.  I still remember her enthralled face as she watched our "Celtic Women" DVD as the older kids sat on tummy time with her.  She howled loudly through anything else, especially modern rock.  It did not work well with her spiritual and gentle nature.  At almost four months, she listened so reverently during an entire hour of church.

She was truly my special angel.  As I come upon her sixth birthday in another month, I will cherish these memories and more.  We will pull out her baby book and relive those memories as a family.  I miss you, my sweet Alli.

Some Things I've Learned through Mourning

Yesterday, I chatted with a friend of mine who had recently had an early miscarriage right after having a still birth.  A few days ago, I talked with my sister, who is reasonably certain she lost not one baby but twins in a very early miscarriage, when she is so eager to have her third live birth.

One thing I've learned through my experience in the club of those who have lost is we are not alone.  It's one of those topics that most people don't want to discuss.  If they've lost a baby, many times, they don't want to think about it or are very tender about it.  If they haven't lost a baby, they don't want to think about the possibility.  But it's important to know that one is not alone and that all it takes is reaching out in a support group online or in person or even among our friends or family and chances are, we will find someone who feels just as silenced and is just as eager to talk about the love they have for the child they cannot hold.

Another thing I've learned is everyone mourns differently, and it would be helpful if we can be a person who is willing to listen.  We don't always need to be the one to talk about our own pain. I read in a mourning book about how this cultural silencing used to be more extreme.  The writer of the book had a crush on a girl in the fifties or sixties, and the girl died.  He told the mom of the girl how much she impressed him and how much he missed her, and the mom opened the floodgates of tears, seeking him out at every opportunity to talk to this young man because he would listen.  Of course, some of us don't want to think about loss.  If that's the case, sometimes, it's okay to be the person ready with hugs or kind words.  We also need to remember that it's important to help other mourners feel loved instead of judged.  Just because we need to talk about our losses doesn't mean they will.  Just because we feel like we're ready to move onto another pregnancy or stop having kids or do whatever it is we feel will help us cope doesn't mean we should expect the same in someone else.  It's important that everyone be allowed to mourn at their own pace and in their own way.

I believe in forever families.  There was a time I felt that a child had to take a breath to be counted among my babies.  But in recent years, I've come to know that sometimes, simply being pregnant, whether the child comes or not, is enough that we can name that child and count him or her among our family.  And one day, it will be possible to hold them in our arms.

I know I've learned much more, but the last thing I will mention now our angels are still here for us, nearby, watching over us and loving us just as much as they did when they were here.  Angels are real, and I'm thankful for mine.

Mourning Progress

For a while after we lost our baby, we went to a support group at a retirement home, mainly peopled by those who had lost a spouse.  It gave me a clear-eyed view of how difficult it was to lose a spouse with whom one had lived for decades, how hard it would be to constantly want to look over for advice to the seat next to you only to find it empty, to not even know what to wear or to eat because half the brain was gone.  I cannot imagine how hard this must be.

What most stuck with me from those times attending those sessions was words of wisdom shared by the licensed counselor in charge of the meetings.  I'd heard before in the support group Shareparents and other sources about the five stages of mourning: 1. denial and isolation, 2. anger, 3. bargaining, 4. depression, and 5. acceptance.  [5 stages] The counselor and my experience taught me there's nothing organized or clear-cut about these so-called "stages."  Stages in social science are usually a little more predictable, like stages of childhood.  Concerning these emotions, one can experience all of them or none of them in a day.  One can feel acceptance of the situation one second and then see something that reminds you of them, a trigger, and be off into the land of depression then scream out in fury all in the course of a few minutes.  One can skip one or multiple ones of these.  There is nothing like I would call stage-like in these stages.

It only surprised me a little to find a book scientifically debunking these five stages, The Truth about Grief by Ruth Konigsburg. [Truth about Grief] According to Konigsburg, the stages' origin was in Kubler-Ross's head, not in science, and had more to do with acceptance of one's own death than acceptance of anyone else's.  Konigsberg also went on to say that there is no scientific basis or reliable study to back these stages.  What the book did not give me in a way that satisfied me was a really good definition of what healing is or a way to know when one is "healed."  Their definition seemed to state healing means coping and maybe moving on from spousal death to new relationships.  I don't see this as a particularly useful definition in general, and certainly not when it comes to the loss of a child.  The book also said that people who had been through grief weren't particularly good experts on the subject of loss.  That strikes be as being false since I find those who haven't suffered deep grief don't seem to understand it like for those who have.

I have heard two truly useful things about grief, one from the counselor in the aforementioned support group and one from an LDS General Conference talk from October 2012 by Elder Shayne Bowen, "Because I Live, Ye Shall Live Also."  [https://www.lds.org/general-conference/2012/10/because-i-live-ye-shall-live-also?lang=eng] The counselor said that one's emotions tend to be all over the place as one zips through the different "stages" of grief.  And this, from my experience, is true.  He said that as long as one's progress is in an upward direction, meaning improving rather than getting worse, one is healing.  If one is getting worse or finding no progress, that's when one needs to call on a counselor or other help.  My husband and I both had to get a counselor, though he needed a little more help than I did.  Everyone's grief experience is unique.

Concerning Elder Bowen's talk, he told the story of his infant, who asphyxiated on chalk.  He talked about healing through faith and through Jesus Christ's atonement, or suffering, death, and resurrection.  The whole talk is well worth reading.  But the part that stood out most to me was his description of healing.  He said:

     As I felt the guilt, anger, and self-pity trying to consume me, I prayed that my heart could change. Through very personal sacred experiences, the Lord gave me a new heart, and even though it was still lonely and painful, my whole outlook changed. I was given to know that I had not been robbed but rather that there was a great blessing awaiting me if I would prove faithful.

     My life started to change, and I was able to look forward with hope, rather than look backward with despair. I testify that this life is not the end. The spirit world is real. The teachings of the prophets regarding life after death are true. This life is but a transitory step forward on our journey back to our Heavenly Father.

Elder Bowen also said we will never truly get over our loss until we are reunited on the other side of the veil or through the resurrection, and anyone who has been there could agree.  We can, however, find cheer and joy and even gratitude for our pain because it shows we can love deeply.  The Lord will help us endure.  In my experience, having the Spirit near us can buffer us, help the pain feel less acute.  According to Elder Bowen, we can still remember and feel the presence of our loved ones even through the veil and find peace.  Even after five and a half years, I still don't feel like I can call myself healed by any sense of the word, but I no longer suffer as I did and for the most part, have found peace and joy.  I know my angel Alli is near when I need her, and she's still very much a part of my family.  

Healing is individual.  If it helps some people to look to "The Five Stages," then it's good they can find something that will help, some kind of hope for a better emotional state.  If one wants to look to scientifically proven resources or counseling for comfort, that is also a valid route.  Some people may even need a prescription to survive the pain.  But in my view, healing can only go so far without the help and comfort of God's hand, the knowledge that we can be together with our angels again.  I know that's my source of hope and peace in this life.