Giving Up

I gave up.  I threw in the towel close to a year ago.  I had been trying for something like four years to have a rainbow baby.  I even prayed about giving up.  I gave away everything, all the baby stuff.  13 miscarriages in a row, including a prior miscarriage, 15 baby losses in a row.  I knew my body wouldn't carry another baby.  I figured if I was trying, truly trying, for a baby for so long, there was no way my rainbow could happen.

A few days ago, I nearly fell down with vertigo.  I never get vertigo except when I'm pregnant.  Sure enough, we passed the test I'd been working so hard to pass for so long.  It's not that we weren't ever getting pregnant ... just that in spite of careful trying, it was getting rarer and rarer to the point that it didn't seem possible anymore.  And here we are.  I don't know which I'm more scared of...that we lose the pregnancy again, as usual, or that we keep it for longer than usual then go through yet another painful later miscarriage or baby loss [a very real probability with the antibody I have] or that I hold the baby then lose it like I did with Alli.  I think it's the last.  No, it's definitely the last.

There's nothing I want more than a baby and nothing that terrifies me more.  From my experience, there is a very very fine line between a live baby and a dead one.  I prayed for this before.  Now, with my neatly ordered existence and my thinking moved beyond this possibility, I feel lost, confused.  A baby would be a marvelous blessing.  A live baby.  But I have a hard time hoping, even a little bit, that this double line on the pregnancy test can translate into a live child for me.  For most people, pregnancy means you're expecting.  I'm only expecting more loss, more pain.  More blood.  I keep telling myself I'm fine, that whatever happens, I'll be fine.  But I'm not fine.  I'm terrified.  Between my consistent and unexplained pattern of early loss to my antibody that is likely to kill to a fragile baby facing a world full of dangers, I have a hard time seeing the path between me and a child old enough to be less fragile.  Even my older kids scare me when they go out into the world because I still envision the many ways I could lose them.  I used to see myself as a Disney princess.  Now I'm Dory because I can scarcely remember my own name thanks to the symptom of mourning, forgetfulness, and I'm Marlin because everything looks like a danger to the babies I have left.  I want to see this through the eyes of faith.  But I understand too well "but if not faith."  I want this baby to live, but if not, I will know it is for my good.  I don't know that I can endure any more loss.  Please, Father, help me survive this, however it works out.  

Healing Conversation

I have had healing conversations before, chats with people who make me feel understood and my concerns appreciated.  This week, I had one of the more healing discussions that I've had in a while. Just after my baby died, I joined all these support groups online and in person because that's what I needed at the time.  I haven't needed that for a while.  But I've also been a bit stymied about what else I could do to seek healing.  I have done everything I knew to do including reading books on healing, studying scriptures, sincerely praying, joining support groups, talking it out, and writing my pain.  I purchased a book I have been told I need to read about healing spiritually, The Infinite Atonement, so that's one item on my to-do list.  But otherwise, I was at a loss as to achieve forward momentum.

Then through a series of Providential events, I ran into my sister's friend who had lost her baby less than a year ago.  I was impressed with how much peace and joy she was able to attain immediately.  She had sacred spiritual experiences that helped her, but it seemed like a gift from God that she was able to accept and find peace with her loss before she even left the hospital.  Within a short time of her loss, through angelic visitations and inspiration, she was at a point where she could find joy in the memories rather than ache over her loss.  I'm sure she still has down times, but her healing process was nowhere near as rocky as mine has been.  I am 6 years out and still haven't found the joy and peace she received right away.

She hit upon a possible cause for this.  Just after our baby died, the state attempted to tear apart our family.  Through purjury, tampering with evidence, and other unlawful actions, they put my husband and I through hell for power and financial gain.  I won't go into details at this time, but needless to say, the situation made graceful, immediate healing impossible.

Through a series of miracles and divine interventions, we were eventually delivered from their power.  But whenever we start to think about our baby, the pain of that series of injustices we suffered eats at both of us.  I read these books about healing and finding consolation after loss, but the authors don't talk about complicated healing.  They don't talk about how to find joy and light when your world is plunged into darkness beyond just loss.  That's the book I need to write one of these days, particularly with the help of my husband since so little has been written by fathers of angels.

My new friend suggested that we write out the events of those months in all their lurid, ugly detail and then burn that record, bury it and let it go, forgive the people and events involved.  I thought I had let it go, but when she made this suggestion, it felt right.  Even though the supervisor was removed from ongoing cases for breaking laws in another case, even though the direct "investigator" who committed so many crimes against us is no longer in the area or even working for the same organization, we are still haunted, fearful, angry.  Every knock at the door feels like a threat.  It's hard to trust or feel safe.  There is so much pain still beneath the surface, and not all of it loss.

I pray I can find a way to follow this friend's very wise and inspired advice.  I pray I can let that part of my pain go, so I can continue to heal.  I also pray for those who suffer like this, who go through a loss complicated by family, legal, financial, or other considerations.  I know I'm not alone in this.  I know others need my voice, and one day, the Lord will guide me to a way I can use it.

Empathy (or what not to say)

Learning from Mistakes:

I remember with some pain remarks I made to someone who had miscarried several babies.  I had not entered the angel mommies’ club.  I didn’t know what it was to experience real loss.  I said things like, “So when are you going to have a baby?”  I knew this couple had issues with keeping babies, but it seemed like I had been able to have babies without trouble.  What was wrong with them?  I was insensitive when I needed to be kind and understanding. I have since run into the same kind of hurtful behaviors when I was most in pain. When one has lost a baby, it’s hard for others to know what to say.  It’s easier to say or do the wrong thing than the right thing.  So let’s go over a list of the things not to do.  This list is by no means exhaustive.  I've based it on things I wanted (or didn't want) when I suffered my losses as well as a few things I've heard from others over the years.    

NOT to do list:

1.  Avoid.  Some avoid the mourner because they don’t  want to be reminded it could happen to them.  Reminders of mortality can be hard.  But it's harder on the mourner to be treated as a contagion.  

2. Assume.  Never assume you know how the mourner is feeling.  Even if you've lost a child, every mourner has a different experience.  The phrase, "I understand" is rarely a good choice because sometimes, even a husband doesn't truly understand what his wife is feeling and vice versa nor even may a sister know what her sister is feeling.  There are often commonalities, but everyone's specific experience is unique.  Even a hug without permission is an assumption.  It's usually best to let the mourner lead.  Offer a hug, and they often will accept.  Just don't assume.  

2b. False comparisons.  This is more a follow-up to not assuming.  Although those who have never lost a child assume it's comforting to say, "I know how you feel because my cat died once," it's often best not to make a comparison between one's own experience and someone else's.  We can still draw on the feelings of loss we've felt through the loss of a house or a cat or whatever is precious to us to empathize without verbalizing that comparison. Pets can be precious to us, but I have lost pets of many kinds.  There is no real comparison between the pain of pet or possession loss and the pain of child loss.

3. Tell them how to feel.  A lot of people think it's reassuring to tell a mourner, "You should feel better because your baby is with God" or "You should feel better because this is part of a bigger plan" or "You should feel better because you'll see the baby again."  Although all of this may be true and may be understood by the mourner, it does not help or ease the pain of the mourner to be told how to think and feel.  Even leaving off the "You should feel better," this is implied by the rest of the statement.  Sure, I know I'll hold my baby again, but when I'm suffering so badly I can hardly hold my guts inside, so badly I feel like I'm going to explode, to be told I shouldn't be suffering makes the pain worse.  It makes me feel like I'm doing the wrong thing in feeling pain.  And we all must understand grieving is a natural part of the process.  Even though the one attempting to comfort isn't really thinking about it, they're often saying these things to make themselves feel better.  It hurts to see someone in pain, so they are essentially trying to shut the mourner up, control them to stop their own discomfort.  This is not true of everyone trying to use these phrases to comfort, but that's how they may be perceived.  

4. Imply a child can be replaced.  First off, usually anything following, "Well, at least" is a really bad idea.  "Well, at least you can have another child" is one of the worst.  It implies a new child simply replaces the one they lost.  Although for many, a new child can take the edge off the pain in some ways, there is no replacing a child.  "Well, at least you have other children," is almost as bad.  It implies to the mourner that this child doesn't mean anything, that their loss doesn't count because they already have children.  Any "Well, at least" phrases are likely to make a person feel less rather than more comforted.  

5. Try to force your expectations on them.  Expecting someone to get over it devalues the person's loss and implies judgement, that another person should have control over the mourner's grieving process.    

6. Add more responsibility than can be handled by a recent mourner.  A lot of non-mourners think showing up without much warning would be comforting.  The day of my first miscarriage, my sister wanted to drive all the way up from her home to mine.  In her mind, this should have been comforting to me.  In my mind, I just wanted to be alone with my kids and my husband.  I didn't want to be expected to smile and perform for others when all I wanted to do was cry.  Sometimes, such a visit is comforting to the mourner.  Once again, don't assume.  As an added note, a lot of people seeking to comfort brought me live plants for my baby's funeral.  Some people may find this comforting.  I found it painful to watch the plants die but didn't have enough energy to take care of them.  Sometimes, it's all the mourner can do to continue to breathe.  Don't add to their burden.  

To Do List:

1.  Offer.  Offer to be there, to watch kids, to hug, to donate money, to make food, whatever.  Offer so that the mourner knows you care and are willing to help in whatever way you can.  This can help relieve the person's stress, but don't assume it necessarily reduces the pain.    

2.  Respect the mourner's lead.  As mentioned before, it's usually best to let the mourner dictate the pace.  If they want live flowers, a visit from family, a hug, etc, they can let the comforter know.   If the person declines, respect that without trying to insert your own emotions on the subject.  You may be disappointed they don't want your help, but let it slide.  They're suffering.  Don't expect them to react like you want them to react.  

3. Pray for them.  I could feel the prayers even during the worst of my pain.  It felt like a warm, protective bubble.  If you tell them you're praying for them, they know you love them.  

4.  Support them in whatever way they need to mourn.  If they need to cry, let them cry.  If they need to talk, let them talk.  If they need silence or privacy, give them what they need rather than what you think they should need.  

5.  Love them, no matter what.  It's a good idea to let them know this, but don't use it to control them.  Unconditional love is the key.  Sometimes, a person in their deepest pain is not very lovable.  Love them, anyway.  

    Conclusion:

Mourning is a hard thing for those suffering as well as for those watching them suffer.  We want to help them feel better.  And feeling better will happen with time.  It's critically important that we be the helper rather than the unintentional inflicter of wounds.  Don't hide.  Don't make things harder.  Just be there.  Love.  Healing comes with time.  If we're there for the mourner in times of need, they may one day be there for us.  

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.    

A song for the season

I have heard of at least three local stories of women losing their babies in the last 24 hours.  Their Christmas season will ever more be colored by trauma and loss. One would like to think of this as a season of joy, love and laughter, but there are so many ghosts of Christmas past haunting many of us that it's sometimes hard to feel the joy or want to laugh.  Sometimes, it's even hard to care.  My husband's mother was the spirit of Christmas for him, yet she died a week before the holiday.  Every Christmas since has been dimmed by this loss, and that was 20 years ago or more.  And the loss doesn't have to occur during the season to cast a shadow on every holiday for years to come.  I mentioned this holiday issue in my last blog.

For the first four years after Allie's loss, I felt a compulsion to reach out to people, to find as many people as possible I could serve and for whom I could buy Christmas gifts.  I wanted to help people have a better holiday, but almost more, I wanted to survive the holiday season without my baby, with a silence where there should be laughter of my third child.  And it helped.  It carried me through to New Years.  And for Christmas every year for the rest of my life, I will fill a jar for my angels as their gift from me, a jar with all the service we as a family have done throughout the holidays and the year.  We read each slip on Christmas in place of a little five-year-old and her younger siblings opening dolls or bears  It makes for a meaningful climax after the present unwrapping is done.

I still reach out and help, but it's more for others now.  I no longer cry as much when I hear songs about angels and babies, though occasionally, tears still come.  I still identify most with Christmas songs about the experience of motherhood, like "Mary Did You Know," Amy Grant's "Breath of Heaven," and "What Child Is This?"  I also like "Christmas Shoes" because it starts to reach the sadness and joy of the season.  Even though I've heard them multiple times, I often cry mourning or healing tears on hearing them.

I found a fairly new song yesterday that makes me cry just to think about it.  I can't mention its name without crying, but it's a good kind of tears, healing tears.  The song moved me in a way most Christmas songs don't.  And I don't even generally listen to country.  It's called "Broken Hearts like Mine" by Cherie Call.  It hits on the pain of the season for those in mourning, but also on the healing nature of the reason for the season.  I thought I'd share it with those out there who may experience the holiday through a similar lens of mourning.  The song is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pGNFXCq2pY  I know we all can find healing through Him.  That was part of the purpose for his atonement and resurrection, was to understand our pain and help us heal.  We just need to reach out, and he will be there for all of us.  I wish everyone, in spite of the pain, a joyous or at least peaceful season.