Point of Connection

As of the 29th, it has been nine years since my baby slipped beyond the veil to God.  Most of the time, it's not hard to let the buffer of time hold the pain back.  It's not that time heals all wounds so much as time allows for distraction, for forgetfulness.  It allows me to hide from the feeling of the immediate, gut-wrenching pain of fresh loss.  

As I watch my nephews and niece and others around them deal with the fresh loss of their mother's departure beyond the veil, I feel those connections.  I can understand their pain--at least as we share the common connection of loss.  I will never understand exactly what they're going through, even were my mother to die, because I don't have their exact background or emotional constitution.  But I can reach out for an embrace, distancing myself from their pain to protect myself from having to dive into my own.  I imagine many of us do this.  We feel their particular pain through their lens from a safe distance.  As the memorial went on, even as they read an essay I wrote of their mother's loss, I clung to this protective barrier.  I hate funerals because they always want to drag me back to the whirlpool of my own exposed and naked pain.  But I hold back.  I keep the distance alive and well.  

Then, we come upon the month of her angelversary, and the distance starts to shrink.  Nine years feels a lot longer, somehow, than nine marks on the calendar, nine times I've had that scab peeled back as I stare into the bloody pulp, which is all that is left of my heart.  And suddenly, I start feeling the connection.  The distance means nothing.  The differences mean nothing.  Yes, our experiences are different, but the addresses of the pain are next door to each other.  At these times, it's as if nine years never happened, and it feels like fresh loss again.  We can embrace as one, pray for healing as one, as we experience the healing power of understanding and love.  The Lord will see us through.  He knows where our loved ones are, that they are happy and continue to love us.  He will hold them in his love until we can meet them again. 

When the Worst Comes

[Photos from the early years.]

Last time, I blogged about my brother's family's fear of the loss of their mother, my brother's ex-wife.  A short time after I wrote that blog, their fear became a reality.  I got the phone call at 1 am that said Sandy, beloved mother of three by birth and many by heart, adored sister, cherished friend, fur mama, and beloved soul mate of one slipped beyond the veil, leaving behind countless heavy hearts and teary eyes.

Thomas, her eldest son, and Amber, his wife, and their three children visit me regularly.  I have seen how much they love Sandy.  Things have not always been easy, but Thomas called her his rock.  Amber calls her Mom.  The family lived in the same apartment complex with her and frequently visited to play games, do laundry, give her the chance to play with grandbabies, or just hang out.  I've held Thomas in my arms as he's sobbed out his pain, crying out for his mom.  What do you say in the face of raw pain?  They never really got to say goodbye.  I wrote out a goodbye stream-of-consciousness hybrid poem/story from her point of view, but it will never be the same.  They are heartbroken but know she is still there for them, cheering him on as he revises his novel she loved so he can publish it for her. 

[source]

Andrew, her second, frequently chats with me.  He calls his mother his best friend.  He looked to her for so many things.  He lived with her for quite a while toward the end.  He is a lost soul without her but plans to write songs with his band in her honor to remember her.  Over the years, he brought a string of friends to her doorstep, and none was turned away.  They were all welcomed like her long-lost children. 

Pandora, her youngest, was her baby.  I called her the day after the loss, and we talked of her mother.  She'd hoped her mother would pull through as she had so many times before. 

Jose, her soulmate of ten plus years, misses her more than he can say.  She was his life, his heart.  He prayed for her life and now yearns to hear her voice.     

All these people and more are reeling with the pain of loss.  I know a lot of words, but there aren't words for this kind of pain.  You can try to write around the swirling vortex of the heart.  But actually capturing the pain or soothing it are things words can't really do well.  They say time heals all wounds, but time really only helps one find coping mechanisms, ways to put together a life that has been shattered through loss.  I pray for this family's peace.  Other than listening and offering

a hug or a word of empathy, that's all I can do.  That's all any of us can do many times.  Sometimes, that has to be enough. 

Ongoing Damage part 2

Over a year ago, my preteen girl was diagnosed with mono or a malady very like it.  It was almost impossible to wake her for school.  I had to dress her like a doll and still often couldn't wake her afterward.  Every day felt like the improv game of dead bodies where I had to manipulate a floppy person who was almost as tall as I am.  I finally just let the school know she was not coming or coming late every morning we couldn't wake her.  Summer couldn't come soon enough.  Over the summer, she got better but not all the way.  She showed every sign of chronic fatigue. 

Recently, I called the doctor's office to get some ideas of how to help my girl through these symptoms, which still haven't faded entirely.  I figured she still had the mono, which I had heard could become chronic.  When I talked to the nurse and told her my perception of the situation, she suggested good vitamins and getting her walking in the sun for vitamin D.  But the doctor said these symptoms are psychosomatic, that they have their root in psychology.  He recommended we get a therapist and/or have her work through a kids' therapy workbook. There's no pill to fix her.  There's no easy fix.  And it all started with the early trauma and tragedy of losing her sister on which the trauma of a bully, of a teacher that created an emotionally damaging environment, and other life events have only built to change her from an extreme extrovert who trusted the world to an extreme introvert drained by too much "peopling." 

On one level, she's done a lot of healing since her traumas.  She's gained a lot of confidence and self-assurance in her gifts and abilities.  On the other hand, it's hard to know how far she has to go and what being healed looks like.  All I can do is be there for her, give her those workbooks the doctor recommends since she has no interest in therapists, and help her turn toward God for the healing the atonement offers. 

Pioneering Women

Recently, I've been called upon to digitize an amazing scrap book of the history of our area, dating back to pioneer times.  As a member of the empty arms club, I think I read these stories differently than a lot of people might.  Instead of hearing about it from the safe distance of time, I read from child death to child death, and there are many.  Some families lost child after child.  One, in particular, about killed me because she lost something like eight of her ten children plus her husband.  Having been there, I imagine how it must have been to place one cold, lifeless child into the cold, lifeless dirt after another.  I don't know how these women (and men) had the strength to continue.  I do know those women's eyes just look tired.  I can see how the loss and struggle took so much out of them.  I think I would have puddled on the ground and hoped to not wake up.  One woman wasn't even a pioneer and still buried child after child in the various epidemics and outbreaks, some of them three at a time.  I just don't know how she survived it. 

But they continued for their remaining children.  I get that.  That was why I had to pick myself off the ground.  I moved like an automaton, going through the motions, for months and months, possibly years.  Perhaps I'm still doing it.  You move forward because you have to.  Because there really isn't an alternative.  Maybe you can escape into oblivion, sleep or depression or whatever, for a while.  But eventually ,you have to move forward.  I guess I can take inspiration from this.  If they survived losing three, five, eight children and carried on, I can do so as well.  I know they did it through their faith, through their trust that they would one day hold their angels again.  And all of them are holding their lost ones now. One day, I will as well.  And that thought brings me a lot of strength. 

Ho Ho Horrible

'Tis the season to be jolly.  It's the holiday season.  Everyone is supposed to rush around with a smile on their face, right?  The colors seem brighter, happier.  Unless you've had a loss that drains all color and turns the light to darkness.  Then it all seems to be washed in particularly painful shades of gray fading to black.  The holidays are anything but happy for those in mourning. 

People's expectations that you have happy holidays makes this time a year more painful for many people.  It's hard to feel thankful at Thanksgiving when all you feel is the black hole of where your loved one ought to be.  2010, the year I lost my baby, all I could feel was that black hole, that bloody hole where my heart used to be, sucking all light, all color, all flavor out of the world.  It's hard to taste turkey and pie around the flavor of blood that tints everything.

Those who haven't had that world-rocking, earth-shattering caliber of loss simply don't understand how this works.  Your struggle with the holiday confuses them many times.  It seems like your failure somehow that you haven't "gotten over it" yet.  Some people outside the miasma of your loss  try to understand.  Some have gone through it and really do understand.  But so many don't.  And their expectations for your joy feel like that one more burden you can't carry. 

I've seen it again and again.  My husband lost his mother just over 20 years ago on the 16th of December.  For him, she was Christmas.  To this day, every Christmas feels like a soul-sucker.  He struggles to find things to be grateful for since his holidays have been buried in the cold ground for over two decades.  He loves us, but that doesn't stop his clinical depression that gets worse in the dim, short days from feeling all the more acute during "the most wonderful time of the year."  I've talked to multiple people this year who feel the same about the holidays as we did and, to some extent, still do.

Neither my husband or I felt even sort of merry December 2010.  Every song about babies or birthing brought burning tears to my eyes.  Since then, I've been clawing my way back through finding ways to serve others for myself and my family and then putting slips of paper with acts of service printed on them into a jar for my angel.  These are to be opened and read on Christmas morning.  My holidays do almost feel merry again these seven years later.  But my husband still feels the darkness in a way that overshadows everything else.  I respect that. 

There's no easy fix for this.  The holidays just make everything feel harder, more burdensome, for many people.  All many of those who are in mourning ask is that they be allowed to mourn and feel in their own way, in their own time.  Please don't try to force your smiley face on someone else.  Don't add to that burden.  Just be there.  That's enough.  And if you're there and sharing your love and support, you may see a smile after all. 

Goodbye, Sweet Aries: Watching Someone's Gravity Shift

Recently, my brother had to put his dog down.  This may not seem like a big deal to a lot of people.  But they've had the dog for over 14 years.  His kids grew up with Aries being the center of their home, the heart of their family.  As they moved around, as their world hit several snags, as they grew up and left home, they still looked to Aries to show them what love was.  One of my nephews shared custody with his dad and took Aries home every other week.  He was the very center of gravity for all of them. 

Then came the day a tumor started to grow on his nose.  When they took him to a vet, they were told that surgery was not a very viable option, especially for an elderly dog.  They watched his medical problems get worse and worse with some concern.  But 14 is fairly old for a large dog.  Without a huge financial expenditure, there was not much anyone could do.  Even then, things looked iffy. 

They held onto him for as long as they could because they knew how much his loss would hurt.  When they took him in, he wagged his tail until the end, trusting and loving them into the beyond.  Some of them have seen his spirit as he's continued to watch over them. 

But that doesn't stop the pain.  For most of them, it feels like a child or their best friend has died.  I held my adult nephew (who never cries) as he sobbed out his pain onto my shoulder.  A piece of their soul, the unifying force in their divided family, is nowhere they can see him.  I've had pets die.  I've had people in fur die (animals that have become more than just a pet, more like a companion or a best friend).  But I've never been rocked to my soul quite as much as I saw in my brother's family. 

When I saw their pain, I thought of my own.  We sat and cried together.  I know you can't compare one kind of loss (that of a child) to another (a furbaby).  But there's a kinship, a connection, that can be made between those who have lost, regardless of what the loss is.  I don't think I would have understood their loss like I do without my own.  I can be grateful for the empathy I've learned that allows me to be there for them and cry with them. 

The Echo of Fresh Loss

A little over a week ago, the shock of terrible news echoed throughout our community.  A three-year-old girl was thrown from a horse and had to be taken off life support.  Everyone spoke of little else.  Those in my church community, led by our bishop, gathered at the church to pray for this little girl and this family before the final news came that she was brain dead.  We all prayed for a miracle because we know they happen.  In this case, it was that sweet angel child's time to go Home. 

Once again, my community gathered for a balloon release in her honor.  People came from miles around to support this family in their deep loss at that little girl's funeral, as she was carried to her grave not in a hearse but by a horse-drawn carriage. 

My husband and I wept for this family as we heard of their loss.  Something came up to stop me from making each event, but I rejoiced in the support they received.  I sent that little girl's bereft mother a message of support on FaceBook, and my husband attended most of it. 

I am not close to the family.  I may have seen the little girl in passing but had not met her.  But this hit my husband and me hard because we understand what this family is going through on a personal level.  It all echoes back through time and makes our pain feel fresh.  I woke in tears over a dream that my two living children had died. 

It also reminds me of how little support we received when our loss happened.  We felt judged, rejected by our community at the time because we'd failed in a parent's primary responsibility: to keep a child alive.  The undercurrent was that whatever happened, we deserved what we got.  If only all communities could understand the power of support and love at the time of such a deep and life-shattering loss.  We still felt people's prayers and did have friends and family from nearby and elsewhere come to the funeral, but I think the loss would have been even a little bit less impossible to endure if we had the kind of support this sweet family had.  I'm just happy for them that they have it and would pray for all who have a catastrophic loss that they'd feel the kind of outpouring of love this sweet family has had. 

I know some people probably question how all of these prayers did not result in a miracle.  How could such a terrible thing happen to good people?  I sometimes, I have to remind myself that prayer is about aligning our will with the Father's.  He knows the larger picture.  If we would have been most blessed, the plan for our lives most fulfilled, over the healing of our baby Alli, she would have been healed. 

But the Lord, in His mercy, knew we had to pass through hell at that time.  I can't explain why everyone loses a child, but I believe I have come to some understanding of the whys in our case.  We needed the growth, the empathy, the lessons we learned through loss. 

Faith is about trusting that He knows what we need.  We want this thing, and we pray for it.  But if we don't get it, we will still trust and believe.  That is the purest kind of faith, the faith that gets us closest to Him.  If I could have it all over again, would I choose a redo?  You'd better believe I would.  I'd give my life for my little girl rather than have her taken from me. 

I'm thankful for the blessings that have come from this loss, but I still have a hard time being grateful for the loss itself.  I can't claim to know everything, even about our own situation.  It brings me comfort to know I will hold Alli again, that we will be a family forever.  It also brings me comfort to know my heart can be healed through Jesus's sacrifice, his atonement.  In the meantime, it still hurts.  And my heart still bleeds for those who have to join the empty arms club.  I will reach out to them as often as I can. 

I believe in angels, and that they watch over us.  I believe God loves me.  I believe we can be together forever.  For now, that will have to do. 

Old Poetry

I've been reviewing my old poetry with an eye toward a writing contest.  I've taken classes on writing poetry, one from a former poet laureate of Utah.  This does not mean I'm a great poet.  It just means I've learned a few things about what makes a good poem and what makes a mediocre one.  I've never quite achieved past mediocrity.  But I have been able to write through a lot of my pain.  For the most part, poetry only comes when I feel something deeply.  Any "poetry" I write under any less trying moments feels contrived and hollow, at least to me.  I've written a lot of mediocre but emotionally wrenching poetry on loss, on miscarriage and on the loss of my angel.  It's hard to reread them either because they take me back into a moment of pain or fail to, meaning it hurts to know that I couldn't quite convey the horror of the moment, no matter how hard I tried.  Either way, revisiting those moments is hard.

At the same time, I know there is a healing power in writing and reading that poetry.  I once took a class on trauma writing.  The whole course was based on the assertion that healing comes through self-expression.  Some argue that revisiting just causes trauma all over again.  But for me, there are few better ways to work through the pain than by expressing it, putting it to paper.  My master's thesis went one step further and explored the healing space created by fiction.  But as for writing, there are few ways to try to approach my pain and deal with it faster than through poetry.  I don't believe in rhymed poetry. I may use alliteration to tie together sounds, but truly rhymed poetry rarely works well for me unless the author is William Shakespeare.

But how do I tell which is objectively "best" and, therefore, most deserving of someone else's attention?  Poetry is so very subjective.  Is it best because it most vividly conveys the emotion to the reader, because it uses all the poetic conventions, or because of something else I can't possibly know?   It all hurts.  It all helped me through hurt.  There was a time I would have compared my writings to children.  I would have asked how I could choose.  I don't make that comparison anymore.  There is no comparison.  I would lose 100 hard drives with 100 carefully written, award-winning novels on each before I would choose to have one miscarriage, one child loss of any sort, again.  All I can do is use poetry to express the pain of child loss.  Not that any words quite capture that pain.  They can't.  The pain of child loss is beyond human words.  But here is a poem that takes me back to that first day, the day everything was so fresh that I thought I would die of the pain.  It's simply entitled "Pain."  Objectively, it's not a great poem.  But anyone who has ever lost a child ought to recognize the emotions:

"Pain"

Pain

Blinding, numbing

Burning like a volcano

And clouding out everything

From my vision.

Everything tastes like dirt or salt.

I choke it down to fill the emptiness

But the real emptiness remains.

Everything I see, touch, think about

Links back to chubby toes,

Chunky little legs

Soft little cheeks,

Bright blue eyes

Staring at me from around the breast,

Peach fuzz across the soft head,

Round little bum

Aimed at me for a change

Preparatory to eating.

Where are you, my angel?

I long for you.

My every thought is for you,

Wondering how yesterday could have gone

If I’d have been just a little more careful

With your fragility.

My only comforts,

Your older brother and sister,

Your daddy

And above all knowing one day

You will fill my arms again.  

So back I go to staring at mediocre expressions of loss and healing, hoping to guess right, to find the one or two or three or four out of so many that may help someone else feel something of what I felt in that moment.  Because I guess the real truth beyond poetry, or any writing, is that unless you make the reader feel something, you've missed the boat.  Your writing will fall flat.  Here's hoping I find something that takes shape in the reader's mind and helps them find a little healing, too.  

Wrong Number

A strange thing happened some time ago.  I got a text from a stranger who thought I was her brother.  Someone gave her my number and told her it was her estranged brother's.  I don't think it was an accident.  In fact, I know it wasn't, though the person who gave her the number couldn't have known.  Even when I texted her that I was not her brother, she desperately reached out with a voice of pain and loss.  She needed someone to talk to.  I let her call me because she sounded so forlorn.

She lives on the other end of the continent.  She has lost her career, her future, had her child kidnapped [and eventually returned], and gone through so much unimaginable hardship.  She has all but lost her faith.  She's been crying out to God into what felt like a void to her, not hearing His voice but longing to know He was there for her.

I'm sure the Lord has been reaching back, but she was unable to hear Him.  So He sent me into her life.  She's facebooked and texted me a few times since, whenever she needed a voice of peace in her life.  Someone to just listen.  Those who understand tragedy and loss seek the voice and understanding of other people who understand what that's like.  I know I've wanted to hear a voices of understanding, those of people who don't judge me or tell me how to think or feel.  Often, when you're feeling hurt, lost, and alone, you want someone who will listen and reach out without seeking anything from you.

I told her God loves her, no matter what, that there is nothing she could ever do to destroy that love.  I told her that even though she can't always hear His voice, He is reaching out to her, wanting her to find peace and joy.  She felt bad for things she'd done in her life, so I told her to tell the Lord how sorry she was and to make amends if possible.  Above all, though, I just wanted her to know God loves her.  That was the message He most wanted her to hear.

I know it was no accident that I was there for a fellow human being at one of the lowest points in her life.  And I know I was there to reach out and help her.  We will never meet in person.  But I hope I helped her, even in a small way, because that is the purpose of life: to learn to love like our Father in Heaven loves us and to show that love to both Him and to our fellow men through kindness and service.  We are to be His voice, His hands, to those who need us.  He will guide us along the way.

I don't know how I would have reacted to this wrong number before my losses taught me empathy and compassion for lost souls.  I'd like to think I would have been polite, but I would not have known how to speak the language of loss and pain.  I know that was part of why I needed to go through what I have so I could become closer to what the Lord wants me to become.  I still feel the pain, but it's good to know what I've learned through loss can help someone else.  

Greeting my Nephew

So far, I think I've done pretty well with being happy for my sister's baby.  I truly am happy for my sister.  She wanted this baby and she's delighted to have him.  It's just hard not to also feel and undercurrent of--what? jealousy?  pain?--something.  A sense that the world is moving on without me as I'm surrounded by women who can happily and without effort--or with little effort--have a baby simply because they want to, it's time, or their body just works that way, whether they want it to or not.

Every time one of these women whose body actually works starts to complain about the horrors and pains of pregnancy, I want to shake them and remind them that at least they get those symptoms, and those symptoms don't go away until they have a baby to take home.  At least they will get a reward for going through all of that.  I want to remind them to be grateful for the swollen ankles, the back aches, the nausea, the tiny bladder syndrome, and even the violence of the unborn upon their internal organs because at least that means a baby is coming, and they will be able to hold and love that baby instead of bury it.  I understand being uncomfortable.  It isn't fun to be pregnant.  I get that.  I've been pregnant 19 times.  I just wish I had more than two live children to show for it.  I imagine if you put all of those months of pregnancies cut short together, I'd have at least nine months.

But at least these women with swollen ankles and pain generally look forward to holding that baby.  I have a hard time contemplating those who decide that they'd rather intentionally kill than hold their baby.  I know there are reasons, and some of them are valid.  It's just hard for me when I naturally go through what other women pay for.  Like someone may envy me for this inevitable result to any pregnancy.  I just can't imagine that mindset.  And I don't wish to.  It all makes me very sad.

I guess I can remind myself to be grateful that, unlike many women with fertility issues, I can actually hold two live babies.  I can remind myself that I'm fortunate to have faith that I will hold my unborn one day.  I can be grateful for the fleet of angels who watch over us and sometimes even help in the answering of our prayers.  There is much for which I can be grateful.  But there are times when it's hard to remember all I have when I'm focused on what I don't.  I just can't let those times last.

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 in Fiction

This week, I read a book by Rachel Ann Nunes: Ariana The Making of a Queen.  It was a sweet LDS romance novel that reminded me somewhat of my own.  It was recommended to me by a friend because of the resemblance.  It's clearly a first book.  I see some of the missteps I read about in novice writers like excess of adverbs and flashbacks and an ending that is too perfect to be very believable.  But it has a power that I like in its telling of tragedy.  Spoiler alert:  when the main character's baby dies, I feel it.  I know how loss feels, especially loss of a baby that one has held near to her heart as the center of her existence for the first several months of life.  There's a potency and power that gives the reader a sense that the writer understands such loss.  I wept for Ariana's pain.  It was a therapeutic kind of thing, like what I want to do with my writing.

So many writers feature a miscarriage or a child loss as something bad or painful but pretty much gloss over the experience.  It's like they're afraid an audience can't handle the pain or don't want to go there.  But without showing the depth of agony, the author is betraying the people who have lost like that.  They're showing loss as less cataclysmic and life-shaking than it really is.  While reading about her loss, I felt I could weep about mine without necessarily reliving it.  This is the kind of therapy I think comes from reading fiction that mirrors one's own sadness and trauma.  For those who have lost and can handle reading stories about other's loss, I highly recommend it.

One of those Days

I thought I was over baby jealousy.  I told myself I was, anyway.  Most days, I'm fine that we've given up on trying to get pregnant after 14 miscarriages and a baby loss.  I usually don't have a problem being surrounded by pregnant ladies or little babies.  At least, anymore.  Right after I lost my baby, all of that was really hard.  Usually, I'm fine.  I'm grateful for the two I can hold now and for my angels I will hold one day.

But today was a little harder than most.  A friend who had a stillbirth recently seems to be successfully pregnant again.  Another friend is nervous about the twins she's expecting.  It seems so effortless for some people.  I keep telling myself this is the way it is, and I've learned to accept it.  But on days like today, I can't help but feel a little hurt.  I can't help but wonder what I'm doing wrong as a parent that I wasn't so blessed.  I know this is not a great way to think about it, that some really wonderful people don't have even one they can hold.  But all the logic in the world doesn't still those frustrating little thoughts and the emotional pain of all I've lost and what I won't get anytime soon.  Most days, I'm thankful for all with which I've been blessed.  But we all have our days when what we don't have weighs heavy on us.  Sigh.  

Difficult questions

For a lot of people, little questions like the following are no big deal: "Where are you from?" "How are you?" "How many kids do you have?"  That first one is a question complicated by having a father who liked to move us a lot, so I'm not sure what we're talking about.  The concept of a "hometown" is foreign, and, therefore, slightly painful because it reminds me of the core identity I lack.  But I can handle that question.  The other two are a little more complicated by child loss.  

"How are you?" can be easy or difficult, depending on whether or not we're nearing an angelversary or difficult birthday.  Most of the time, I can answer by the wrote and expected answer, "Fine."  Anything else seems to confuse and frustrate people.  It's not a question but a greeting, and there's a script to it.  If you actually give a real answer as if it were a real question, people aren't sure what to do about it.  You have to be careful around whom you answer something like, "I'm dying inside," because some people will look at you funny or edge away.  They don't seem to understand this is a trying and painful question for those who want to answer it truthfully in a way that would explore the pain inside.  It's a performance question that is not intended to hurt but often does through its insincerity.

Then there's the hardest one that can't help but hurt.  "How many kids do you have?" Most people would expect me to mention the two they could see.  But that seems a betrayal.  What about the third?  What about my Alamanda, who I held for four short months?  She's with me.  They just can't see her.  And often, that conversation will lead to how she died and the hell that I went through after.  But even three doesn't seem quite right.  I fully expect to hold my miscarried babies again, too.  But most people don't want to hear a lengthy explanation of my Alamanda and my fourteen miscarriages.  I don't need to let just everyone into my world and trauma.  But how do I answer that question without touching on it at all?  By its very nature, that question that seems so simple to those who have not lost babies suddenly becomes a reminder of pain to those of us who have lost.  But it's not like I'd want to put a tattoo on my forehead that says, "Please don't ask me how many kids I have."  It's just one of many constant reminders. Why do simple questions have to seem so complicated?

Faith and Healing

Morning is Unique

Mourning is an individual experience.  For each person, grief takes different forms.  A lot of people tout the virtues of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief.  When my baby smothered herself in a pillow six years ago, the support groups I joined each handed me a copy of the five stages as if it were a guide book to the experience of mourning.  Yet my experience and those of others around me seem to defy one single process, one single experience.  The five stages did not help me in my personal search for healing.  They did nothing for me except set me up for a confusing and incomplete definition of healing. 

False Expectations:

            Before my baby passed away, I lived in the illusion of safety, that just because no great tragedy had happened to me, it couldn’t.  It felt like a kind of protection that shielded me from the worst the world had to offer.  Then when my baby died, I was unprepared.  I had taken a class on trauma writing.  I had also written my master’s thesis on how reading fictional accounts of trauma and healing can provide a safer, somewhat removed space in which to deal with tragedy.  But none of this prepared me for the actual experience of loss. 

            I had heard time heals all wounds and was set up by that “guide book” I was handed for an expectation that all I had to do was let time pass, and Kubler-Ross’s five stages would happen to me.  As soon as they were done, I’d be healed.  I’d go back to how I was before my tragedy had punched a big bloody hole in my heart.  I wanted something to make it better because it hurt so much. 

The Reality

I knew, based on my experiences with child development classes, that stages meant states of being that would happen on their own in a normalized sort of order.  But in reality, I found myself going through a crazy mix of emotions, only a few of which matched up with Kubler-Ross’s stages of shock and denial, anger, depression and detachment, dialogue and bargaining, and acceptance, all of which were supposed to lead to a return to a meaningful life.  I didn’t see a lot of anger or detachment.  I couldn’t really deny anything.  And there were so many more emotions that weren’t on the list that I faced.  I discovered I could go through all of these emotions and more in a month, a week, or even an hour.  I’d skip from shock to acceptance and back to depression or hysteria then eagerness to share my story and back to depression again.  There was nothing stage-like in any of it. Even on days of acceptance, and even after returning to a meaningful life, it still hurt.  My heart still felt like it had a bloody, nasty, painful hole in it that wouldn’t go away. 

As time passed, I found ways to not think, to keep busy, to look at anything but my baby’s pictures or other triggers that sent me into fits of hysteria.  Basically, time allowed me to grow scabs over the big, bloody, painful hole, so I wouldn’t have to feel it.  But a scab is not nearly as comfortable or sensitive a tissue as regular flesh.  All it took was a nudge or poke at the edges of the scab, and I was in pain again.  

Research

So I started to look elsewhere for guidance in the healing process.  I picked up Robert Neimeyer’s book, Meaning Reconstruction and the Exerience of Loss, that debunked Kubler-Ross’s stages as unscientific.  He pointed out that Kubler-Ross’s original theory was based on the experience of dying, not on grief at all.  And he also pointed out that her theory had no scientific foundation or basis in fact, that the “stages” she defined were not stages at all.  I merely learned what I already knew, that grief involves “highly individual processes.”  What I didn’t find in either text was a useful idea of what healing would feel like for me, what it even meant.  Both texts defined healing as, basically, a return to normalcy.  I had returned to some kind of functionality, which meant by either definition, I was healed.  But I certainly didn’t feel healed.  Memories of my loss still hurt acutely even years later. 

 I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, so another kind of guide I was given and studied was a variety of books by other LDS people about their experience of loss and healing.  Almost across the board, they set up a model of prayer, reading scriptures, and above all, having another baby, a rainbow baby to fill the arms even if he or she couldn’t replace the baby lost.  So we tried.  We spent years trying, only to have a total of 15 losses in a row before we walked away from trying, one baby death and 14 first term miscarriages.  All the testing brought us no answer as to the source of our problem and no rainbow baby.  We’ve recently come to terms with the idea that my body just will not carry babies to term anymore for whatever reason. 

Turning to the Source

So instead, I have turned to God for answers, and I have come to a greater understanding of the healing process than I ever did through science or pseudoscience.   Just after my baby died, I turned intensely to faith.  I prayed harder, studied scriptures more closely and with the guide of the Spirit, more than I ever have in my life.  I felt the best, the most at peace, when I sensed other people’s prayers and when I was full of the influence of the Comforter, also called the Holy Ghost.  God doesn’t want us to suffer.  If we turn to Him, he will bring us comfort.  I felt the best when I felt wrapped in His arms. 

Being healed for me is not just about being functional.  Someone could be dying inside but still live what looks like a normal life from the outside.  The best definition I have heard is that a person who is healed is able to look at a picture or other reminder of the loved one and smile over the memories and blessings more than ache over the loss.  Six years after my loss, I am not there yet, but I’d like to be.  I have moments of peace like that, but they don’t last.  However, this portrait of a healed heart gives me a goal to work toward above and beyond just the goal of functionality.  I met someone recently who has bouts of depression but otherwise, arrived at the emotional state I’m still striving for within hours of delivery of a stillbirth.  The Lord sent her spiritual experiences that immediately brought the peace and joy that have been hard-fought for me.  Everyone is different, so everyone’s experience is different.  True healing is a gift the Lord can give in His time and in His way if we earnestly seek it and pray for it.  

The key is applying the Lord’s atonement.  When Jesus suffered and died for us, he didn’t just suffer for our sins.  He also suffered our pains.  He understands what we suffer.  He understands loss, sadness, and pain.  We need to reach out to him.  We need to seek His peace through obedience, through scripture study, and through bringing the Spirit into our lives so strongly that there is no more space for pain.  He will buffer us from agony.  He will bring us joy and peace.  

One of the general authorities of the LDS church, Elder Shayne Bowen, told the story of how his toddler choked on chalk and died.  Elder Bowen went through pain, anger, frustration, and guilt.  He rejected the comforting words of those who tried to reach out to him.  But as he focused more on gratitude for what he had rather than on his pain and loss, he began to find peace and joy.  The Lord “gave him a new heart," a heart full of light rather than “darkness and despair.”  He did warn that “you will never completely get over [grief] until you are once again with your departed loved ones […or] have a fullness of joy until [you] are reunited in the morning of the First Resurrection.”  But we can still have joy, love, and peace.  We can, as he says, “continue with good cheer.”  The Lord can heal our hearts when we seek Him in sincere prayer, service of our fellow man, obedience, love, and gratitude. 

We will never be the same person we were before.  But we also don’t have to suffer for the rest of our lives, either.  Each person has a different journey, but we don’t have to make this journey alone.  We have our fellow travelers here, but most of all, we have the Lord who loves us with all his heart and wants us to find peace and joy.  

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.