Good Grief

Sometimes they are Iris, Daisy, and Rose. Sometimes I think of them as Courage, Strength, and Peace. They are probably the most influential things in my personal growth in recent years. They are people I never met; children I couldn't raise. They are my miscarried babies.

They have been on my mind recently. Maybe it is because the last miscarriage I experienced was over Memorial Day weekend and I am just slowing down enough to reconcile that event with the other two. All happened relatively early in pregnancy, two at 7 weeks and the most recent one at 6 weeks. This makes it difficult.

I was pregnant. Pregnant enough to feel some sickness. Pregnant enough to have sore breasts. Pregnant enough to dream of holding and nursing my babies in the night. Once you have been a mom, these dreams come in such realism--the feeling of a nursing infant, the scent of newborn hair, the rush of warmth. I was pregnant long enough to plot the due date and start making plans for the future. But I wasn't pregnant long enough for many others to know.

I wasn't pregnant long enough to show. I wasn't pregnant long enough to announce it to the world. I wasn't pregnant long enough for even those I told to adjust themselves to the idea of a new baby on the horizon. This makes for a very private grief.

With the first miscarriage, my second pregnancy, I sought out books and information on recovery. I had been hit hard and I wanted something to tell me how to survive. When I came across the statement "Women who miscarry should try to get pregnant again as soon as possible" I stopped reading. This statement was obviously written by a man. I wanted to scream at the book "I don't want A baby, I wanted this baby!"

So much of what people mean to sound comforting and helpful is not. "God needed another little angel." I thought I was tough enough to hear anything until those words came out of the mouth of a well-meaning person after this last miscarriage. "Well you have two healthy children already." That one wasn't the easiest to deal with either. "It's good that you weren't that far along." "At least you didn't have a stillborn." These are potentially true statements, but I wouldn't know. Is it easier to loose just a hand and not your forearm? Probably, but that doesn't help the person who has lost their hand feel better.

Grieving each loss has been it's own unique experience. With the first loss, a big part of me wanted to stuff the pain into a closet and lock the door. I was in the process of doing just that when a voice inside spoke quietly to my heart "If this life is to have any meaning, you have to feel the pain of its loss." I didn't like that voice, but I knew it was true. To deny that it hurt, would be to deny that there was actually a loss, to rob this life of any value. That is why I call this little one Courage.

With the second miscarriage, I had physical complications that required surgery--a twisted ovary. I found myself grieving the loss of this life, as well as the potential loss of future fertility as they removed one of my ovaries. I found myself caring for my body recovering from surgery, my heart in grieving, my 2-year-old daughter, the housework, and an increased workload at the church where I was Associate Pastor. That is why this little one is Strength.

My next pregnancy ended well, with the birth of my second daughter, healthy and vigorous. I had new ministry at another church that brought (brings) me great satisfaction. Life continued and when she was 3 we decided to try for one more.

After trying for a year to get pregnant, we finally succeeded in May of this year. I was so excited and thoughts of miscarriage were far behind me. Until I started spotting. I did my best not to panic, but I was so worried that I was losing another. The spotting stopped and I cautiously lept for joy. The bleeding started the next morning, a Saturday.

When it became a gush, I almost fainted from shock and went to bed wrapping in warm blankets while the world turned up their A/C. A friend came to cry with me that evening and my husband called my elders to tell them I wouldn't be able to preach the next day.

I cried. I grieved. I didn't hold back. I didn't try to stem the tide. I didn't hide my feelings or my loss or myself. Two days later we attended a Peace Picnic as a family in another town. It felt good to be able to tell people that I was miscarrying without fear. I had done this before, and now for the third time I was prepared to accept this pain, to grieve, and to be at Peace.

You might wonder why I would call these precious blessings by different names. Somewhere I read that naming miscarried babies helps you to grieve better. Having given up on (or rejected) all advice on miscarriage survival, this one piece of advice stuck. I did not act on the advice promptly, ok I didn't name any of them until after this last one. Again, this was complicated. I started to think of how one might name someone whose gender is unkown among other things.

I didn't want to give them names of people I knew, or the names that people I knew were using for their babies. Miscarrying so early, my babies were the stuff of dreams; wisps of reality. I wasn't really sure about naming them with regular names at all. Finally the idea occurred to me that these precious ones were short-lived like the flowers in any season.

I miscarried the first week of May, when the Iris are in bloom.

I miscarried at the end of August, when only the most intrepid of Daisies are still in bloom in Western Kansas.

I miscarried over Memorial Day weekend, just as the Roses are preparing to bloom.

I didn't get to hold my dear ones. I didn't get to feel them kick and flip and turn. I didn't get to give them birth, just rage against my body as it acted against my will expelling my dreams. I didn't get to know them as they grew.

But I have a bouquet of beautiful flowers as the seasons turn. I have an Iris of Courage to face whatever life brings. I have a Daisy of Strength to bear up under the weight of pain and loss. I have a Rose of Peace, knowing that whatever comes I have a Comforter who walks by my side.