Tag: miscarriage

A Child’s Palm

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The following reflection was written by Forsythia. 

She walks to a table in the center of the cafe, son at her heels. They sit, facing one another, his knees tucked under him. He leans on his elbows across the polished surface, eyes following every movement as she carefully unwraps the pastry from its cellophane protection. He bounces on his knees once or twice as the moment approaches, excitement welling up in his joints. She tears away a chunk and, trailing crumbs, places it in his little palm, stretched out in anticipation and openness and certainty. He knows that she will put there something that is delicious, something that is good, because he knows that he is loved, that he is safe. He trusts her.

But that is not always so. There is only so much this little mind can comprehend. And often what is good will look bad; what is safe will seem restrictive; what is loving will be perceived as hatred.

This is not an unfamiliar metaphor to the Christian. In Jesus’ famous words, found in Luke 11 and Matthew 7:

“What father among you, if his son asks for a fish, will instead of a fish give him a serpent; or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

I am reminded of this verse as I watch this little boy with his mother. I see the outstretched hand, the way it returns again and again to the center of the table full of expectation and without hesitation, and I cannot help but be transported back in time to dark nights in bed, face wet with tears, chest constricted by sobs. Here was I holding my palms out until they burned with the effort, begging God in prayer to fill me with something good: to place in the aching emptiness of my womb a throbbing, vibrant life.

You could not tell me in those moments that God gives good gifts to his children. That he is a faithful, constant, loving parent. You could not tell me such things as I watched the world spinning in unbroken motion, life marching on in expected sequence for those around me while I was cast out of orbit to float untethered in uninhabited space. No, my heart would reject the notion of a loving God as though it were poison—my heart did reject it, for years.

I rejected it not because it was a lie, but because it was the wrong remedy for the wounds life was inflicting on me.

There are many such things that, though they are true, are utterly unhelpful in the darkest moments of infertility. If you have never experienced miscarriage or infertility, in order to love well the someone in your life who has or is, you must understand this.

Other truths that were hurtful to me in the middle of my grief were “God has a plan for you” (Jeremiah 29:11) and “All things work together for good” (Romans 8:28). These things were said to me in order to bring comfort, but they served to harden my heart.

Not all methods of healing are appropriate for every wound, and only certain kinds of medication can help certain ailments. These truths—good, rich, helpful truths—were the wrong medication for me at the time. They were meaty, rich, decadent foods that my starving body could not digest. I needed simpler nourishment, nutrition that my weakened self could absorb.

So easily, we overlook that the Word of God is not all optimism and rejoicing and victory—that hope for the Christian begins with a suffering servant who, in his moment of deepest despair, cried out to God a question that was answered with silence (Matthew 27:46). Often, this is what infertility feels like: beating our breasts, crying out to God, and hearing nothing in return. That level of brokenness cannot be mended by words, however true they may be. And in fact, these words may be added pressure that further splinters the bone.

This was my reality and, I think, reality for many who experience infertility or child loss. So, what is one to do?

To the person trying to love an infertile friend: listen exhaustively, speak rarely. Empathetic phrases like “that’s sucks” and “I’m so sorry” go a long way. This person you love will need you to believe truth and pray bold prayers for them because they will probably not be able to do it for themselves. It may not feel like it, but even in silence, you are essential. Listening leads to vulnerability and trust, and out of that deep knowing, the right words will come.

To the person going through infertility or miscarriage: relationship is messy. People will say stupid things—they will be well meaning and extremely hurtful. I am so sorry for that. But you need to find community. Isolation kills. Have grace for those that are trying to love you well. Over-communicate, even though vulnerability is so very hard. Be honest when things hurt you. Tell people what you need. Don’t do this alone.

I believe that God is a good father. I believe that he holds all things in his hands, and knows all things. I believe that he sees the path of my life in its entirety and is a wise, faithful, and trustworthy steward of that story. I believe these things, and yet I do not always believe them. Thank God for community in which to bear each others’ burdens, and for grace, which is daily needed in the messy business of loving one another.

 

October Focus: Infertility’s Legacy

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Although from the outside, having a child, adopting, choosing to adopt or choosing not to have children might seem logical ends to infertility, there are many ways in which infertility has long-lasting, sometimes life-long, implications for a person. This can be seen in the challenges of the adoption life, the on-going grief of infertility losses, or the continual uncertainty and strain (physical, emotional, financial) of assisted reproduction. Often, people who find themselves in this new arena—not technically in the infertile community, but not strictly belonging anywhere else—experience deep confusion and loneliness.

 Over the month of October, our stories will explore some of the many ways in which infertility can very much be a part of a person’s life even when they have entered parenthood or have made the choice to follow a different life path. We hope to give a picture of what this looks like in the personal life, to resonate with those going through it, and to give a sense of direction for those wanting to cultivate understanding and sensitivity towards a loved one in this emotional place.

Letting Go

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Photograph credit: http://www.wallpapers13.com/

The following reflection was written by Camellia.

It was our second pregnancy. My husband and I went to our first ultrasound to find I was 8 weeks along, and I was hopeful since our first pregnancy had ended abruptly at 6 weeks a few months prior. The nurse showed us our tiny child, still just a dot on the screen, its little heart already beating. Amazing. Then she frowned and went to get a doctor. “The baby’s heartbeat is 70 beats per minute, but that’s not always a problem,” the doctor said. “Check back next week.”

I held it together until I got into the car by myself to drive to work. A flood of tears poured down hot and fast. My baby is in danger. Do I mourn the loss before it has died? Can I act like it is “viable” (the frustratingly unfeeling term used in the medical world) and not worry about its tiny heart?

A week later, there was only one heartbeat in my body: our second child had been taken from us. Many tears were shed for many months after. My husband was certainly mourning, but even he couldn’t fathom the depths of my grief, and my longing for the child that would never be. I wasn’t sure who to talk to about it. I remember attending a women’s night that happened the week after our loss where three women announced their pregnancies. The leader jokingly said “Anyone else want to tell me they’re pregnant?!” I nearly ran out of the room to cry in the bathroom.

Even 3 months after the loss, I found myself writing the following:

To say the words “I had a miscarriage” are the hardest words to say, to this day. To even think the words. I think ever so matter of factly of “my miscarriage,” as I would think of “my tonsillectomy” or “my broken wrist.” To say “I had a miscarriage” is to take a medical situation into a personal realm. “I lost a baby.” “I suffered sorrow.” “I had a baby and now it is gone.” And to utter these words out loud is admitting the deepest trauma of my heart.

There was much grief and pain. But somehow, I had no anger or confusion during that time, only peace. Peace because I knew that there is an Author of Life that is always good all the time, and if He wanted my children to be with Him rather than on Earth, then I trusted the wisdom of that choice with all my heart. I thought of the lyrics: “My dead heart now is beating. My deepest stains now clean. Your breath fills up my lungs. Now I’m free!”

However, there was no peace with the next phase. We decided not to do the medical procedure to “clean me out,” but rather to let my body expel the embryo on its own. It was so disheartening to wait day after day for my own body to realize it was using hormones and energy to support an un-living embryo. It seemed like an eternity although it was only 10 days. I was drinking lots of parsley tea and taking vitamin C tablets–things the internet said would start a “natural abortion”–and still my body would not let me move on.

It took up all my energy and thought until I realized: I was able to trust the Lord with my child’s life, which I knew I could not control if I wanted to. Yet, I was clinging to these remedies to make my body cooperate–as If that was something I could control. How contradictory! The night that I became aware of this attitude was the night I surrendered my control over what I thought I could do myself. That same night, my miscarriage finally started.

What came out of this period of grief and despair was a confidence in the sovereignty of my God, compassion for others in a similar situation, and so much gratitude, even in light of that still, un-beating heart.

It was 5 months later that we got pregnant with our dear, sweet boy. It dawned on me the other day that if that second baby had survived, it’s possible that my son with his particular personality would have never been born. It gives that miscarriage experience a little more clarity to see the special child gained from such a painful loss, and I am grateful that the God of the universe, who sees everything, is the one in control of my family and my life.

You Are Seen

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Photograph credit to www.curiositysip.com

The following reflection was written by Sunflower.

 

After the first loss, I avoided Mother’s Day like the plague. I wasn’t interested in watching others celebrate–so easily, so carefree–something I felt like I was begging for without result. It felt like being asked to go out into a hail storm without any protection. My heart just couldn’t take the beating. So I stayed home wrapped up in my blanket of grief. The second loss was even harder. I had put so much hope into that pregnancy that the grief of it ran over me like a semi, then backed up and ran over me again.

I remember like it was yesterday: The first Mother’s Day after my second loss. The loss that had left me emotionally crippled. When Mother’s Day approached, I was bitter but determined. I was a mother. A mother to babes who graced heaven with their presence. And I was so exhausted with grief that somehow, some way, I was going to make others see me the way I saw myself. So, like a soldier preparing for war, I put on my armor of determination and went to church.

I did well through the Hallmark-y 3 minute video they showed in the service that commended the hard work of motherhood. I didn’t shed a tear, standing there like a rock. I even held it together when the pastor spoke kind words about his mom and wife. Yes. I had this. I was going to make it.

…and then they asked for all the moms to stand in the congregation. They were going to hand out flowers. I breathed in deeply, my tears falling freely as I stood. Here it was: my moment of validation. My heart was screaming to be seen as the thing I so desperately wanted to be, the thing I knew I already was, though I had no baby to hold in my arms: a mother. When the man who was handing out red carnations came to my section, he handed them to everyone except me. I lost all composure and left as fast as my feet would carry such a broken and heavy-hearted woman. I was devastated. All the old voices of shame returned. Why should he acknowledge me as a mom? I had no children that he could see. But my heart cried out that I was a mom. The identity resided in the core of my being. It was the person I was created to be, and the short 13 weeks and 10 weeks of my babies’ lives had made me mom. Yet, the one thing I wanted on that Mother’s Day was the last thing I would receive.

Devastated and broken, I fell before the Father’s feet. On one hand, He was the one I blamed for my pain, my losses. And on the other hand, He was the one I clung to for comfort and hope.

“I just want to be seen.”
“You are seen.”

It was simple. It was truth. He was the One that saw my pain, carried my grief, collected my tears, and made me a mom. He knew.

Even now, 7 years later, that memory is painful. Yet, on days when I don’t feel as though I am seen, I have come to realize that I’m seen by the One who is with me through every pain and every joy. Who is witness to every part of me, the visible and invisible. Who weeps in my mourning and rejoices in my joy.

When the next Mother’s Day approached and I had two losses and infertility under my belt, the need to be recognized by others was no longer there. I didn’t put armor on. I didn’t put my blanket of grief on. I didn’t fake it or pretend it was anything but what it was. Because who I am and what I am feeling is always before the One who created me and sustains me. He sees me.

Mother’s Day is painful. When you are in the middle of this pain and asked to wait while everyone around you celebrates, it is incredibly hard. For me, it became O.K. that it was a hard day when I acknowledged that it filled me with grief and believed that this was valid–not a reason to be ashamed or hide myself. And I didn’t try to change it. I knew He saw me, and for that moment, it was enough.