The Wine-Dark Sea

Karen Edmisten’s new book is shipping early! I got my copy yesterday on Tuesday (but then on Wednesday Anthony spiked a fever and I’ve been holding him almost non-stop while battling his ear infection ever since and so I was unable to finish this post.)  I am honored that Karen chose to include a short poem I wrote. Although I didn’t write it directly about my own miscarriage, that experience obviously informs the piece. I wrote it when I was asked to pray for a mother who had recently lost a child to SIDS. But at the time I felt funny about publishing it. It seemed too raw as a response to a stranger’s grief. Then I remembered it almost a year later when a dear friend had a miscarriage. I went back and re-read it and found that it was good. And true. So I published it. I have been told by many women that my little poem has brought them comfort. Now, nestled inside Karen’s gem of a book, I have hopes that it will reach many more than it could tucked away here in my blog’s archives.

But oh I was going to write about Karen’s book. Did I mention what a treasure it is? I thought I was done grieving our baby Francis but as I’ve perused these pages I have found my tears flowing again. In just three weeks the anniversary is coming—five years since that terrible day. And yet that date, February 25, lies just between two wonderful anniversaries that have since joined our family’s calendar of celebrations: February 20, Anthony’s birthday, and March 4, Sophie’s birthday. I think God knew what he was doing when Sophie was due almost a year to the day from the day I lost Baby Francis. This is the way the world is, death and life so intertwined you can’t pull them apart. Had Francis not died, I’d not have my Sophie. It is a grief and a joy both. And now Anthony. It is a miracle when you consider that after the miscarriage I was told I had cancer and was going to have a hysterectomy. I went through such a dark week, thinking Bella would be the only baby I’d get to hold. And then there was Sophie… and Ben… and Anthony.

Life after miscarriage. Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong in that sisterhood of grieving mothers because mine has been such an easy cross when I know so many mothers who struggle so under such a heavy weight. But I do know that whenever I hear of a mother—or father, let’s not forget the fathers—who has lost a baby, I know my heart now reaches out in a way I don’t think it could have before.

And then there were these words, that Colleen penned recently after losing yet another of her babies:

But I hold in my heart the greatest of all consolations, the hope of heaven.  For I realize, that even when my body is well past the age of bearing babies, even if I should live until I am 100, always, I will be an expectant mother, until the day I hold my babies for eternity.

I love that. I will always be an expectant mother. There is still that eagerly awaited little one, the one my arms ache to hold and that hope of a longed for meeting in heaven.

I hope that After Miscarriage finds its way into many hands, many homes, many hearts. The stories, poems, prayers and memories Karen shares are a beautiful balm for grieving parents because they are full of the healing love of Christ.

I don’t listen to the Divine Office podcast very often; but I have the app on my phone and sometimes when I can’t find a chunk of time to sit and pray I can at least listen to the office on the go. The other night, for example, my sister put on Evening Prayer while I was coking dinner. Although I only heard about 80% of it because of interrupting kids, still it was very nice to be able to pray while I worked.

But this morning it was a special treat. I played the podcast on my phone as I got myself and the children dressed for Mass and was very pleasantly surprised to hear them chanting the psalms instead of the usual recitation. This is how the psalms are meant to be heard! I’m guessing that they only do it for Sunday’s office because I’ve never heard it before; but perhaps someday they may move to chanting all the hours? I can hope.

Daria has been writing about chanting the psalms over at her blog. As I told her, I’ve been wanting to learn to chant the psalms for a long time; but I don’t read music and don’t think I’m likely to learn anytime soon. I know musical people tell me it’s not that hard to learn to read chant notation; but I just don’t think it’s something I’m going to be able to pick up. The beauty of chant is suppose d to be that you don’t have to be musically trained in order to learn it. I think I could learn the chants by ear if I heard them often enough. So here’s hoping that more resources become available for people like me .

A reader emailed to ask if I had any advice to give for consoling some friends of hers who had suffered a second miscarriage. I thought it was a good general question that I’ve not seen addressed anywhere and so thought I’d share my thoughts here as others may be wondering the same thing. I’d also like to invite readers who have had miscarriages to share anything that someone did for you that you would recommend or something you wish someone had done.

It is so hard to know what to say to someone who is grieving and especially who has lost a child to miscarriage. There are no public rituals of funeral and burial to help you through the grieving process and it is hard to talk about with people so it is easy to feel like you are alone in your grief. for me the blog really helped not only because I was able to write about it (here, and here, and here, and here) but because of the wonderful outpouring of prayers and sympathy and encouragement from my readers. I really felt like I was surrounded by people who cared and understood. In that respect I think the mass card is a great idea because it is a sign of their being a part of the Body of Christ, of being connected in prayer with the universal Church. I’d have loved to receive something like that. I’d encourage other friends and family members to send cards as well, if you know anyone in their family or circle of friends you can prod in that direction. Those little gestures mean so much and the cards themselves are a physical token with the child’s name that they can keep as a memento. I started to realize this fall that I really wanted something that I could touch or hold that was connected with my baby. Our faith is incarnational and we do so need to connect to spiritual realities through our senses. When you lose a baby so early it feels kind of abstract and almost as if it never happened. I wanted something to cling to.

For me one of the best things anyone did was to give me an object with Francis’ name on it. I blogged about that back in February. My sister’s roommate had made mugs for Dom and I when we were married and she made one when Bella was born and so having one for Francis really meant a lot to me. That’s very particular to our family, so I wouldn’t necessarily suggest going out and getting a mug; but perhaps there is a way of memorializing the children which would be appropriate for their family. Giving them some kind of token which they can associate with that baby or even planting a tree or a flowering bush in the baby’s honor. I’d think a small statue of Mary might be something I’d have appreciated. I’m not sure about something baby-themed such as a baby blanket or shoes. For some parents that might be a comfort, for others it might be too painful, I think it’s too hard to tell unless you know them really well.

You said they named both children. That would be one of my first recommendations for parents who’ve had a miscarriage. it is so important to acknowledge that these are immortals souls who are known to God and somehow, mysteriously have a place in his providential plan. I’d encourage them to pray for their children every day and even ask their intercession as the Church allows us to hope that God’s mercy extends to these innocents who died before they were born. We always add Francis to our evening prayers with Bella and Sophia. Saying that name out loud every night helps me to not feel like my child is forgotten. I also found great consolation enrolling Francis’ name in the book at the Shrine for Children who died unborn at the NY Church of the Holy Innocents website. I’d encourage them to do that. It is nice to know there’s a name physically written in a church in a book that sits where people go to pray. The website says: “Here, a candle is always lit in their memory. All day long people stop to pray. On the first Monday of every month, our 12:15pm Mass is celebrated in honor of these children and for the comfort of their families.” For me and I suspect most parents who have very early miscarriages the lack of a memorial or grave site to visit or any physical mementos, as I said before, is particularly hard.

One helpful word of advice that we were told was to expect to feel sadness not only on the anniversary of the miscarriage but also when the baby’s due date came around. Dom read something about someone whose wife started to feel blue without even being consciously aware of the date. When he told me it made sense and so I kind of knew to expect it, which helped when I started to feel blue. It helped to be able to memorialize that date on my blog and have support then. So if you know when that will be, you might be prepared to give some additional comfort and support at that time as well. Knowing someone else remembers and cares might be a great comfort.

Also, for me it helped just knowing how many other women have gone through this loss. I was surprised at how many people shared their stories with me and then I also started reading blogs and stumbling across miscarriage stories online. It helped me feel like I wasn’t alone. Being able to talk about it helped. If she isn’t a blog reader already,  she might take some comfort in the online community and you might help point her in that direction. The Catholic moms I know online are such a great group of loving women who support and encourage one another so beautifully. 

I know too that at the time Dom expressed how often people seem to ignore the father and focus on the mother’s loss and pain. It’s important for friends and family to remember that he is grieving too, not just the mother. I know for men it’s more complicated as well because in the early stages of pregnancy, before their wives begin to show its all rather abstract. It’s not that they don’t care but that they don’t have that physical connection. I know too that it is very hard for a husband to watch his wife suffer through pregnancy, childbirth or miscarriage because he feels so very helpless. So I’d especially love to hear from any fathers out there who have lost children: what have people done or said that helped you or what do you wish someone had done or said?

I can’t think of anything else right now, but I welcome any additional thoughts.

I’ll also pray for them as I pray every night for all parents who have lost children.

Bella’s naptime reading choice today: a novena to Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta. The Missionaries of Charity sent me the pamphlet and some holy cards last year when my sister-in-law asked them to pray for me following my miscarriage and cancer diagnosis.

Bella has been playing with all my holy cards during morning prayer time and loves naming the saints. Her favorites are Jesus, Mary, St. Michael, St. Therese, St. Teresa Benedicta, Mother Teresa, and Pope John Paul II (who she simply calls “Paul” and who she often confuses with Pope Benedict, who she also calls “Paul”, though maybe she’s trying to say “pope”.)

Anyway, Bella noticed the pamphlet on the top of the bookshelf when I picked her up and, recognizing Mother Teresa, wanted to hold it. She sat down on the floor immediately and began “reading” it to herself.

When we went to go settle for her nap she was still carrying the pamphlet and rejected all other book offers I made. So I began reading the prayers and eventually she fell asleep, perfectly content at her choice of bedtime “story”. And I got some unplanned prayer time, a little peaceful interlude in my afternoon. Sometimes God is so good, he gives us what we need without our even asking.

Thank you God for your servant Isabella, my little missionary of your love.

Forwarded to me by my dad, who is a secular Carmelite, from one of his sisters in Carmel:

My family in Carmel,
I humbly ask for prayers for my son, Justin, and daughter-in law, Cristina.  They suffered a miscarriage yesterday. Cris was 10 weeks along.  May God bring them comfort and peace.

In Jesus’ name,

Olga

Please pray for them and for all parents who have lost a child. I pray that they are given the same abundant consolations I have received through the intercessions of all who have been praying for me. God is a loving Father and never abandons us in our time of need. May he send his Spirit upon Justin and Christina and fill them with his peace.

I keep waiting for the curtain to fall, for the storm to break, for the crush of grief, the uncontrollable sobs, the weight, the anguish, the pain. And yet I spend much more time laughing with Isabella than crying. My eyes are dry, my heart is light. I’d probably be sleeping well at night if it weren’t for Bella’s crying and Dom’s snoring.

I don’t think it’s numbness. I’m a pretty reflective person. Very self-aware, sometimes agonizingly so. I don’t think I’m in denial, repressing emotions, avoiding the truth. I could be wrong, but I don’t think the bogeyman of devastation is waiting in the shadows to ambush me when I least expect it.

And I kind of feel like a traitor. So many people have reached out, extended their condolences, shared their stories and their grief. And I’ve stumbled across more stories, like Jill’s story of losing her father to cancer right after her seventh miscarriage. I feel like I don’t belong in that company of sorrowing women, me sailing along under sunny skies with me heart full of laughter. I don’t know how to respond to the kind words and grim half smiles of sympathy, the squeezed shoulder and the condolences of friends.

I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m trivializing other women’s suffering or failing to empathize with those losses. I understand that their experiences are not mine, that their pain is deeper, their path much harder than mine. I’ve cried as I’ve read their stories. I understand their pain as much as anyone who hasn’t felt it can, which is admittedly not much. I just don’t understand why I’m not feeling the same things.

For other women miscarriage has been a cross, a burden. I have had my own crosses and I am certain I will not escape my share of suffering. But this is evidently not my season to grieve. This loss is not a heavy cross for me to bear. I don’t know why. I don’t understand. It’s a mystery how God has eased my pain and lightened my load.

I know not everyone grieves the same way. And I know each loss is unique. One person may respond quite differently to two different losses. I know that if I had lost Bella, if that first pregnancy had ended in miscarriage, my reaction would be very different. 

So in my bewilderment and confusion, I turn to prayer. I pray for all parents who have lost children, that they may be consoled and their load lightened. I pray for God’s mercy and compassion for all those suffering pain and loss. And I pray that I might accept this season for what it is.

That’s what I wrote two nights ago in a blog entry I never finished, never posted.

Now the other shoe has dropped, the storm has hit, like a tornado out of a blue sky. And I’m reeling. And suddenly I understand why God’s grace has protected me (us really, because though I write in the first person, Dom is my companion in everything) from feeling that pain. He had other plans. Another, different, cross for me to bear.

My doctor called yesterday afternoon and asked me to come in for a biopsy. He originally wanted me to go in last night after dinner, but then had to cancel because he had two patients in active labor at the hospital.

So I went in this morning. And before he performed the procedure he explained why he wanted to do it. The tissue from the miscarriage they routinely send to the pathologist. Mine came back with bad results: I have uterine cancer.  Early stages, it seems and in the mildest form.

But because my age and my recent pregnancies make such a diagnosis unlikely, he wanted to do a biopsy to confirm those findings. The results will be back on Monday. Until then we wait and pray.

If the results confirm that I do have cancer, the usual treatment is a hysterectomy.

Please pray for us.

Dom reminds me that “openness to life” means accepting God’s will. Whether that be for many children or few or none. And I know that. But saying it and living it are, of course, two different things. When your heart yearns for children, you don’t want to hear a no.

Dear God, please, please, please let this cup pass away from me. But at the same time: “I am the handmaiden of the Lord. Let it be done unto me according to your word.” Give me the strength to carry whatever cross I must carry. And let me continue to thank you for all the blessings I have been given and praise your name.

“Oh that I had wings like a dove
to fly away and be at rest.
So I would escape far away
and take refuge in the desert.

I would hasten to find a shelter from the raging wind,
from the destructive storm, O Lord…

Entrust your cares to the Lord
and he will support you.
He will never allow
the just man to stumble….

O Lord, I will trust in you.”

I was torn about whether to write anything more than my generic request for prayers. At least until Monday when we hear for certain. But then I sat down to write, saw the unposted blog entry and felt a need to finish it. I think writing helps me deal with the tempest raging inside. And I also am hoping that my posts are doing some good. That they are more than just venting my spleen.

Update:

Today’s Procedure

Reason for Cautious Optimism

related entries:

Sad News

Counting My Blessings

Some Thoughts on Motherhood