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 woke up at five this morning from a very restless sleep and an anxiety dream about waking up more than an hour after the time we were supposed to be at the hospital. Tossed and turned until the alarm went off at 5:30.

Dom went and woke up Bella—we really hated waking up a sleeping baby!!! Wouldn’t it figure this was one of the rare mornings she didn’t wake up howling at five-five-thirty?!? I nursed her for a half hour or so while Dom took his shower and dressed.

Then we left Bella with my mom while we went to the hospital. She cried for a bit, of course, but was then fine until right before Dom came home. (I told him there was no sense in him sitting in the hospital waiting room while I was in the OR. We live not five minutes from the hospital.) Bad enough for Bella to have a morning without mommy. No daddy, I figured, would be really hard for a little girl.

As for my part, it went very smoothly. Thanks in large, I’m sure, to all those prayers everyone’s been saying. They didn’t use a general anesthesia, just a sedative and a local. I thus expected to be awake and aware during the procedure as I was during my c-section, a thought which actually distressed me a bit, even though I knew the sedative should keep me calm.

But I recall going into the OR and chatting with the nurses and anesthesiologist as they put warm blankets around me and set up the “Cadillac” stirrups, as one of the nurses called them. Then, the next thing I knew I was waking up from a very peaceful dreamy sleep and they were telling me the procedure was done and they were moving me to the recovery room. Once there, I was tucked in under warm blankets again, had a very welcome glass of ice water, and then fell back to sleep. Then I woke up and had some juice and hot buttered toast and drifted back to sleep. When I woke again, I had more water and then began praying the psalms and canticles I know by heart. Then, I said a rosary, the sorrowful mysteries, on my fingers. I was very calm, relaxed and prayerful.

Finally, I woke up all the way and read my book (Eifelheim) for a while. I was so glad the nurse had agreed to carry it into the OR for me so I could have it with me when I woke. I hate staring at the wall with nothing to read. Eventually I was ready to go home. Dom came up and chatted with me, then went back to the waiting room to be with Bella and my mom as I got dressed and was discharged.

When I got to the waiting room, I saw Bella in my mom’s lap with her back to me. I called her name and she looked about, joyfully, and finally spotted me. I sat down and they put her in my lap and she just clung to me, a very sleepy, very happy baby. (She wasn’t able to go down for her morning nap without me to nurse her to sleep. As I knew she wouldn’t.) Bella fell sound asleep just as soon as the car had pulled out of the parking lot. Poor tired little girl.

We stopped by McDonald’s to get some food. Dom hadn’t eaten yet today both because he was too busy and too anxious to think about eating and, he said, because he knew I’d not been able to eat and he felt so helpless with nothing to do. It was the least he could do to feel some solidarity with me. So sweet. We wanted to eke out Bella’s nap as long as possible so we drove to my favorite little park in neighboring Marblehead and sat in the car looking out over the Atlantic as we ate our burgers and fries. Bella finally woke as we pulled up to the house, about a half hour after we left the hospital.
She had lunch, played for a while and then had her regular afternoon nap. (I slept too.) So she seems back on schedule.

My doctor called Dom when I got out of OR, while I was still in recovery. He said everything went well and looked fine. Of course, we won’t get the pathology report until next week, probably Wednesday or Thursday; but it’s good preliminary news, at least.

I’m taking it easy this afternoon; but I feel fine. Minimal cramping. Much less than I expected. More like the biopsy than the miscarriage and easier than most of my menstrual cramps.

Thanks again to everyone who has been praying for me. I’ve really felt all those prayers sustaining me and am sure that today went so smoothly because of your prayers and support. (I’ve been praying for all of you as well.) Just a little longer and this will hopefully all be behind us and we can get on with our lives.

Though in some ways, I’ll never be the same. This experience has changed the way I look at so many things, especially intercessory prayer. I will never look at a prayer request in my inbox or on a blog in the same way again. I have been so blessed, I know I am called to pray that others will receive some of the same blessings and consolations that have been given to me.

This post at Testosterhome made me remember something I meant to write last week.

As Lent began I was so tired and I felt so lazy. I knew that a lot of it was the first trimester sleepies. I’m not being lazy, I told myself. It’s the baby. (And the fact that Isabella was still not sleeping through the night.)

And then the miscarriage. And about a week later suddenly I found myself bounding down the basement steps to throw in a quick load of laundry before breakfast. Well, not literally bounding, that would be foolish and land me with a broken neck; but I was bounding on the inside. And I realized I had my energy back. Suddenly those steps didn’t seem like an insurmountable obstacle, to work my way up to, maybe after a full breakfast and then a little rest.

I knew pregnancy was taking a lot out of me, but I didn’t realize how much. After all, after Bella was born there wasn’t this sudden surge of energy. I was recovering from surgery at first and then dealing with being a first time mom with a baby who never slept more than half an hour at a time. 

Of course, now I don’t have any excuses. If I don’t get up off the couch to do the laundry, it really is laziness.

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

I had a miscarriage yesterday.

If you don’t want to read about it, then don’t. But I need to write about it.

Spotting began Saturday night. I noticed it right before we left to go out to dinner for my sister-in-law’s birthday. I didn’t mention it to the family at dinner because it might be nothing and because I didn’t want to disturb the happy occasion.

Spotting and cramping after dinner and I called my OB’s office. She said as long as the spotting was light, I could probably hold off and go into the office on Monday for an ultrasound. But if it got worse, to go to the ER.  Cramps got worse overnight and by morning we decided to go to the ER after mass. But as we were getting ready to leave I changed my mind and so instead of going to church, we went straight to the hospital.

And a good thing too because after they had checked me in, while I was still in the waiting room, waiting for them to find a place for me, I guess, I started bleeding very heavily. Scared, I sent Dom to try to get them to hurry up. They weren’t fast enough, though. A very heavy gush of blood scared me. I panicked and started screaming. Mostly because I was scared, though also a bit because I knew it would get me the attention I needed. It sure did. The admitting nurse was on the radio telling some guy that she didn’t care, she needed to bring me back NOW. I feel bad for the people in the waiting room. It was pretty scary. I left a pool of blood behind in the chair and on the floor.

But once I was actually in the ER the nurses were great. They told Dom and Bella to come on back with me. He did, leaving our coats in the waiting room as he pushed the stroller. They started to put me in a curtained area in a larger room with three other beds, but then a nurse found an empty room where I could have more privacy. It wasn’t an exam room at all, but they made do.

Time passes funny in a hospital. You wait, wait, wait, wait wait. Sometimes it drags and sometimes it flies. The longest wait was for the ultrasound. There was a backup there. Usual, I was told. But they had waited until my bladder was full to even begin the process. So I had to wait with a full bladder. And wait and wait.

The hardest thing was not being able to take care of my poor distressed Bella. I did nurse her briefly during one of the long waits in the morning. Then fortunately Dom’s mother and sister came and helped out with her. They took her home to get her lunch and changer her diaper, the snacks and diapers in the diaper bag having run out. Then Dom came back to the hospital in time to take me home, around 3:00. I was so glad I didn’t have to stay overnight. As it was, when we got home, poor Bella had cried herself to sleep in her auntie’s arms. She was so glad to wake up to find herself in my lap instead. It was so hard to know my little girl needed me and I couldn’t be there for her.

Now I’m home. Taking it easy today. Tomorrow a follow-up doctor visit in the office. So glad Dom is here, taking care of us.

Like I said, all the staff at the hospital were wonderful. But there was one nurse, a motherly woman named Mary. I guess she’s actually grandmotherly. My mom’s age. She took care of me the whole time and was very comforting, friendly and reassuring. Very solicitous of my feelings, telling me it was ok to cry, to grieve. I hope she’s there for all women in such situations. Our society just doesn’t know how to deal with death, especially the deaths of babies. So it is very good that she was there and knew what to say and how to say it.

Anyway, I don’t want to write about the emotions now. I can’t. Maybe later. Or maybe not.

I’ll just say this: God has a funny way of preparing us. Thanks especially to Karen E., whose been writing about her own miscarriages recently on her blog. And then there was last Monday, at the Carmelite bookstore in the mall. Dom and I browsing through the children’s books and he picked up one for children about a child dealing with the baby being in heaven instead of having a younger brother or sister to play with. I shed a tear or two as we leafed through the pages. Little did I know, I’d be crying more just a week later.

Updates:

Counting My Blessings
Thoughts on Motherhood
A time to weep, and a time to laugh