My fourth miscarriage…. I can hardly believe I’m writing those words. Four miscarriages in eleven months has left Michael & I reeling. It feels like just when we’ve gotten our feet back under us, just when we feel we can hope again, we’re knocked back down by more loss and confusion. We have more questions than we have answers. So many questions. So many holes in my heart. How can this be happening to us? Again.
We are no longer strangers to loss, heartache, or pain. It’s sad to say that this terrible emptiness is beginning to feel somewhat normal. The awful yawning chasm of grief looks very familiar. It’s almost as if I can look over my shoulder at it & say, “Oh, it’s you again. Did you ever leave?” The loneliness & isolation never leave either. They’re like ghosts that I fear will follow me for the rest of my life; perhaps they are simply ghosts of my four unborn children. They will always be with me.
I’m broken. There’s no denying that. How can I after I’ve failed to carry any of my children past 6 weeks gestation? Something is wrong, but no one can tell us what. So many questions, & we desperately want answers. No, at this point, we need answers. I need the doctors to fix me. Somehow. Someway. Sometime. I don’t know how much more loss or disappointment my heart can take. Disappointment doesn’t even sound strong enough a word. Disappointment is when you don’t win that little league baseball game you played. Disappointment is when you lose that favorite earring. Or when you don’t get the job you wanted but didn’t necessarily need. Or when you’ve exerted a lot of energy and effort into cooking a special meal only to have it turn out poorly. Disappointment doesn’t go deep enough. But what other word can I use? Failure? Discouragement? Calamity? Nearly unbearable defeat? There doesn’t seem to be words that adequately describe the emotion or experience.
As much as I need answers and need my doctors to somehow correct whatever is wrong with my body, and as much as I beg God to reverse the outcomes and mend our hearts, I’ve come to realize that I am not seeking any of this from others. I don’t need or even want it from them, and I wish people would stop trying to fix us-both physically and emotionally. But that’s what people who love us want to do-they want to fix the problem for us because they don’t want us to suffer. Grief is an uncomfortable thing not just for those enduring it themselves but for those who have to watch them experience it. And the more deeply you care, the more deeply you feel it with them. It is the beauty and curse of love. Unfortunately, as humans we shy away from this pain and automatically want to apply some sort of healing balm to it so that it smarts less for both them and ourselves. It’s natural, and it is a sign of love; but it is actually ineffective, often counterproductive even. I’ve had many opportunities to examine the types of responses we receive from others when we share the pain of our miscarriages with them, and I have concluded that all unhelpful or hurtful responses boil down to the fact that these loved ones are trying to fix us. They are unwilling to allow us to grief or mourn; they unwittingly try to deny us that needful experience. And by doing so, they actually instill into us guilt, frustration, loneliness, or increased sadness. I have found that I am fighting against these responses more and more, but I fear that these friends do not understand why I do so and likely feel hurt by a more intense, frustrated response from me than expected when all they are trying to do is help me through the pain. They do not realize that by not sharing in the pain, they have increased it. Even though I endeavor to temper my feedback with love and grace, I am afraid that my attempts at educating them may turn out only to harm our relationship, so I suppose I need to remain silent and accept the bad with the good. However, I see a huge, urgent need for society in general to be instructed in therapeutic ways to address grief and even more so when it comes to bereavement related to miscarriage. There is an immense deficit here!
Nearly all comments regarding our losses that I have found to be painful can be boiled down to three basic responses. The first that I find especially stinging is something to the effect of ” Don’t worry; you will have a child one day.” There are several problems that I see with this reply. First of all, no one can give us this assurance. Life isn’t fair, and we certainly do not always get what we want or feel we may deserve. The feeling that there are certain things in life that we are entitled to such as children (if and when we want them), a good marriage, long life, good health, etc. is unfounded and a bit presumptuous on our parts as humans and subjects of God. I am no better than the other person because we are all sinners and weak. I do not deserve any of the good things that God gives me; and if He chooses to withhold any of the things that we feel we are entitled to, who am I to complain or feel slighted? He does nothing without purpose. But people want to give us that hope and confidence, which is not theirs truly to give and which only feeds into that feeling of entitlement. My mind must fight against that belief! Secondly, behind this statement is the unspoken message that a child in the future will replace any of the children that we have lost and will fill the holes in our heart left behind from their losses. No child I may have and hold in the years ahead will ever take the place of this unique, precious child that I just lost. Would you expect someone to take comfort after the loss of a spouse from a statement such as “Don’t worry; you’ll marry another husband/wife in the future”? It’s ludicrous, and we would never say that to a grieving wife or husband! Why do we say such things to grieving parents? Perhaps it is because people do not see our babies truly as children. We never held them in our arms; they never heard them cry or coo, never saw them grow or walk. Therefore, they are less significant, less real, less recognized or valued. Of course, they would never acknowledge or endorse these beliefs or thoughts, but I believe it is likely the silent, hidden, blind view that fuels remarks such as “You’ll have a child soon” or “I know you will have lots of children in the years to come.” Well, there’s the other problem. I have children already. You see? There it is again. Don’t they see them as children? My children? But I know what they mean. They are trying to comfort me by telling me that I will have a living child soon. And yes, that is what I pray and hope for as well; but for now, I am missing and aching for the child that is gone.
The second hurtful type of response goes something like this: “Don’t dwell on the past or worry about the future. Live in the moment and look for the good. You have so much to be thankful for!” Isn’t that another way of saying, “Just look on the bright side of things”? Do you know how guilty this makes me feel? The hidden message here is, “You have no right to be sad right now. You have so much to be thankful for, so you should not be grieving.” Why can’t you allow me to grieve? Once again, are my children not valued enough to be mourned? Would you deny a child the right to grieve over their parent or a husband the opportunity to mourn his deceased wife? Actually, people probably say similar things to them too without realizing what the grief-stricken person is really hearing from them and feeling as a result. We should never be made to feel guilty about mourning our loved one! Grief and love go hand in hand. And grief does not exclude joy and gratitude; they can and do coexist. Just because I am sad after my miscarriage does not mean I am not thankful for all the blessings in my life. I have to wonder sometimes “Do they think so little of me? Do I come across as despairing, unthankful, or weak?” And suddenly I am also insecure and afraid. I want so much for our losses to bring glory to God, and it sounds like I am failing to fulfill this purpose. I desperately need our losses to have some sort of purpose, some kind of good to come from them. In order to accomplish this, must I always appear happy and energetic, never allowing sadness or pain to openly touch me? I must now deny my human emotions and put off the necessary process of grieving in order to appear strong and thankful. These such statements place the grieving party in a rigid box; the walls are cheerfulness, gratitude, optimism, and strength-all good things until you make them our prison. We are not allowed out. Instead, of confining us to this cell, step with us into heartbreak, sorrow, melancholy, and human weakness. Does not God say, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness” (2. Cor. 12: 9)? Allow me to be weak because when I endure through this weakness, God’s power is manifested. And by spending a few moments with us there, you will lessen our time spent in this land of mourning and will lighten the darkness there.
The third distressing response is very, very similar. “I don’t want you to be sad. I want you to be happy.” Love prompts this entirely. However, once again, it is denying us the freedom to openly grieve our child. We are faced with the burden that our pain is hurting another, so we must hide it. Infertility and miscarriage are extremely isolating. Society has caused them to be nearly invisible burdens due to the misunderstanding and discomfort surrounding these topics. And I believe messages received such as this one only potentiates the solitude and desolation that comes with both these experiences. To protect our hearts, we shrink back into the shadows and must deal with the heartache with extremely limited support and understanding. During the times when we need help the most, we must bear the invisible load alone and put a “smiley face” on for the world to see. Because others want us to be happy. If only others could grant us the gift (yes, it is a gift) of mourning with us, sharing the pain, bringing us out into the sunlight with all our ugly wounds and scars and telling us that we are loved and cherished despite them. We aren’t the people we were a year ago, much less three years ago; too much has been taken from us. We have been worn down; one loss after another chiseling away at the vibrancy that we once to possessed. The question is “will we be accepted as we are today?”
If you look at these three types of reactions, they all are “fix it” attempts. You can’t fix grief. You can’t mend miscarriage. You can only walk through it. And if you choose to accompany us for at least a little while through this darkness, you are honoring us and helping us heal. It is one of the greatest gifts you can give us right now. Your presence is sometimes all we need. There are no magic words to make this all go away. It’s here to stay; and as time goes by, it will ease. We can never go back to the way it was before, but the future can still be bright and beautiful. However, that will take a while, and that’s ok.
If you have ever given us or another grieving person any of these responses, please don’t feel guilty or judged or sad. Above all else, I beg you not to allow the fear of saying the wrong thing to cripple you or feelings of defensiveness to silence you. Please know that we would rather you try and perhaps say a less than helpful thing than to remain silent and seemingly ignore our loss. Silence is the heaviest of all. Because we know that all comments come from a place of love and an effort to comfort and aid us, we can give much grace. And I will be the first to admit that I have fallen into these mistakes in the past myself. Blissful ignorance is to be held completely responsible in nearly all such cases. For those who have never suffered miscarriage or infertility, I am glad. But I do want my voice and my struggle to bring awareness. Infertility and miscarriage is more common than many think. The likelihood that you will speak to someone who is on that path or has been on that path is very high. Perhaps before you say something to them, consider whether your words are trying to fix them or their problem. Instead, step into their pain and meet them there; sit with them there for at least a moment. Let them know that you are there with them and love them as they are. And above all else, pray for them and let them know you are doing so. That is the greatest gift!
Ghost Child 