When Life Is Fleeting

It doesn't often come up in conversation. It's not something we advertise. But there are lots of other women out there who--like me--have experienced some degree of child loss. In 2010 I lost one child to miscarriage and one to ectopic pregnancy. Since then, I've run in to more women than I can count who never met their child due to miscarriage. And far too many, like my amazing friend Caroline, know the unbelievable grief of saying goodbye to a son or daughter who they can see, touch, or hold. Caroline's son, Cale, died from an umbilical cord accident a few hours before he was born. Looking at the statistics, it's absolutely staggering to realize how very common child loss is, and to realize how many women we might walk by each day who are missing a part of themselves.

Last year I learned through Caroline that October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. There are a lot of causes with louder voices out there calling for support, but this is one cause where we can truly make a difference without spending so much as a dime. All it takes is a minute or two to understand what a family who's lost a child might be facing, and learn simple yet vital ways to support them in their loss. So--even though it's not a very comfortable message for me to write--I hope that in sharing a little more of my story, others might be able to spread some much-needed awareness.

My story isn't overly significant. I lead a pretty normal life. My days are filled with the combination of chaos,  stress, and overwhelming happiness that only motherhood can produce. I seldom shed tears these days over my losses. In fact, as sensitive a soul as I am, and as deeply as I felt the loss of each child, I didn't cry all that much in the beginning, either. I didn't suffer from depression like many women do. The children I lost are not always on my mind. I usually think about the children we lost during bedtime prayers when we mention each family member by name. Sometimes I think of them briefly at other points during the day, but it's usually in passing with a little sigh, sometimes a smile, and no real tangible sadness.

But it's very clear to me that I'm not the same person I was two years ago. Even though I may not think of my children in heaven every waking second, I love them recklessly and to the very depths of my core. I love them so much that it's inexpressible. I have countless unpublished drafts on this subject that I've failed to finish as I stumble over sentences or grasp for words to that don't exist to try to express it the right way. The everyday subtleties also reveal how much I've changed. I pray more ardently for those who are expecting. I delight in the beautiful children around me a little more. I avoid directly answering the simple question, "how many kids do you have?" because what seems like a clear answer to others is a different reality for me. I usually say something like "three little ones at home." Or say "my youngest" instead of "my third," because he's really my fifth. Because it's strange to claim that I have only three kids when I know in my heart that I am still the mother of two more. Some holidays also bear more significance. We lost our first the day after my birthday, and the second three days before Christmas. Though I'm still happy on those days, they hold much more weight now than I ever imagined they might. Writing out or discussing my medical history with doctors also affects me. I don't look forward to it because it seems so impersonal most of the time, but at the same time it's strangely validating to see that there is a place on the form where my children's existence is actually acknowledged. I know it's simply for medical purposes. But they're acknowledged nonetheless. And I know many, many women feel the exact same way about these things.

Most of the time, though, these thoughts and interactions are very fleeting. They don't consume me, they're merely a part of me that I've gotten used to. An extension of myself that I can't see. Another marker on my journey into motherhood, just like the scars on my abdomen that are always there, but I don't often stop to dwell on. I really don't want to dwell on it. After my losses, I quickly got to the point where my grief  became very latent, almost non-existent, because my children in heaven just became a positive little reminder of who I have to look forward to meeting one day. But every once in awhile, usually when I'm least expecting it, something will trigger a battering ram of grief that brings me to my knees with one blow.

Like the time my incredibly wonderful friend Elizabeth sent me a book (which I highly recommend) called Heaven Is For Real,  the true story of a three-year-old's near-death experience and "trip" to heaven. At one point he meets and hugs a sister he didn't know he had--it turns she was the child his mother had miscarried before he was born. I expected to get a little teary-eyed at that part, maybe smile at how sweet their meeting was. But I didn't expect to throw the book aside and curl up on the floor for the rest of the night, heaving sobs and hurling desperate questions at God, questions that I will probably never get an answer to (in this life, at least).

And some days I still ask them. I wonder who my children in heaven were--who they are--and nurse the thought that as I mother I should know my children best, but I don't. I can't. Are my children boys? Girls? One of each? Are the names we've given them wrong? My "gut" feeling was always wrong when guessing the gender of our kids here on earth--is it possible that I have a son floating around in heaven being teased because he's stuck with a girl's name for all eternity? I know, in heaven there's probably not much teasing. But still. What if I did that to my poor kid? And then there are the faces that I ache with all my heart and all my might to know, to see, but cannot. Do they have blond hair like their brothers or brown like their sister? Are they blue-eyed like their dad or brown-eyed like me? Are they--or would they have been--tall or short? What activities would they have loved? Do they get to do those things in heaven? How can I be a good mother to them if I don't even know the simplest things about them? What I wouldn't give to just know those faces. Or at the very least be able to say 'he' or 'she.'

But it's in these moments on my knees that I also feel undeniably real.

Though these moments might not answer any questions, they bring me to deeper level of understanding. The moment that book from my caring friend triggered a flood of tears was difficult, but it also forced me to acknowledge the reality of my own grief instead of just focusing on others' grief. It allowed me some time to face some things that I hadn't been ready to deal with previously and brought me to a greater place of healing. All because a friend cared. The moment I learn that another women has just lost a child is never easy, but when I reach out to them I gain a better understanding of who we are as mothers, who our children are in the eyes of God, and most importantly, how important it is to become a community who validates the truth of their lives and our love.To me, that's what this month is all about--building a safe community where all can share in that process.

I'm sure you've heard the saying, "It takes a village to raise a child." It should also take a village to grieve a child, and to hold a grieving mother and father in their arms. Their child may be faceless, or even nameless. The only proof of their child's existence might be a pregnancy test, medical report or an ultrasound picture. Or they might have to face the utterly gut-wrenching reality of physically letting go of a child they didn't get to hold long enough, planning a memorial, and picking out a headstone. Their child may have died because of some abnormality or may have been perfectly healthy. Their loss may have been a miscarriage, a stillbirth, a child who was born and just didn't make it, even an abortion. But whatever their experience, it does not change the reality--the fact remains that a life once existed on this earth and now does not. And when that life is suddenly gone, all that seems to remain is the inevitable suffering. It's then that the 'the village' must step in, when the rest of the community can affirm that their child's life had--and has--meaning. Not shy away or pretend it didn't happen. But to realize that child loss happens far too often, and to stand ready to offer support when it inevitably does occur.

What should that support look like? Even though I don't deal with much grief on a daily basis, I know personally how meaningful it's been for me when others have taken time to send a kind word, a poem, or a relevant book like my friend Elizabeth did. For those who experience much more pronounced and overwhelming grief than I do, I've heard that the following can all help: acknowledging their child by name, sending messages on birthdays or anniversaries, providing resources like websites or forums specific to their type of loss, finding keepsakes or jewelry that are symbolic or representative of their child's life, doing an activity to honor their child's memory, or just listening--even if it's uncomfortable. (Please feel free to add to the list and share anything that's significantly helped you or someone you know). Often it doesn't take much time, and it may just be the lifeline that a grieving friend needs. And for those of us who have experienced some degree of loss, sharing our story at the right place and the right time might just open the door to allow someone else to share their own story...or to simply know that they're not alone.

So this month, as part of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, I ask you to make a commitment to help "build the village". If you know a friend who has experienced a loss of any kind, reach out to them in some small way to let them know that you care. If you've experienced your own loss, regardless of how long ago or how recent, take some time out for reflection or find some way to honor your child. You can also join in the "Wave of Light" that happens each October 15th. At 7:00 pm in your time zone, simply light a candle in remembrance of a child who is dearly loved and missed. Or you can just share what this month is about with someone else and help spread the word. Whatever you do, think of it as bringing your friend--or yourself--one step closer to our children. It's not something that has to be motivated by sadness, it can simply be motivated by love. And I think you'll agree that that's the greatest way for you and for me to honor these beautiful children of ours--pure, unadulterated love.

Join the conversation...Have you or someone you know experienced a loss? What has brought healing for you or for them, and are there any special traditions that help you or your friend express grief and love? How do you think we can spread awareness?