I wanted to write this post while all of this still feels raw (this is Raw Motherhood, after all).
While our sweet Anna still resides within me in some way.
Before the emptiness sets in throughout the coming weeks as my body returns to the way it was before.
Before.
Before we dreamed her.
Before the shots and the supplements and the late night list of names.
Before we planned out what kids we would pair up for room assignments.
Before we ordered the nursery rocker.
Before we left for our ultrasound with all of the joy and excitement in the world, ready to tell our babies when we got home that a new little life would join us this summer.
Before the after.
I really don't think anything can prepare a mother's heart to hear the words, "We can't find the heartbeat." The piercing silence that follows. The slow, steady steps of the doctor coming in to present this new reality. His warm, gentle hand on yours before he leaves the room. The strong embrace of your husband's arms around you as he softly whispers, "I'm so sorry." The long drive home in silence.
The after.
The almost robotic flow of the night time routine. The extra long snuggles before you lay your kids to sleep. The glass-like reflection of your eyes. The desperate plea for a miracle. Imploring prayers from those closest to you. Reflecting on Jesus' passion, of His own pleas to the Father to let His cup pass.
Knowing that His cup, His suffering, was the one God would allow, however painful. Knowing this is your cup. Letting this cross begin to mold and redeem you.
As I spent time in church after our appointment, two scripture readings came to me. The first, being Colossians 3:1-4.
"If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth. For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ who is your life appears, then you also will appear with him in glory."
The second, Jeremiah 29: 11-14
"For I know well the plans I have in mind for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare, not for woe! Plans to give you a future full of hope. When you call me, when you go to pray to me, I will listen to you. When you look for me, you will find me. Yes, when you seek me with all your heart, you will find me with you, says the Lord, and I will change your lot; I will gather you together from all the nations and all the places to which I have banished you, says the Lord, and bring you back to the place from which I have exiled you."
When I read those two passages, I was sure of two things:
My baby had died.
God was going to be with me in it all.
As humans, so much of our life is spent experiencing both small and large scale suffering, of questioning the "why" in our pain, of tip toeing around emotion and hardships because we feel like we might become trapped in their hold. This last week has been a painful one for me and Ben. Hell, this past YEAR has been a tough one for us. But one thing that we've really tried to do this year is to 1)lean into our friends (I said to my coworkers last week-- it pays to surround yourself with people that are holier than you ;)) and 2) to sit with the pain and let it sanctify us. We haven't run from it. Rather, we've faced it head-on and worked to let it sanctify us.
Sometimes that sanctifying suffering looks like tears and asking God, "WHY?"
Sometimes it looks like peaceful moments of quiet in front of the Blessed Sacrament where we feel His presence in the pain.
Sometimes it looks like staring at a wall for an hour while we hope our friends are praying us through the moment because we don't have anything left.
Even Jesus had a Simon. Even Jesus was allowed a suffering that was more than He could handle, by His very own Father, might I add. And in times that call for a lot of sanctifying grace, we know that turning to our Simons is what gets us through.
I've said to a few people, and I think it's worth a share again... Ben and I hopefully have 50+ more years ahead of us. We have so much goodness and joy laid before us, but we also know that we have trials and suffering ahead, too. Someday we will lose our parents, maybe even our friends. There's cancer and sickness and money problems that will all come our way. Most likely, they'll shake us. Right now, we are being given the gift of navigating suffering in ways that feel so big to us, but I know in 50 years will have been stepping stones in the foundation of our marriage. We are navigating a storm that will prepare our hearts to weather future tsunamis. We are fortifying the words we spoke in our vows seven years ago. Richer. Poorer. Sickness. Heath. The whole shebang. And we're clinging to the cross in it all, for in the cross, there is the Resurrection. If we don't cling to the Passion as we experience our own, we may never see the light at the end of all of this sadness.
To those of you who have experienced this loss, I am so sorry that this is our cup. It's a tough one. But He is here, I promise.
To those of you who will experience this in the future, I want to share with you the best things that have happened in this, a few pieces of advice we received from friends, and a word of encouragement for when you think that all is hopeless.
Name your baby. Or don't. Do whatever you need to for your healing.
Talk about it with your kids. Or don't. Do whatever you need to for your healing.
Share your hurt with your people. Or don't. Do whatever you need to for your healing (but this one can be a good one... I promise).
Bury your baby's remains without shame. Do whatever you need to for your healing (Sensing my theme?).
Pray. Pray pray pray. Then pray some more.
Grieve. Sit in your grief. Cry. Let the anguish overtake you for a time. Ask Mary to hold you. Let your spouse hold you. Don't shy away from the pain. I know it's hard, momma. But the more you let the waves crash over you, the less scary they become. The more you can see the horizon in the distance. The less power they have.
Do not, for one second, give into the lies that your baby wasn't here, that they didn't have a lasting impact on your existence. They did. I don't care if it was 6 weeks or 10 or 20. Your feelings are valid. You are loved, and you have a little saint in Heaven praying for you daily. How sweet of a homecoming you will have someday.
Something beautiful that will come from this, and I know it will, is that we will forever experience the world differently. Peace will feel more peaceful because we're feeling scared and shaken. Lucy's plump little cheeks will seem just a little more kissable. Ben and I will forever hold the memory of witnessing each other overcome grief, of helping each other overcome grief. That'll all come someday when the dust has settled.
Until then, we will stay in the after. And that's okay.
If you've read along this far, thank you. Pray for us. We will be praying for you.
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Two days shy of 11 weeks, my body finally accepted the loss. In the last few weeks waiting for this moment, I thought that this day would be the one that would bring closure. The one that would provide the opportunity to move forward with our three living children, to find joy, to stop praying so hard that maybe, just maybe, a miracle would happen.
What I found was not what I had anticipated. What flowed from my now empty womb was not closure, but rather every hope and dream we've held for this child for nearly three months. Every worry from when we learned we would be having another, every laugh we shared at God's crazy plan, every ounce of excitement and anticipation we carried within us, waiting to tell Anna's big siblings that she would be here.
Every moment of her existence was held within me. And every moment of her existence flowed forth from me.
It wasn't closure that I received. It was an empty, aching womb.
In this emptiness, I reflect on the days after the passion.
Mainly, this moment in Matthew 28:5-6.
"The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here. He has risen, just as He said."
For anyone who has suffered this kind of loss, for anyone who will... May our empty wombs reflect that empty tomb.
May we always remember that our babies, though not here, have risen, just as He said they would.
That we have perfectly loved little saints ready to embrace us someday.
That we are never, ever alone in this emptiness.
Be not afraid.
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