One year ago today, 10 months after almost losing my own
life as well as the life of my daughter, Margaret, to HELLP Syndrome, my husband
and I experienced something even more horrible: the loss of a child.
I was maybe three months pregnant—we had just begun telling
our friends and family—and we were beyond ecstatic. Early in the morning on day
two of our vacation in Corpus Christi, TX, visiting my brother and his wife and
daughter, I noticed some spotting on the toilet paper. My heart sank, and I
called my husband into the bathroom. Of course some spotting during early pregnancy can be normal, so we told ourselves that that’s what
it was. On my next trip to the bathroom I knew that wasn’t what it was.
We cried. I cried. I cried long and hard, that week of our vacation,
the next week at home, and for weeks and months afterwards. Now, a year later,
I’m crying again. My husband told my brother and his wife in the next room what happened. They had not long before also experienced a miscarriage. Though little enjoyment could be found in the
remainder of our trip, it was an enormous blessing to be on vacation—off of
work, away from “real life,” able to be husband and wife, experiencing pain
together—as well as in the company of beloved family who were very familiar
with the deepness of our pain.
Many people—family, friends, all well-meaning—have said that
there must have been something terribly wrong with the baby, and that’s exactly
why early miscarriages happen. The baby wouldn’t have been healthy anyway. Maybe
that’s true, but it did nothing to dull the pain. For someone who’s pro-life,
miscarriage matters. Whatever
deformities or disabilities or other inadequacies my baby may have had in no
way diminish the love that I had and still have for my baby.
At the time, despite my anguish, I knew that what I was
experiencing was part of God’s plan. For whatever reason, God had created my
baby, intentionally. This baby was no “accident,” no casual misfortune. As the
Psalmist wrote, “You created my inmost being, you knit me together in my mother’s
womb… I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” God created this baby, and then
took him home. Or her. Someday, when God takes me home too, I’ll find out. Until
then, I believe that my son or daughter is communing with the saints in
Heaven.
Of course now, I can see more clearly what God was planning—a
wonderful, joyous, perfect plan—and his name is Robert Spencer. Our sweet baby
boy would not have been possible without that loss.
It’s been a year, and I haven’t really talked about my miscarriage. It makes people uncomfortable, and it makes me sad. It's easier to just avoid the topic. Since my baby never entered this world, and my few months of pregnancy are the only “memories” that anyone has of my little one, it somehow seems okay to write it off as if it never happened. As Dr. Seuss said, “a person’s a person, no matter how small,” and although it’s true that time is a great healer, is forgetting really the best approach? At many times it’s seemed that that is how the world would have my husband and I respond.
I don’t have any grand conclusion to this post. My only hope is that by writing this, I may encourage someone else to talk about what losses they’ve experienced. Please don’t push aside your real emotions because someone else says they’re not valid. You are allowed to be sad. And then you are allowed to move on and begin to again see the joy in life, no matter how long it takes you to get there.
For Baby Aidan
Today is your birthday, my sweet baby dear
But you are in heaven, and not with us here.
I never got to hold you or give you a kiss
But Mommy loves you, and you are missed.
My plans for you on this earth couldn’t come true
Because God needed an angel, and that angel is you.
So today on your “Heaven Birthday,” I will light a candle and say a prayer
And thank God for my angel baby, and that you’re in His care.
