I thought I had shed all the tears there were to shed over my miscarriage last May. Yet, there I was on a cold December afternoon, after marveling at putting up our Christmas tree and a few other Christmas decorations.
All of a sudden, I was hit with a wave of sadness, grief and tears that I could not stop. A thought crossed my mind, “It’s that time of year to prepare for Christmas, if I hadn’t miscarried this time of year we’d also be preparing to meet a new baby.”
Last May, while attending a women’s silent retreat I was 8 weeks pregnant. During the weekend I was a bit worried about some spotting, but it wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that the spotting became a regular flow that would not stop. My husband met up with me and we spent a few hours in the emergency department of the hospital.
Throughout those first few hours I still had hope. Hope that the bleeding would stop. Hope that the baby was still alright. It wasn’t until the familiar painful contractions set in that I accepted the reality of the situation. I had my prayer journal with me, and I pulled it out of my purse and wrote one line, it would be my only entry that day.
“From my womb to God’s arms.”
Even now as I write the details of this day. I am not resentful, or angry with God. However, I am sad that I did not get to meet this little soul. The pain is so very real. When I remember that day it’s not just the physical and emotional pain I experienced with the miscarriage, that comes to mind. I was hit with another difficult reality that day. It was in the way I was treated at the hospital. I am certain that a woman who goes into the hospital to have an abortion is treated with more dignity than I was that day.
My husband and I were left to go through this experience in the waiting room, in front of everyone else who was waiting. We were not given a private room to mourn the loss of our baby, we were not given and special means, to collect the remains of our baby.
No special means to collect the remains of my baby. I received her in my hands. I knew I was holding her. I didn’t want to let her go, but what else could I do? My baby’s remains were flushed away, and it was as if someone had ripped my heart out of my chest. My sobs were heard in the waiting area, in that moment it didn’t matter to me.
I went home from the hospital that day, without even being looked at by a doctor. My dignity as a woman, as a mom degraded. I never felt so alone. My husband and I vowed that should we ever experience a miscarriage again we will just stay home, go through it together, praying and crying in the privacy of our own home.
The pain associated with a miscarriage is not validated in today’s society. Children are seen as commodities. To be attained or disposed of as a matter of convenience. When a child dies, no matter if it was 8 weeks or 8 months, the pain experienced is deep. The sadness comes in waves. It is a lonely sadness, a lonely pain because we women are left to endure, to overcome it on our own. We are left alone in our grief and mourning.
I know this child is a gift. I know that Mother Mary has my baby in her arms. I know that I will meet my baby one day. All of this gives me hope. One day I will understand why God allowed that child to be conceived and to be a part of our lives for only a few short weeks.
If you are experiencing a similar sadness and grief over a miscarriage, know that you are not alone. I came across these books the other day and thought I’d share it with you though I haven’t read them yet myself.
I Will Carry You …and a few more titles
Be assured of my prayers.