One of those words is “Miscarriage.”
It seems to imply that there is a party at fault; a finger of blame as though one has been careless in what they were “carrying”.
I have a houseful of children. Seven. Even writing that number down shocks my socks off. Seven. Sheesh, that’s a lot of human beings to come from my one self. But I have also had a few “miscarriages” in those child-bearing years. The first one was my first pregnancy, actually. It was a new pregnancy, we hadn’t even told our families we were expecting. We didn’t even tell our families about the miscarriage. And the following month, I became pregnant again which resulted in a full term child.
I had another miscarriage while my husband was in school, about 6 years later. We had three children at this time. Again, I had just barely suspected I was pregnant and then miscarried quickly. And I told no one, except my husband.
Then a few years later, we’d been trying to get pregnant with child number five. I did so easily, and was feeling very much pregnant with this one. I was nearly 20 weeks pregnant. I had gone to a Parent-Teacher conference one afternoon, when during the meeting I became emotional. Like, bawling in front of a table full of teachers, and I had no clue why. Just talking about my son normally one minute, then so emotional I could barely speak the next. I even apologized to the teachers…I had no idea that my body was releasing hormones in a hurry. I went home and was barely there 20 minutes when I felt something within and went to the bathroom where I miscarried right then and there. A complete miscarriage. It wasn’t too physically painful, but emotionally, very much so. I wasn’t prepared for the sense of grief the encompassed me. A definite loss of part of myself. I went to my room and cried. And cried a bit more. And a little more. And in those moments tried to figure out “why”?—maybe he (I was convinced it was a boy) just needed a body in the grand scheme of things? Was that enough? Maybe he was going to be handicapped like Dean? Whatever was wrong was wrong enough that my body and his decided to let him go. And I missed him. Even now, I still feel that loss. Because our families and friends knew about that pregnancy, they also knew when it ended. And I was surprised at how many women I knew had had miscarriages and never spoke of them to me until then! It’s like a silent ache we harbor as women.
Just like before, I became pregnant again soon after and that resulted in a full term healthy baby. Still, when I was pregnant, I wondered if it would be a boy…to sorta make up for the one that I felt I lost. But no, I had a girl. And it was a wonderful homebirth, and she was perfect. Still, for about two weeks after she was born, there were moments—not a lot, but some—that I would look at her and wonder about that little boy I was missing. Having a special needs son, I am all too familiar with the amount of care and intense adjustments that must be made to parent a special needs child, and so I reason within that I can be grateful that an obviously unhealthy pregnancy/fetus did not result in another life-altering experience for me and my family. That is logical. I did not “miss-handle” or “miss-carry” a child. I was not careless or clueless in my pregnancy. I was CAREFUL. And it was not any doing of my own to bring on the loss of my child.
My Mother-heart and testimony of the Gospel allows me to be comforted by the knowledge that someday, I may have an opportunity to raise and love this child in perfection.
And that is the Balm of Gilead to my soul.
And that is the Balm of Gilead to my soul.
---
