Touched by an Angel

How can we let go of love for someone we've expected but was taken from us before we  had the chance to meet?  I am not sure that there is an answer, or if we should be expected to "let go". But in the past, this is exactly what was expected for women who suffered miscarriages. Today, women are becoming more vocal about their need for compassion and understanding. I think as a society we need to learn how to offer hugs without being invasive, how to ask "how are you" without seeming rote. 

I feel that it is up to women who've suffered the loss to teach us. But, really, how can they take on another burden when their hearts are breaking? Thank goodness, brave women like Alison Kovac are coming forward and starting conversations about this sensitive issue. I know that making her voice public via these past few OCJ posts has been hard for Alison, but it is important for two reasons. First and foremost, it helps Alison process her loss while figuring out how to coach others how to comfort families who are grieving. Second, it has helped Alison's voice to become stronger and is giving her the confidence to talk to a wider audience, maybe through her writing, maybe by becoming a speaker or workshop leader. Whatever direction Alison is led, I know that she will become a blessing to those whose lives she touches.

Marcheta *touched 

Concerning pregnancy loss, Alison wrote me the following message:

Each woman (and man) has a different way of experiencing and dealing with miscarriage when and after it happens.  I have chosen to be relatively open about my experiences with this loss--a decision that was made easier because I had reached the second trimester and a number of our friends, family members and colleagues already knew about the pregnancy. 

Just before the miscarriage, my husband and I had chosen names for the baby and rearranged our home to give our family time to adjust to new bedroom situations, etc. before the summer ended and a busy school year and a new job began to take up all my time and energy.  We were fully invested in this newest family member--having been told by the obstetrician that, despite my advanced age, everything was a go.

Immediately after the miscarriage I felt that having to share the news with many people made everything worse, but my mom pointed out that it would probably make the experience easier in the end.  It would be less painful than suffering silently without anyone knowing anything had happened.  That has proven to be true in my case.  Still, even when people are aware of the loss, it is difficult for most people to know what to say or do.

The most helpful thing about having revealed this loss to others is that I have made connections with women who have traveled this path ahead of me.  The best support I have received has come from women who visited me or wrote me after the miscarriage and told me about their specific experiences, gave me permission to grieve, and offered practical suggestions about how to go through that process.  If not for them, I would not have believed I would benefit from grieving.  Nor would I have had the first clue about doing it well.  I had suffered an ectopic pregnancy in 2004, but due to the unexpected news of an early-stage pregnancy followed by an emergency life-saving surgery, I really never delved into or understood the significance of the loss. 

In the first days of loss after last year's miscarriage, I knew, of course, I was experiencing a great grief.  But I would have assumed I simply needed to suck it up and go back to life as normal as soon as possible--if I had not heard from some experienced women that I would likely fare better if I became somewhat intentional about the grieving process.

During this year after the miscarriage, I have developed friends with women I otherwise would never have known (or known well), were it not for this common loss, and I am grateful for that.  I have also appreciated the services of the Pregnancy and Infant Loss group which meets monthly at a hospice care center near me.  It has been a safe place to be able to reflect and to talk with people who understand these issues intimately.  It has probably also taken some pressure off my other relationships--perhaps especially my relationship with my husband, to have this regularly scheduled outlet.

Husbands and wives can grieve simultaneously, but they rarely grieve in tandem.  It is a separate experience for each person, and shared grief does not necessarily draw people together.  It may actually drive a couple apart.  I was fortunate to have been prepared for this possibility by women who had been down this path.

Writing has been helpful in processing this experience.  I have written about the subpar services provided by the medical community during my miscarriage and after it, and I have shared this account with the coordinator of the Pregnancy and Infant Loss group, so that she may share it with a committee that works to improve care at a hospital in our area.  I have also written a reflection on the loss of this child to commemorate the baby's due date within the Pregnancy and Infant Loss group.   Mostly I have written back and forth with friends and with a wonderful young woman from our church who I came to know after she lost a baby at a similar stage.  Opportunities to share with her some of what I have learned along the way have been some of the most healing experiences.

When last July arrived I looked forward to the birth of our fourth child.  As this July begins, I am looking back on a year of trying to learn what it means to move forward with empty arms.  Doing this requires growth--the kind that comes with grief.

One of my means of getting through grief this summer has been participating in a Bible Study with a friend.  The title of the study is Experiencing God by Henry and Richard Blackabee.  As an exercise within the study, we were asked to take a prayer walk last week.  We were given a copy of Psalm 103 to read and reflect upon while on the walk, and in response to the Psalm, I was inspired to write the poem, which I have submitted to you.  About halfway through writing the poem, I realized that this piece was speaking to and about my particular loss--even as it speaks to and about every fleeting form of life.