Pregnancy Loss—A Mom’s Story

 

In keeping with the vision of Scarred Joy this second post for the month of October 2017 does not shy away from painful experiences in life. Pregnancy loss is one of those experiences that try one’s soul. Pregnancy loss means a baby died before he or she was born. That in itself is painful.

Included in a book I co-authored earlier this year called Good Grief People was a story I wrote called “Skipped Heart Beats.” It was written as an expression of the promise I made to my five grandchildren who never made it to birth due to pregnancy losses. I promised these babies they would never be forgotten. In my way of thinking if they are remembered and loved they are never really “lost.”

After talking with mothers who experienced pregnancy loss as well as communicating through email etc. from others, it is obvious that it hurts. Pregnancy loss leaves scars. Some of the things people say only add to the pain. Things like, “don’t worry you can have other babies” or the ever popular religious spin, “God must have needed your baby.” I mean, come on! Sensitive and meaningful words are in order not empty clichés!

The significance of pregnancy loss is underrated in our culture. To the moms and dads, siblings and grandparents, etc. who experience this loss it is a stark reality in life. Joy turns to deep sorrow. Anticipation becomes disappointment. Dreams turn to earth-shattering finality. Grief may become chronic.

Perhaps more than anyone else it is the baby’s mother who feels the depth of this painful loss. The following words are from my daughter. She is a mom who has experienced pregnancy loss multiple times. She agreed to contribute a few statements regarding her experience for readers to reflect on.

“… I don’t think most people realize this, when the mother “loses” the baby the stages of labour are the same but on a smaller scale depending on how far along they are. Their body contracts, and labours as it does with “term births”. That’s just something I’ve never ever seen mentioned in any form of pregnancy loss posts anywhere. And one of the reasons the mothers often carry that pain, is because they remember the “births” of all their children…

… It is just like a “D&C.” A D&C is performed when the “tissue” (meaning baby) doesn’t pass through the mother on its own. It is the same procedure as an abortion/termination. It’s hard for the mother to grasp she is going through that same procedure and she wonders how could anyone do this voluntarily with a beating heart?” The doctors refer to it as an “accidental abortion”. That’s an actual technical term in my obstetricians chart for me.

… I remember my first pregnancy very well, but …I had nothing to compare it to. Sometime after I had my son is when I experienced my second loss, I remember the pain and remembered it from when I was labouring with my son. I had to hold my husband’s hand because I needed his strength or something, and I squeezed it as I did during every contraction like I did while labouring with our son. Each one that followed was the same…there was no mistaking what was happening. The only difference is, the doctors just say “let it run its course” and they check your levels every couple of days to make sure they drop and if they don’t they proceed with a d&c. The care is nothing like they give you after a term baby (yet your body recovers the same) in my experience anyway.”

I appreciate the honesty in my daughter’s words. If her experience is a typical one in the context of pregnancy loss then it is certainly a sad and memorable one. Doctors may consider this loss an “accidental abortion” yet it is also the death of a baby.

Perhaps babies who were conceived yet never made it to birth don’t matter to most people. The world carries on with no regard or regret for those little ones. To mom’s like my daughter and dads like my son-in-law, however, these “lost” babies indeed matter. Their lives were brief but they have not been forgotten.

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Never Born Forever Loved

  

Scarred Joy respects and honors that October is recognized as Pregnancy Loss Month. As a way to highlight and remember those who have experienced pregnancy loss I present this original Scarred Joy short story.

Her Name Is Gabrielle!

Upon learning she was pregnant the young wife was elated. She told everyone meaningful to her that she would be a mother in a few months. She and her husband shared in the joy that came about as a result of their happy news. Both decided when they planned to marry they wanted a family. Now that it was coming true they would now make plans to welcome the baby. One of the bedrooms in their house was designated for the baby. It would have to be painted with a baby in mind. They gushed over how exciting it was to anticipate what the little one would look like. Would it be a boy or girl? What color eyes would he or she have? All sorts of exciting things went through their minds as the thought of their child.

The young woman had dreamed of becoming a mother someday. Her imagination ran wild with ideas. She and her husband would do the best they could to give this child a wonderful life. This child will be part of their lives forever! Perhaps one day she and her husband would welcome being grandparents. For now her dreams were to have a healthy baby they would both love and care for. Through her vivid imagination she beamed with happiness at the stages her child would experience through life.

Her dreams saw the baby grow to infancy then school years and even graduation. She realized in her excitement she had to take things as they came. She had to admit she was partial to having a girl. Although she hadn’t as yet discussed names for the baby with her husband she had a name for her girl in mind. Her name would be Gabrielle!

Gabrielle’s birth went without incident and her parents loved her from the first second. Her grandparents were at the hospital in hopes of seeing and holding the baby as soon as possible. It comforted the mom and dad to have their parents present for the birth. They enjoyed a close relationship with each of their parents. The birth of the baby brought joy to all of them.

At birth Gabrielle weighed a healthy seven pounds eight ounces. She was perfect! As she grew into infancy Gabrielle was a happy child. She couldn’t hide her happiness for her eyes and nose would crinkle into small lines. Her smile was impossible to ignore. One of the games she enjoyed playing was standing on her tippy toes and reaching her arms up as far s she could. When her mother asked her what she was doing Gabrielle said she was trying to reach up to heaven.

One day Gabrielle complained to her mother that she didn’t feel well. She said she felt warm and had a tummy ache. She seemed to become weakened as her mother helped her to bed. She began to cry and asked her mommy not to leave her. Mother said that if Gabrielle didn’t feel well in the morning she would take her to the doctor. When the child’s father arrived home from work Gabrielle was feeling worse. He decided they weren’t going to wait until morning. Mom and dad drove Gabrielle to the hospital. Fortunately Gabrielle was attended to by a doctor only a few minutes after they arrived. She was crying and noticeably uncomfortable and in pain. Through her tears she begged her parents not to leave her. They assured her they would be with her to care for her and she would go home with them soon. They were so sure!

Once the young wife regained consciousness and was stabilized she realized she was lying in a hospital room. She wondered what was going on. Her husband broke the news to her. As tenderly as he could he informed her she had “lost” their baby. After telling her the news his heart skipped a beat. He held his wife while she wept. Her mind swirled. “What are you talking about?” she said. “She is going to be fine! We told her we would take her home with us!” The woman then realized that something was indeed wrong. The news made its way into her thoughts that losing the baby was true.

There would be no Gabrielle! The young wife now remembered she had been taken to the hospital because something just wasn’t right. She knew that the pain she had been feeling meant more than indigestion or something else. It struck her she was going to lose the baby. Now the news assaulted her mind and struck her heart. There would be no Gabrielle!

The end!

The significance of pregnancy loss is underrated in our culture. It is something not discussed often. To the moms, dads, siblings and grandparents, who experience this family loss it is a stark reality in life. To recognize such a loss is to acknowledge a baby died. A baby never born yet forever loved!

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Lay Hold on the Lovely!

 

This has been a challenging ScarredJoy post to write yet one that has been on my heart and waiting to get out of my head and on to the page. I decided to begin this post with a verse from the Bible. If nothing else it gives some foundation to the words that follow.

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” –(Philippians chapter four and verse eight, New International Version of the Holy Bible)

If social media venues like Facebook are reflective of real life in modern Canadian society or North America in general, we are in a struggle. It seems foundations that have shaped society are being bombarded on a regular basis. So many posts on Facebook these days, for instance, are highly critical and intolerant of opposing views. Such terms as bigot, racist, homophobic, Islamophobic (whatever that really means in a Canadian context) and other negative terms, have become commonplace. The sad thing is often it is those in leadership using terms like these to show their disagreement with someone else. It is no surprise that followers then jump on the bandwagon.

With all this clamor often times the “lovely” is missing! This means concentrating or highlighting those parts of life that are amiable, those stories of real life heroes we admire etc. It includes whatever may attract people to be more loving to each other. Perhaps laying hold on the things that may inspire people to come alongside each other in love and peace. It is time to lay hold of the lovely. It is time for those tired of the noisy voices of social media and the like, to drown out the hate and infantile disagreements with that, which is lovely, noble and pure.

I find myself hesitating as I write with a sense of melancholy. I’m wondering now if such things as purity, mutual love and even peace, are a thing of the past in our modern day culture. With such a thought I feel compelled to persevere at least in a search for the lovely!

I read somewhere that it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. I wonder how much inner energy we use to be angry, cynical, bigoted and evil to each other? How do these unflattering and destructive components of behavior and attitude make us feel inside? Perhaps we don’t realize the damage such things have done to our souls.

I speak to myself as well as my readers when I ask for instance, why is it so easy to criticize people in government leadership positions than to praise them? Bosses also are often criticized for changes they seek to bring to an organization. Perhaps it is that they see things that can be improved more than the rest of us can. Perhaps also, they may be surprised if we ever give them credit for what they are trying to do. It may be that with change comes fear or apprehension and we are really lashing out at something within ourselves rather than the change.

I trust what I am saying doesn’t sound beyond our capabilities or potential. Please understand too that I am aware of the political and societal climate of today. I am personally aware that I am but a man with no influence on the world at large. Dear readers, it is not beyond our capability to lay hold on that, which is lovely.

Have you heard of what is called The Golden Rule? To paraphrase it is to do to others in the way you would have them do to you. My friends, how do you like to be treated by others? How do you treat other people?

I’m not trying to act like some guru type who offers words to people to follow. We are in this world together. I’m saying let us try to resist the temptation to speak evil of those we have no control over. Lay aside our negative attitudes about world leaders or other people we will probably never know. We really don’t have to spout off about things just because we disagree. We also don’t have to treat people as the enemy if they don’t hold to our view on things. There are enough people doing that these days.

Let us at least try to lay hold on that which is lovely and stand out from the crowd. Perhaps we can begin to be a peaceful influence close to home before. Perhaps we may lay hold on the lovely in your neighbourhood or workplace. That is what I will work at.

I end this post with some words I came across recently. Perhaps you can take a break in your routine as you ponder the following.

“I have never seen anyone corrected through anger, but always through love; and then, he will even make sacrifices. Therefore, this is how you should act. Take yourself for example: how are you pacified — with curses or love?
Elder Joseph the Hesychast
Monastic Wisdom: The Letters of Elder Joseph the Hesychast

As with all ScarredJoy posts your comments are welcome. Please comment and not just “like” okay? Thank you!

Sometimes It Hurts Always!

The following post may not be the most popular one ever written. It may even be distasteful to some readers. Some of you may not read it to the end. Please understand ScarredJoy is not all about things that are warm and fuzzy. There are other people’s Blogs to turn to for this. ScarredJoy’s whole purpose for being is to be honest about the experiences and emotions people may be touched by in their grief. Not everything in life can be tied up in a nice bow as a final touch of beauty. Grief is sad, heart crushing and often just plain nasty and ugly. At times, even God may seem silent. Add the dying of a person into the mix and you have a perfect storm of pain!

Are you still with me? Here we go!

“Sometimes it hurts always” may seem like an odd thing to say but I am still saying it. When I’m listening to people talking about their grief as the response to a  recent heartache the pain can be absolutely overwhelming. At this juncture in their lives the grief hurts always. The days may seem long and the evenings even longer. Evenings hurt more because the darkenss of the night creeps in with its own silent embrace. As some people have told me, it is here, in the embrace of silent darkness that they scream. Sometimes it hurts always.

This drives home the sadness of grief. It can be relentless. It can be seemingly never ending. Sometimes it hurts always. It hurts so much. In the prospect of one dying from a terminal illness grief may be one’s only constant companion. This blows apart the romanticized view some people have of the work I am involved in. Even some colleagues may shy away from this emotionally dark component of death and dying. Although the following may not be common, it does happen. I wish it didn’t.

I remember a number of years ago when I was involved in work as a pastor of the “evangelical” persuasion. Part of my work included coming alongside people who were hurting emotionally and spiritually. It was not uncommon for me to visit with people who were dying. Believe it or not, many of my pastor colleagues shy away from such rich opportunities. Yeah, go figure! Anyway, I digress.

I was asked to go to the local hospital and visit with an older woman from the congregation who was dying. I had sat with her a number of times when she was still living in her own home. She was lonely and received few visits even from her church. When I saw her in her hospital bed she was nearing the end.  I will never forget her fear and her crying. She kept saying how afraid she was to die. As she gripped my hand she told me she didn’t want to die. She was afraid God had forgotten her. I held her hand. I hoped by listening to her words and fear as well as sensing the stress in her body she might begin to calm herself. I assured her God does not forget or leave His children.

Something this lady said as she tried to hang on to life has stayed with me. I cannot shake it out of my head. She informed me that she was afraid God did not hear her prayers. It terrified her. It caused her to cry and her body to shake. Her experience caused me to reflect on when we might think God is silent giving the impression that heaven too is silent. This in turn had me reflect on a statement by the writer C.S. lewis.

“Meanwhile, where is God? This is one of the most disquieting symptoms. When you are happy, so happy that you have no sense of needing Him, so happy that you are tempted to feel His claims upon you as an interruption, if you remember yourself and turn to Him with gratitude and praise, you will be – or so it feels – welcomed with open arms. But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence.”*

Perhaps you have experienced what C.S. Lewis states above. It is a time when sometimes it hurts always. Some people might be eager to judge the thoughts and words of the woman I refer to. It is certainly not an experience pleasing to our minds. Some may not believe what I related to you. The fact is this lady died in fear. There is more to the story of the lady I mention in this post. Suffice it to say, for all intents and purposes, loneliness like she experienced makes one’s process of dying all the more miserable.

“Sometimes it hurts always” may not draw scores of people to the bedsides of those who are dying. Whether people agree with what I write here does not change the reality of sometimes it hurts always. Perhaps it speaks to the fact of how much we need each other. This is a reason I suggest to people to nurture relationships you may have with others. Nurture and cherish them to the end of your days.

 

*C.S. Lewis, The Complete C.S. Lewis Signature Classics (Harper One, 2008), p. 658.

Oh My Love, My Darling

 

ScarredJoy is all about taking a realistic view of life including the experiences that turn our world upside down. Admittedly and without apology, ScarredJoy at times enters into the raw and hellish pain some people encounter in life. Some things are beyond comprehension to us. I question, therefore, the validity of such cliches that may be blindly accept, such as, there is a reason for everything that happens to us. There is?

ScarredJoy does not shy away from being controversial at times. This post is not meant to be controversial.

With this post I would like to highlight more of the “joy” than the “scarred” part of life. A few years ago a song hit the charts on radio that people still sing today. The song is, Unchained Melody and became a hit due to the singing duo The Righteous Brothers. The song begins, “Oh my love, my darling. I’ve hungered for your love, a long lonely time.”

Who is your love? Is there someone your heart longs for? Is this an easy question for you to answer? I’m sure some people will immediately want to answer with replies like, “I love God and my heart longs for Him!” Okay, I get it and that’s valid. I’ll ask the question again this way. Of all the people you know in your life, who does your heart hunger for more than anyone else? Unchained Melody is a love song. In the context of my question who is your “darling”?

This morning I got up early to do some writing and work on my soon coming website. My “darling,” my wife, surprised me and arose early also. I thought with it being Saturday she would like to sleep in a bit. I often get up early on a Fri. or Sat. morning and head to a local coffee shop to do some writing. Often at 6:00am or so there aren’t too many people in the coffee shop and it is nice and quiet. As I was getting ready to go out and my darling was relaxing on the couch I sang Unchained Melody for her listening pleasure. Well, at least I think she was listening! Maybe she wasn’t even listening too intently. Oh boy, now I’m rethinking whether my darling takes pleasure in my singing. The romantic in me is confident she did.

Now before I go any farther, I have to clarify something. As a more introverted person, I don’t sing to just anyone. My darling and I have been together for years. I feel safe with her and trust her to know more about me than anyone else.  If you, dear reader, ask me to sing for you the answer is, no!

Do you sing to or for your darling? Do you long for your darling? Do you hunger for your darling’s touch?

From the perspective of ScarredJoy my darling is not to be taken for granted. As a selfish creature I may slip from this priority from time to time. I know others have as well. This happens in life. I guess it is human to default toward our selfish nature. If you have a darling he or she becomes your heart’s love.

Many people are amazed when they hear my darling and I have been married to each other for almost forty years. There are more of us in married love for that many years than one may believe. Marriage, the union of a man and woman, is alive and well, in spite of the political correct awkwardness of our day.

Even after almost forty years of marriage to the same woman I still have a long way to go. I still make mistakes. I still have selfish moments. I have insecurities. I beat myself up as a failure. I have times where I think I didn’t provide for my wife and family as best I could. I see in such misgivings my own room for growth. As a Christian, I even wonder if I indeed love my wife as Christ loves His people. It is in light of this standard I pray, Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.

The melody of my love for my darling goes on. Sometimes I get out of tune. Sometimes I forget all the lines. Sometimes I feel unworthy of her love. Our melody, however, while perhaps still under construction, is sweet! It is music to my ears!

Oh my love, my darling, I hunger for your love!

I Never Knew His Name

I lived the first ten years of my life in Scotland, the country of my birth. When I was a boy one of the daily rituals was to cross the street to buy some fresh baked bread or rolls. The corner bakery did a booming business. In the evening the fish and chip shop, Marino’s, enticed you with the delicious smells teasing one’s nostrils. From about eight in the morning to six at night the corner convenience store was open for business. Each store seemed to do well.

Our neighbourhood was interesting. One street in particular was known to be inhabited by Protestants and the one up the road was the “Catholic street.” It didn’t seem to make a difference at school. We kids all got along except for the frequent fist fights that would break out when one kid insulted or bullied another. So many kids in one school from different backgrounds.

As a boy of about seven or eight it wasn’t unusual for my mother to send me across the street to pick up some fresh rolls or fish and chips. I especially liked going for the fish and chips. After a few times I became pretty skilled at having my nimble fingers find their way through the wrapping to sample a chip or two before taking them home. Ah, what a wonderful memory! I still love fish and chips.

I liked living in our neighbourhood. It was big and it was busy. I knew a lot of people, kids and adults. Usually I met them in one of the stores and listened to them chat to each other while waiting for their purchases.

It was at this time of my young life where something happened that has stayed with me to this day. My thoughts that the people I met would always be there were shattered. There was an old man who frequented the stores I mentioned. He was like anyone else and needed to buy things in his life. I remember seeing him quite often. He was always on his own. I never knew his name. I can even remember my mom saying hello to him now and again. It seemed a lot of the neighbours knew him. They were friendly toward each other. I kind of enjoyed it when the adults doing their shopping would say hi to me. I guess, as a child, it was my introduction of what a caring community could be like.

I remember one morning I went across the street with my mother when the bakery and corner store opened. When we went into the store I sense something wasn’t quite right. People were more hushed than usual. My mother talked to someone about something. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. My curiosity peaked when one woman exclaimed “that’s awfy”, meaning “that’s awful.” I heard someone else say how sad it was. Although this memory goes back decades ago, I still remember the following words of explanation. “He turned on his gas stove and put his head in the oven.” As the story goes, his daughter went to visit him and found him dead. He had taken his own life.

As we were crossing the street to go home my mind was reeling. I was full of questions. I was sad. I remember asking my mom, “how can someone kill themselves?” “Did it hurt?” Mom didn’t answer. I asked her another question. Why did the old man kill himself? The answer found its way into my brain at that moment and has never left. My mother answered, “He was lonely, the poor old man.” When we got home life became normal again. We ate our fish and chips and settled in for the night.

I couldn’t get what I had heard and what mom had said out of my head. I had never heard of someone killing himself before. I couldn’t understand that. What caused him to do it. He took his own life. He killed himself. He killed himself! He was lonely. From that time on I have associated being lonely with being sad. It made me sad. I missed seeing the old man. He was now forever missing from our community. If he had a daughter how could he be lonely?  Perhaps there was something else. Maybe he was also suffering from an illness. I will never know.

As the years have gone by I have thought about that old man often. I have met many lonely people since then. The decades have taught me that loneliness is common. The old man taught me that being lonely can kill a person. Perhaps seeing our community once a day wasn’t enough for the old man. Perhaps what he needed was companionship. Perhaps he would have loved a pal to hang out with, a buddy to help make life more enjoyable and fulfilling. Instead, he died on his own with his head in the oven.

I wonder who hears lonely people? I wonder if the old man ever told anyone he was lonely? Did he cry at his dinner table. I wonder if he wailed into the night heard only by God? I wonder if anyone really cared?

He made a lasting impact on my life. I still remember him. I never knew his name!

 

The Crying of Men!

Please know that ScarredJoy posts are not all about having people agreeing with me. At times you may think I missed the mark on something. I do, however, want to have us journey together through things in life that may be uncomfortable, have us think and be real.

Such characteristics as being real with ourselves and others take time. Being real with our emotions, especially our expressions of sadness, is something we may have to learn as life confronts us with pain, brutality and life changing grief. This post encourages especially men to be real with their emotions.

A couple of weeks ago I was chatting online with a Facebook “friend.”  As a woman, my friend thought a consideration of how men process or express grief would be interesting to post. I got to thinking about my emotions as a man. A result of the chat led to this post. Specifically I am writing about men and crying.

I will never forget the sound. It has left an indelible picture in my mind. The wailing, the deep crying of a man standing by the headstone of someone he loved. He was on his own. Perhaps grieving the death of this loved one he felt even more alone. Grief can do that to a person. Grief can take the strongest of men and crush his spirit, at least for a while. Crying, unashamedly may help express the depth of emotional pain inside.

When I was a boy the culture of the time frowned upon crying in the case of boys and men. For a boy to cry, at least in front of people, was to act like a “lassie.” If a man cried he was supposed to calm it down as soon as possible.

As a Christian I admit, at least until recent years, much of the church community has contributed to minimizing the need to openly express our emotions and especially sad emotions. Perhaps in expressing the emotion Jesus expressed (John 11: 11:35–“Jesus wept.”) the church would have avoided the “suck it up” attitude of our culture. Weeping is raw emotion. Weeping is honest.

I’m thankful things are changing. Somewhere along the journey of life men began to know it’s okay to cry. We can now shake off the shackles of cultural or religious dictates that hampered emotions and feel free to be real, to cry.

I’m not saying, of course, that if men don’t cry they arent’s manly. I don’t mean that men must cry. I’m simply saying it’s okay to weep, to feel deep sadness, to cry, even in front of other people if need be. We don’t have to hide our tears in a corner!

If I cry I don’t like people drawing attention to me. It makes me feel I’m doing something wrong. The emotional ghosts of my cultural and church past can still haunt me. Perhaps other guys feel the same way.

To my female readers, if we guys cry please allow us to express ourselves in this way. Please don’t see our tears as a sign of weakness. We are feeling something deep that has caused us deep sorrow.

To cry is human.

I’m thinking a lot of this stuff through myself. This post even after I have rewritten it and reviewed it myself is giving me cause to ponder my own reality. There is still more to say on this.

What are your thoughts about men crying?