The thing I never wanted to write

I've been putting off writing this for hours.  I've checked all the Facebook and Instagram and all the social media.  But I need to write this down because I'm not the first nor the last person to have a miscarriage.  When we first told people that we had lost the baby, I got several emails and texts from friends and relatives telling me things they did or wished they'd known when they miscarriaged.  So in the same spirit of love and support for those who follow after here are a few things I did to help cope with the loss of the baby.

First, I turned to the gospel.  I looked up everything available in the gospel library on miscarriage.  And there isn't much.  The church is decidedly unclear on what happens to stillborn or miscarried children.  Which was a blessing to both me and Greg as it allowed the Spirit to teach us some very personal, but important things about our family and the eternal nature of the soul.

Then I changed the words I used.  Maybe it's the English teacher in me, but I find the words we use very important.  When talking to myself, I don't use the word miscarriage.  It doesn't carry enough weight and makes me feel like I should be able to easily move on to the next thing.  Sure a miscarriage wasn't part of my plan but no big deal, we'll move on.  But it is a big deal and moving on is hard.  Instead I say the baby died and that I will move forward.  The implication here is that this baby is a child of mine, which he is, and that despite never really getting to meet him, I love him just the same and that I will always miss him and wish he were here with our family.  And that I will not get stuck in the sadness, I will move forward but take this baby with me, along with the other children.

I also refused to call the D&E a D&E in my mind.  Instead I refer to it as a non-traditional birth, because that is what it was.  I was bringing a baby into the world, just not in the way one normally thinks of it.  As I searched miscarriage on Pinterest so that it would stop giving me pictures of babies and telling me what to pack in my hospital bag, I found this quote, "Miscarriages are labor, miscarriages are birth.  To consider them less dishonors the woman whose womb has held life, however briefly."  Kathryn Miller Ridiman.  I couldn't agree more.

Once I realized that this was a birth of a different kind, I relied on something that always brings me peace--ritual.  If anybody understands the importance of rituals, it should be Mormons--that's all we do.  We get baptized; we take the Sacrament; we go to the temple.  We do the same things in the same order to teach us new things and bring peace.  I do the same things in the same order everyday to bring a sense of calm to my life--I wake up, get the kids ready for school, go for a run, feed the little kids, make beds, and on and on everyday to bring order and peace.  So I did the same things I always do before giving birth, I ordered my favorite fancy food; I went to Target and got all the postpartum supplies; I packed a hospital bag; I got my haircut; I got out the same blankets the other kids had used and washed them to wrap the baby in; we took the kids to pick out a tree, normally we pick out an outfit, but this time we got a tree. At Greg's suggestion, I also wrote a "birth plan," which of more of list of my long-standing fears of doctors and the medical community at large.  We went over it in-depth with our doctor and I felt a little bit better.  I cancelled all my activities for the week and skipped church, because that's what you do when you have a baby.  Mine was just less traditional.  Just because this birth was less traditional, did not mean that I shouldn't honor this birth in the same way that I honored the others.

Probably not the best haircut choice but the change was nice and it made me feel like I had control over at least something--my hair.

A bit more on skipping church.  It was wonderful.  Just as soon as Greg and the older kids left for church, I put Zora in the backpack and headed off for a two-hour hike through the bike trail near our house.  Zora fell asleep about 5 minutes into our walk and I didn't see another person for about 45 minutes.  This was a tender mercy and allowed me plenty of time to discuss my situation with Heavenly Father and lots of time for Him to teach me a few things.  It's no wonder that Joseph Smith went to a grove of trees to pray.  I'm tempted to go to nature church every week, but I'm pretty sure Heavenly Father would start teaching me to go to real church instead.

And just tonight, we buried Baby 5 and planted a tree to honor him.  We put up quite a stink at the hospital to get to take the remains of our baby home and they let us.  Greg made him a simple box and wrapped him in the same blankets we used with our other children.  I thought about buying new blankets but I like the idea of him being wrapped up in the same ones that kept his siblings warm.  Greg and I buried the baby alone so we had time to grieve and cry together, then we brought the other kids out to help plant the tree.  Rex is the only one who really understands what happened, which is just fine with me.  I like that the other kids are blissfully unaware of what's going on.

But I think the thing that helped the most was when Greg reminded me of Isaiah 53:3, which says that Christ was "acquainted with grief." Greg said that if we want to be Christlike we must also be acquainted with grief.  It didn't make the grief go away but reminded me that of all people, Christ knows my grief.  Greg and I have spent hours talking and grieving together, which was also wonderful, in the sense that we worked through it together, not in the sense that I'd like to do this again.