My Words

Today's post weaves together the ideas of my two previous posts:

The first was about the value and healing that can come from telling your story and being heard.  To Speak and Hear 

The second was about grief that comes with the untimely loss of a child. Her Baby Died

The reflecting and writing of those experiences has cultivated a strong response within me. I need to share that response with her. I need share them here so that others holding onto grief: fresh or lingering- can know there are people in your life who feel this way. People who want to listen. If you can't find your people- find me.

Dear Amanda,

I think about you every day-in the morning when I wake up, moments here and there during the day and before I fall asleep at night. I am not the only one thinking of you. I don’t tell you that to make you feel uncomfortable, but to show how deeply I am touched by the loss of your son Joshua.

I am sad to know you are changed forever by this loss- that you can never go back to May 4, 2015 and un-know this all. I am sad to know you are a mother that will not get to hold, nurse, comfort your baby boy. I don’t know what it is like to go through a loss of a baby. I haven’t lived it. I can only imagine how hard these days must be. 

I feel led to write this to you, to reach out and share the words written in my heart. I know that words aren’t always what you need. I know that the most well-meaning friends can say things that make the hurt worse. I do not want to do that. It is hard for those of us that care about you. We want to make it better; we want to take your pain, to make sense of it. And we can’t. And that is hard too.

If you don’t like my words you can stop reading now. Read it later- or never. One nice thing about a written letter is that you get to be in control when you read it- if you do. 

In my work I have been at births where the baby was still born, injured, or died soon after birth. I’ve witnessed the mothers of these babies live into their grief, through it and out the other side. I’ve listened to their stories, treasuring them like precious jewels. Each one’s journey is different, each with her own timing and grace. 

These are words I’ve heard from other grieving mothers. A collection of reflections and my offering to you:

• You are Joshua David’s mother and you always will be. He is your precious first born. You miss him and we do too.  

•  It is ok to be angry, sad, jealous and more angry. God is big enough to hear your cries, your screams of anger. God’s heart breaks as yours is broken.

• God is ever with you- holding you, surrounding you with love, offering you hope and peace when you are ready and able to receive it. 

•  ·    This is not some kind of test of your faith. You did nothing wrong. God did not plan this loss for you and David. It is not something that you were given because you are strong enough to handle it- it is too much for any mother.

• Your family, friends, and church ache for your loss. They love you and are praying for you. The may not understand what you are feeling, but they will keep loving you. When you feel lost and lonely remember us here loving you.

And for the time that you need to talk about it- to tell your story- I would be honored to listen. I don’t expect you to be ready today or maybe not even a year from now. But IF and WHEN you are ready there is so much I want to hear about.

 I’ll listen to the story of:

• How you labored
• How your husband took care of you
• How your body birthed your sweet son
• About those moments between his birth and knowing something was wrong.
• Tell me about him. Who does he look like? (I think you). Tell me about his dark hair, his perfect face, his long fingernails
• Tell me about your first hours of motherhood
• And the hard things- the trip to the hospital, all those minutes you didn’t know for sure, saying good bye, your last holding of him, those first days home, and then the days after that.

Tell me. And I’ll listen celebrating those tiny moments sparkling of joy and victory. And I’ll listen with sorrow and grief to the life changing loss.

I am not afraid. I will listen. 

With love-

Betsy

The story of my daughter's birth

Amelia’s birth story begins one year before my pregnancy began.  It was May 2004 when I anticipated attending my first birth as a doula. It was an experience with unexpected trajectory.  The hopeful first time mother and I arrived at the hospital labor and delivery room for evaluation.  From the first, it was bad news.  The baby’s heart was not beating.  An ultrasound confirmed the tragic news.  We were all shocked.  No heartbeat.  So she labored, I supported, she cried, I held her.  It went on until the next morning (Mother’s Day) her baby girl arrived dead.  It was horrible and holy.  

During my pregnancy with Amelia, I attended eight other births that resulted in health babies and happy mothers.  I did not doubt that my own pregnancy would end any differently.  My husband and I took a local childbirth class and decided we wanted to have our baby at home.  We wanted choices about who was there and how things were done. 

The plans for a home birth came together when we met our midwife Lynn.  We felt that we could trust her professional experience and midwifery skills.  The healthcare she provided was personalized and conscientious.  As the “due date” of February 23 grew closer .

It is a classic end of pregnancy story common to many in that last weeks of pregnancy were physically uncomfortable.  In the midst of the waiting I got swallowed up by anxiety.   My baby’s head was engaged, low in the pelvis and it hurt to walk.  My hips and pelvic bones ached.  The daily task of caring for our 2 year old son was all I could manage.  Emotionally weary, my fear of the pain yet to come grew fierce.  The moments of calm and peace eventually unraveled to anxiety. Will my baby die before it is born?  The thought stalked me, kept me from sleeping. I hesitated to speak the fear, sure that if it passed my lips to words somehow it was more likely to come to pass in my womb. 

Sensing that there was something bothering me during a phone call my midwife pressed, “What are you holding back?” The images and memories crept into my mind.  I managed to tell her a bit about my first doula birth and the stillborn baby.  I played down my anxiety, admitting how haunted I was induced near panic.

In the days following that conversation I became convinced my baby was not going to come out.  My contractions started, the crescendo of intensity and spacing played out over the course of an afternoon and evening.  The labor team was summoned, birth pool filled, candles lit, lights dimmed.  Then a decrescendo, winding down and calming of contractions.  I was Jonah swallowed whole in the belly of despair.  This baby would not be born.

A few days later my body awakened during the night at the return of rhythmic contractions.  By morning light it was certain this labor was here to stay, this baby to be born.  Birth team reassembled, birth pool refilled, coffee brewing in the kitchen, it was time. 

I felt safest in the darkness and close to my husband.  He was patient and stayed nearby. I could tell he was nervous, but acted with confidence and experience.  I obsessively waited for the moment it was time to listen for my baby’s heartbeat.  Always strong and steady I tentatively pushed away the anxiety.  It came back to me like a tide pulls in at the shore.  Now in the midst of labor, still I was not convinced this baby would be born. 

Contractions paced themselves over the course of a few hours without any progress in my opening.  Lynn our midwife approached me again wanting to know “What is it that is holding you back?”  I erupted a live active emotional volcano of hot tears.  Sobbing I let it all pour out, guilt, fear, shame, worry, disbelief, lack of confidence.  Silently my doula and midwife listened, holding my hands.  Passing me fresh tissues.  Raw and vulnerable I was emptied out.  Their words of love and encouragement filled me back up.  I began to believe it was ok for this baby to pass through and be born.  That she would be ok. 

My spirit renewed I expected my labor to pick up.  Contractions persisted but were not strong enough to cause me to dilate.  Lynn sensed that my labor was not improving despite my emotional release.  An enema was administered to encourage my labor to progress and it worked.  Physical sensation dominated and finally muted out my emotional brain.  Finally I was one with the surging contractions able to surrender to the ancient course of pain and relief all women in childbirth experience.

All at once I knew it was time to get into the birth pool.  The warm water relieved the intensity of the pain and eased my aching muscles.  Sheltered in the watery nest I was able to rest between contractions and stay loose as they inhabited my body.  An hour later the pressure in my hips so intense I found myself pushing.  All the sudden I got up on my hands and knew, leaning over the side of the pool.  “The baby is coming’” I mater-of-factly told everyone.  I felt it happen.  She moved out of my pelvis into my birth canal. The intense pressure eased when I pushed.  My body worked on auto pilot following its own course bringing my baby down and out of me. 

“Pull you baby out of the water,” the midwife’s assistant instructed as she helped me sit back.  With disbelief I reached down and pulled her from the warm water.  “Is the baby out?  Am I done?” I asked in disbelief.  My husband smiled through his tears, “You are done… you were amazing.” All along I harbored a hope I was carrying a girl, but we didn't have any ultrasounds during the pregnancy. The moment of truth finally upon us, sweet joy a daughter!  Amelia Elizabeth Black weighing in at over 9 pounds alive and well and breathing.

Mother’s Day, the anniversary of the baby’s death, came two months later.  I gathered with the parents and their extended family for mass, then a lavish Mexican meal.    The mother took me aside to her bedroom where an alter had been laid.  The alter held the cremated remains of her baby, photos from the birth, and an abundance of gifts, sweets, and fruit.  Tearfully we talked about her baby’s full head of hair, plump body, and perfect feet- just as you would with the mother of any newborn.  The sacredness of her loss the privilege of witnessing such love and grief was not lost on me.  Suddenly my ears perked at the cries of baby Amelia fussing in the other room.  I rose and went to her.  Nursing her I wept, grateful not only for my living daughter but with a new respect for the delicate connection between birth and life and death and gratitude for the process.