Grief, grace, and gratitude

I'm an introvert. It's hard for me to talk about deeply personal things in public forums. But some things are too important not to say. To quote Catherine of Siena, "Cry out with a thousand tongues! I see the world is rotten because of silence."

Around Easter, we discovered I was pregnant with our seventh child. To say my family rejoiced is almost an understatement. One of my most cherished memories will always be the sight of Lucy, catching sight of the Easter egg we dyed and labeled, "Baby" with a white crayon. She cried out, "Wait! Mama! You're pregnant?! We're having a new baby!" And then she burst into tears of joy and sobbed on my shoulder. For the next few weeks, the only one of my children who could stop talking about the new baby was Evie--because she can't talk yet. But she kissed my belly and smiled and nodded when we told her about how she'd have a new brother or sister to take care of. We discussed names, searched through patterns for baby socks and sweaters, debated godparent choices. The best part of being a seventh child must be that you have so many more people who love you intensely when they've never even seen your face.

On Mother's Day, we miscarried our little one, Karol Emmanuel. He or she was going to be our little "Christmas Carol" baby, due in mid-December. We wanted to honor Pope Saint John Paul II (whose name was Karol), who we've always considered a patron of our artistic work and family life. And "Emmanuel" will remind us of the truth that God is with us. Always. In our joy and in our grief. In our sense of gratitude for the new life we cherished and which still lives, not in our home but in God's. We know that Karol will spend eternity praising God, praying for us, and being exactly who God created him to be. Because of that...we have so much joy. But despite that... the grief at losing a baby is very, very real.

This isn't a great family photo, but it's special to me since it's the only one
I have where Karol is with all of us...even though you can't see him.

It's very hard to talk about the loss of a child. About two years ago a friend had a miscarriage, and I remember thinking, "What do I say? How can I help?" I struggled through an awkward email, wishing I wasn't so uncertain, but feeling the need to say SOMETHING, to let my friend know I loved her and cared about her loss. I'm sure I failed abysmally at putting my feelings into words... I hope I didn't say anything trite or idiotic or unintentionally hurtful.

It's important, though, to say something. Because it's so hard to talk about miscarriage, it's easy to turn aside and ignore it because it makes us feel sad or uncomfortable. Since losing Karol Emmanuel, I've randomly burst into tears on the shoulders of friends and acquaintances and almost-strangers. And I've been shocked to find out how many of these women knew exactly what I was going through...because they'd been there. They burst into tears with me, crying for my loss and for their own. Some of them--many of them--had never had their loss and grief acknowledged because society had made them feel ashamed of their feelings. Many of them had never told anyone of their pregnancies, because they'd been taught it's better to wait until the second trimester to make an announcement, "just in case." (Again, I am an introvert, so I can understand if a mother chooses to do this on her own--but this is not a decision society should shame you into.)

This has lit a fire under me. Mothers who have lost a baby--at any age or stage--I am so sorry. I am grieving with you, and I am celebrating the fact that you brought a new, perfect, beautiful soul into the world. No one else may know of the sacrifice you made, but the chorus of voices praising God is more beautiful and nuanced for your child's voice. The Church Triumphant, praying for us, interceding for us, has another member because of your gift. Your sacrifice wasn't for nothing--but I know that it's an ongoing sacrifice. I know that your heart still aches and your arms feel empty and you still cry in the middle of the night when no one sees. It's okay to feel that way. It's okay to let your grief and your gratitude for life sit with you side by side.

Those of you who have never lost a baby and struggle for words like I did... maybe I can suggest some things that really do help? I know everyone is different, but these are some of the ways my family and friends have reached out to me that have meant the world:

Say, "I'm so sorry."
Say, "I love you."
Say, "Your baby's name is beautiful. Why did you choose it?"
Say, "I'm going to keep checking in on you."
Say, "I'm praying for you."
Say, "Would you like me to pray with you right now?"
Say, "You can call me at 3am. I'll have my phone on."
Give a hug.
Give flowers.
Give a meal.
Give snacks and drinks and paper plates.
Give a distracting/uplifting book.
Give another hug.
Do a load of laundry.
Do a load of dishes.
Pray.

Looking to the future, I know that one thing we can all do to help each other is to remember these children who we'll never be able to hold. They're our family forever, and their lives are important. Remember their names. Ask for their intercession. Ask us how old they'd be. Maybe even send a card on the anniversary of the day we lost them. Recognize that just because they spent less time with us, they are not less important in our eyes or the eyes of God.