A Weight Of Glory...

On March 3, I took a pregnancy test, and was excited to realize that I was pregnant with my husband and I’s first child. We, of course, began thinking of all the things we would need to do to welcome a baby. I started taking prenatal vitamins, stopped taking my diabetes medication and switched to insulin, and made many doctor appointments.

One week after the positive test, on Friday, March 13, I went into the doctors office for an ultrasound. We were so excited! Even though we were unsure of when we concieved, we hoped we would get to “meet” our baby, and maybe even hear his heartbeat.

However, the ultrasound revealed a gestational sac with what appeared to be nothing inside it. The doctor was concerned, but thought because of my medical history (PCOS, very long, very irregular cycles) that it could EITHER be a pregnancy too early to see, or a miscarriage. We were sent home with instructions to return on Monday for additional blood tests.

A weekend fraught with anxiety, riding the roller coaster of emotions between sadness, grief, hope, and the desire to have our baby. Monday’s blood tests reveal a situation which could still go either way; I was told to return Wednesday for another ultrasound.

Wednesday, two days ago, I had another ultrasound done, and the doctor confirmed that I did in fact miscarry. The fertilized egg probably had some kind of abnormality that kept it from continuing to grow. The type of miscarriage I have had, sometimes called a blighted ovum, continues to raise hormone levels, and even to display symptoms of pregnancy. Because of this, my body does not yet know that the baby has died, therefore, tomorrow I must undergo a surgical procedure to remove the gestational sac.

This is probably more information about my body than anyone reading this wants to know, and I apologize if I have grossed anyone out. However, this is my life, the reality of what I and my husband are going through right now. It’s important, and it’s heartbreaking for us.

We have lost our first baby; he died before we got to hear his heartbeat, or see him grow, or get to hold him, love him, feed him. Even though our child died as an embryo, we believe that he had a soul, and in the mind of God, was just as real as you or I. The death of our child is a tangible loss, and one that we are not soon to forget.

Even though we will most likely go on to have healthy children, we will always remember our first child, who died before we could have the joy of knowing him.

Tomorrow we will have a blessing said over our little one at the hospital before he will be cremated. We will scatter his ashes someone important on Holy Saturday of the Easter Triduum. We could not bear the thought of his remains being thrown away with other medical waste in a landfill (which is what happens to both miscarried and aborted babies, if someone does not claim and cremate or bury them.)

We have decided to name our child, and to have a Mass said in his honor. Eric and I had decided that we wanted to name our first son Michael John, and so we have decided to name him Michael John Babbs, and we will remember him with a Mass said for the repose of his tiny soul.

Miscarriage is not unique; most estimates say that 15 -20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, usually in the first trimester. Most women, especially if they have had multiple pregnancies, have had a miscarriage. I do not consider myself unique in this respect. However, I feel a certain anxiety and fear of future pregnancy because of this experience. This is the first time my body has been pregnant, and it had ended very badly. How can I know that I will go on to have healthy pregnancies in the future? How do I know that my body will be able to “work” properly in the future? I don’t know…because I have no other experience to compare this with. I must have blind faith in God, that if being a mother in the fullest sense of the word is His will for me, then it will happen.

Yesterday, after coming home from the ultrasound, I felt consumed with pain, hurt, and rage. I lashed out at my husband (mostly because he was here), and at God. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. I told God to take a flying leap (but not that kindly) and told my husband he could do the same. Eric is a rock; he did not go anywhere, but held me as I struggled against him, and refused to be rejected by my misguided pain. He was to me, an instance of God’s grace. Eric reacted to my episode the same way that God reacts…he lets us cry, scream, curse him out, carry on like hyenas, and otherwise make fools of ourselves. Then, when we calm down, he holds us, tells us he loves us, and most importantly, knows we never meant a word of what our pain screamed through us.

After that, I slept for a few hours, cried some more, and then I felt peace. Please don’t misunderstand, I feel infinietly sad for my family, and for our precious child. But I also understand that this was God’s will, and I don’t know why. That’s ok, I don’t have to. He knows what He is about. And I know that now Eric and I have a tiny, holy soul in Heaven to intercede for us before God. Michael John will be our family’s guardian angel until we meet him someday in Heaven.

As a kind of memorial for our baby, I would like to post this scripture, and a few poems that speak to me.

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JOB (based on Job 28:28)

William Baer

Yes: wisdom begins with fear of the Lord,

Which comprehends the power that made the seas,

the earth, the shimmering dawn, the unexplored

unfathomed skies, the moon, and the Pleiades.

Which also know Who comes to judge our shoddy

little failing lives, knowing full well,

we need not fear the one who kills the body,

but only He who condemns the soul to hell.

Which also knows it magnifies the Lord,

defying the demon, being the only release,

oddly enough, from fear, being its own reward,

which is also wise, is faith, is hope, is peace,

is tender mercy, over and over again,

until, at last, is love, is love. Amen.

Ode on the Whole Duty of Parents

Frances Cornford

The spirits of children are remote and wise,

they must go free, like fishes in the sea

Or starlings in the skies, whilst you remain

the shore where casually they come again.

But when there falls the stalking shade of fear,

you must be suddenly near,

You, the unstable, must become a tree

In whose unending heights of flowering green

Hangs every fruit that grows, with silver bells,

Where heart-distracting magic birds are seen

And all the things a fairy-story tells;

Though still you should possess

Roots that go deep in ordinary earth,

And strong consoling bark

To love and to caress.

“We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies…So, we do not lose heart. For this momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.” -2 Corinthians 4: 7-18

The Peace of Wild Things

Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting for their light. For a time