{I wrote this piece about a month and a half ago for a writers group I’m in at my church. Been meaning to share it here for awhile now. Recently I’ve noticed some of my child loss friends have posted similar themes on their blogs and it reminded me how connected we are and how I really should share this.}
My mail today consisted of three death certificates, one for each of my sons, and an American Baby magazine, of which I am not a subscriber.
One picture uploaded to twitter later, and I got the support I needed. “I’m sorry” and “I hate your mail today” and my particular favorite, “the USPS has a really f*cked up sense of humor.” Comments from women who have been there, or from those who haven’t because conceiving is so difficult in the first place, creating their own ache and sense of loss. That’s my community now, the Baby Loss Moms community. The Dead Baby Club.
Going out into the world as a member of this club is an entirely surreal experience. At times I crave anonymity- I just stroll through Whole Foods like a normal person. No one there knows I’m broken. That is until I have to ask the woman in the vitamin section the best iron supplement to take. She asks if I know why I’m deficient. “I experienced a pregnancy loss in June,” I tell her (but wait, no, there’s more to it). “That’ll do it!” she says as she picks up a bottle and hands it to me. She says she’s sorry for my loss, that she’s been there, suffered through miscarriages. The window opens, bringing relief. “I gave birth to triplets. They died the day they were born.” (There it is, but not really.) The look on her face- a mix of shock, confusion, pity, mouth agape- causes instant regret. I close the window and walk away, exposed.
This new world is strange and complex, and at times impossible to navigate. As much as I want to slip away, unnoticed, I also wish I could wear a sign around my neck.
My babies died 4 months ago. No, I’m not over it.
But there are layers of signs, really. Stating the reality of my life, that I’m a mother with no one to parent, is just surface information- what people are whispering to each other anyway (she’s the one who lost her triplets). There is some risk in telling it, but not nearly as much as telling you what that really means, what that really does to a person, to me.
I get brownie points for saying it without breaking down (she’s so strong), as people scan my face, impatient with my words, waiting to hear a tidy “but you know, all things happen for a reason” or “God is still good.” I don’t believe the former and am unable to think about the latter. Awkward silence hangs at the end of my words. Grasping, “It is what it is.” Not quite as satisfying for the masses, but there’s no way to slip a bow around this one.
My life experiences have given me many invisible signs, hanging there, heavy, often for far less sympathetic reasons. I’ve thought a lot about the signs others are wearing since this happened. I think about them mostly at church, the place that’s hardest to go at the moment (insert sign here). I look around and wonder, “Who else here is shattered into a million pieces? Where are my people?”
I think about what the signs of our congregation might say:
My wife left me.
My husband and I argued the whole way here.
I’m scared to eat.
I think my child might be taking drugs.
I lost my job.
I was (am) abused.
And what that really means:
I don’t deserve love.
I’m scared I married the wrong person.
I hate myself.
I’m a bad parent.
I feel inadequate.
It’s all my fault.
I’m a member of this community too, the Church. Why is it so much harder to reveal my signs here? To speak honestly with Christians when we’re indwelled with Truth?
There is comfort and cover in the façade of perfection.
Literal signs would be helpful, but unnecessary. If we can be trusted with another’s heart, it will open. If we can leave judgment to God and embrace our individual fragility, the Body will be strong. Are we brave enough to look, see, reveal?
Me:
Rudyard, Desmond, and Oscar are gone.
It takes everything in me to get out of bed in the morning.
I’m terrified this will happen again.
I’m simultaneously amazed and disgusted that I continue to live.
Today:
My sons’ death certificates arrived in the mail and I took a picture of them as if they were their first report cards. It’s what I have.
22 responses to “Signs”
OnceAMother
November 15th, 2011 at 10:10
I am moved to tears by this beautiful and haunting post. As a Christian who has experienced loss, who has struggled with her faith, who has sighed “it is what it is” and received a death certificate where a birth certificate should be, who spent over two years walking around as a shell, feeling lost without the daughter that no one but me seemed to be missing… my heart, my hugs, my tears are with you.
Life With Ladies
November 15th, 2011 at 10:30
My heart, it aches.
These are beautiful words for a broken soul to write. You do your heartbroken community proud with your honesty. Spoken for those who can’t speak.
jenn
November 15th, 2011 at 10:31
My heart breaks for you. Wishing that you find comfort in your loved ones.
Sarah Crabtree
November 15th, 2011 at 12:22
I agree with “you do your heartbroken community proud with your honesty.”
Wishing I could hug you.
Bob W.
November 15th, 2011 at 13:07
There is absolutely no reason why this had to happen. There is nothing that will ever make it OK. My heart aches with and for you whenever I think about it, which is often. These words you have written are touching and beautiful. Thank you.
“Pain is our mother. She makes us recognize each other”
(From a song by Over The Rhine)
Jessica Renshaw
November 15th, 2011 at 15:20
It’s not meant to be an excuse but some of us care a lot and are so afraid we’ll cause more pain by anything we may say or ask. We know you couldn’t possibly be over it. We wish we knew how to at least not make it worse. I want to suggest, someday, watching The Tree of Life. But I haven’t been there myself, haven’t had THAT kind of loss (who has?), so I don’t know. Thank you for sharing this, Carey.
Esperanza
November 15th, 2011 at 16:04
What a beautifully honest post. Yesterday, when a colleague asked how my weekend was I answered honestly – it was a lot like showing her my sign. Thankfully she was kind and didn’t seem burdened by it. I can only hope that when people show me their signs that I also say the right thing.
Thanks you for sharing your sign, and your sons, with us.
Pure Ness (@justpureness)
November 15th, 2011 at 17:49
Reconciling my losses with my faith in my heavenly Father has been a long journey for me that really isn’t over yet. I also don’t believe that “all things happen for a reason.” Truly, what good enough reason could there be for the deaths of my children, or yours? I can’t imagine one.
While my head clings to the truth that God is good and he loves me, there are times my heart wonders how much he loves me. To think that he does, but the truly good things – those are meant for someone else. The miracles, the amazing moments, those are for other Christians, not me. It is my lot to live in the hard, the gray, the long struggling path. I think there are many, many of us in this struggle. What can shake our faith in God’s love like the loss of our incredibly loved children?
Then there are actually moments, rare but real, when I can feel him. When I realize he is with me, when I am aware of the heartbroken tears he also cries at the loss of my babies and the pain it causes me. I don’t know why he doesn’t interfere, save my little ones, change their path, but slowly the truth of how much he cares about my ache and broken body and soul leaves its mark on me.
I know he has not abandoned you, even though it may feel like it. I know he loves you, even though it may seem like he doesn’t care. I know that God wishes only good for you, even though the pain keeps battering at your walls.
Know that even if you don’t feel safe revealing your true heart at your church building, there are many of us in the body that are more than wiling to fully embrace you and all the heartache you carry, even all the doubts you may have about God and who he is.
Knowing I was having a rough day today, my husband sent me this song. As I listened, it made me think of you and this post. I don’t know the intimacies of your heart, but it seemed right to pass it on. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4WYK6TxWX7s&feature=related
Pure Ness (@justpureness)
November 16th, 2011 at 09:53
I think it’s worth it to watch this interview done with one of the vocalists as well. She talks about singing this song right after losing her son born at 23wks.
modvegan
November 17th, 2011 at 11:50
Thank you for posting this. I just watched it and cried the whole way through. I really love that song actually and now knowing that she sang it after losing her son it has even more special meaning. Singing and worshiping in church used to be my favorite part of the service. Now it’s very hard to get through and usually I don’t sing just so I can make it without having to run to the bathroom to hide and bawl. I don’t know when or if that will change but I hope it does.
Esther Hanes
November 16th, 2011 at 15:42
Jason and I cried.
I think your record of them (from the blog) will make them live on with not only with you and Jer, but all of us.
themeditatingmom
November 16th, 2011 at 16:35
Carey, this is a really beautiful post. You so clearly express your experience. It helps me understand my experience as well. From one empty-arms mother to another … my heart is with you.
Lauren Martin
November 16th, 2011 at 18:41
Oh Carey. This was so beautiful. You are such a gifted writer because of your honesty. You have the ability to look into the heart and soul of others and truly care for al you see. I wish I could do more, but here I am. Praying for you. Crying with you at this very moment. Thank you for sharing your heart with us. It’s hard to be so trusting. Love you.
Dana
November 17th, 2011 at 18:58
Hi Carey. I just wanted to stop by and tell you how much I appreciated seeing you both on Tuesday night.
If there’s one thing I struggle against and hate hearing is, “God only gives you what you can handle.” I’ve heard that twice since I lost Benjamin. I don’t think the two women who said it to me had the intention of insulting/hurting me when the words were uttered, but there it is. It did hurt. It did insult me. It’s like saying I’m not good enough to take care of two children. It’s like saying I’m not good enough to even get pregnant, let alone maintain a pregnancy without the help of drugs.
In my opinion, a big part of the reaction we get when talking about our babies is that people have a hard time coming up with something to say to those of us who have lost a child. Being able to blame it on someone, i.e. “God has a plan” is easiest because it puts all the responsibility elsewhere. And, I just don’t think that’s fair.
I think about you guys often. ❤
Dana
Mom
November 19th, 2011 at 11:05
My Dear Carey,
I wish that there were words to comfort you, I wish that I could hold you and take away your pain, even a small measure of it… The raw reality of your broken heart overwhelms me and leaves me speechless. I cry for you, I cry for my son and I cry and cry for precious Rudyard, Desmond and Oscar. This family has a huge hole left by the loss of 3 beautiful boys.
Love,
mom
Joleen
November 20th, 2011 at 14:35
Carey, I started reading your blog shortly after the loss of your sons. I had not checked it in a while and this post really touched me. I cannot directly relate to your loss but have two close friends that have lost full term babies. Reading your posts helps me develop a better insight into what their thought process was and is like through the grieving process. I am sure that your writing is an encouragement to many, many women trying to reconcile their baby(ies)’s loss with their faith. Thank you for your transparency and honesty. I pray for you even though I am just some random internet stranger. Your boys are blessed to have a mother that loves them so wholly and completely.
SurvivingMomToo
December 7th, 2011 at 12:44
It’s been a while since I’ve checked your blog. It’s like reading your story for the first time – again. And again. Each time I read you let me into your heart and soul. Grieving sucks. Not being able to touch stinks. Loss, emptiness are the pits. A part of YOU died too. Yet you expose your sensitivity to others – how you might be affecting them shows a spirit that soars above other mortals. Thank you for opening up, for sharing your soul. Reading you helps. Wish the world could help you. I do pray for you and Jer. Wishing/praying for your healing, comfort, fulness.
Bridgette Blake
December 7th, 2011 at 19:18
Hi Carey.
I think of you, Jeremy and your 3 beautiful boys often. I always have it in the back of my mind that you are living in utter misery…and have been for 5 months. I can’t even go there in my mind…it is just too painful. I imagine the deepest black, with a wierd sort of distored light at the end. Coming and going in this world has to be like pulling an 800 lb box behind you filled with all your babies clothes, hopes, dreams and gut wrenching pictures of what really just happend…or…like walking around completely turned inside out, in excruciating pain, with happy mothers skipping through the park with their baby filled strollers. I guess i am “going there” so to speak,..but i know full well, my imagination doesn’t even scratch the surface of your reality. If i knew dwelling in the pain of my own imagination would take one pang of agony away from you…i would do it every day. I would do anything to bring you the smallest bit of comfort. I’m certain this message isn’t giving you relief, but it’s the only way i can tell you i love you.
Becky Yamarik
December 8th, 2011 at 07:08
Dear Carey,
Just read this today. It was very beautiful to read and very sad. I think of you often during my day to day life. One thing made me think of you especially. I decided to tackle some Dickens and started Great Expectations. The book starts with the main character sitting at his parents’ grave and the grave of five of his stillborn siblings. Only he and his sister are survivors of infanthood. There was a footnote that said in the graveyard of DIckens’ church there was a mother/father and 13 stillborn babies. Dickens said that he only made his character have five, otherwise it wdnt’ have been believable. Your situation and the one of the woman with two stillborn sets of twins seems to be the modern version of unbelievable.
I think of you often and keep you in my thoughts and prayers
Becky Yamarik
Erin Burtoft
December 12th, 2011 at 05:29
I just read this again this morning and cried again with you. I love you Carey.
Angela (Ogden) Dephouse
December 16th, 2011 at 00:43
I’m so mad and sad that your boys’ 1st Christmas is in heaven. It’s sort of selfish and twisted because they’re with Jesus, but it just doesn’t seem right. I still think of you guys and pray for you often. My greatest loss was the death of my incredible mom 11 years ago, and I so relate with that feeling of being both and amazed and disgusted that I could go on living, that the whole world could keep spinning and people could make grocery lists and brush their hair and have birthdays. They could walk past my house as if nothing terrible had ever happened there–it was apalling. I hope you know that you have a host of friends who remember your loss, that even while celebrating this Christmas season, we’re thinking of you and carrying the memory of Rudyard, Oscar and Desmond in our hearts.
Angela
December 30th, 2011 at 08:27
I’ve never commented on your blog before, but I just wanted you to know that I’ve been thinking of you and praying for you, especially during this Christmas season. I lost two babies in 2008 and remember how difficult it can be to celebrate and grieve simultaneously during the holidays. God bless you and yours, you are in my prayers.