Our Miracle Girl (Part 4)

It was such an eerie feeling knowing that I carried my child's remains those few days while waiting for the miscarriage to take place. As long as nothing was happening medically, I could pretend for a few moments that this life within me was fine and thriving and shut out the reality I awaited. But in the next second, I wanted it over already. I wanted to get past the hard part and move on to grieving something already done. My mom and dad came up to support me. Unfortunately, my husband and I did not grieve in ways that brought one another any comfort. I would not realize until years later why he COULD NOT acknowledge our child's death and grieve with me as I so desperately needed. Not on the heels of losing his own father and best friend so suddenly. His method was to ignore it all and only now can I fully appreciate it for the sentiment it actually was. On the flip side, as one who could still take for granted the presence of her original immediate family, I was clueless to the memories that must have been flooding his mind or the questions he might have had about how much he should endure.

The five of us hung out for three days in our tiny one bathroom home, mostly playing with our young son and dragging out meaningless conversations as if they had great consequences. An hour long discussion about spicing the chili was really just an unspoken agreement to fill the awkward silence. On Saturday morning, I awoke to the smells of a home-cooked breakfast just like my dad made while I was young and I was the child. I don't know if it was his way of passing the time, getting a decent meal in the absence of my hostessing, or a well-planned expression of his love, but I took it as the latter. After several days of not feeling like eating, I enjoyed the crunchy hashbrowns, warm biscuits and perfectly scrambled eggs, but most of all, I just enjoyed the presence of those who cared for me.


For that hour, I had begun to think about things a little lighter than the moment I would finally get to see my baby before I said "Goodbye." I know that sounds gruesome, but it was important. But as breakfast ended and the dishes were cleaned, I started the contractions. The moment had arrived. There was nothing I could do now but pray, almost outside of my own consciousness. It was all so surreal. That is until the moment turned into minutes, and then into hours. You see, I had been told to expect "a little cramping and output similar to a very heavy cycle." But the reality was not so much a miscarriage as a premature delivery. The difference being the regular contractions and the full-on labor as I witnessed my own parents in anguish at watching their own baby lose hers. (What love it took for them to be there!) I will not embellish further, except to say that the baby was a little more developed than I had expected. Not fully formed by any sense, but certain attributes were recognizable. That I had not expected.

I anguished over which moment I would push the lever signaling the end of my private memorial, enraged by the sound I knew would accompany it. I blamed myself for not feeling a connectedness with God, even though I had never prayed so hard. I felt guilty for leaving my husband and parents to wonder endlessly in the next room. I even felt rushed by the knowledge that they may need the only restroom for regular purposes. My many confusing emotions were swirling like the vortex to a black hole of hopelessness.

This is when the weeks of melancholy set in........