Seasons

My memories seem tied to the seasons, and August is now full of difficult thoughts. The first week of the month my mind kept wandering to last year when Larry was sick enough to be hospitalized. Although it turned out to be “only” a virus, it caused fluid on his heart and lungs which caused me to have many tense days and sleepless nights until he finally began to recover.

Next is the middle of the month, which three years ago was consumed by the heartbreak of miscarriage. Three years ago! Can it be that long since my wee Enoch was no more? With Baby Boy being, well, a boy. . .it is hard to keep my mind from wondering if Enoch would have been the baby sister for whom Twirly Girl prayed. Even so, the pain has slowly lessened with time. . .but it is still there, just below the surface. As I went through the mourning process, I found my friends belonged to two groups: those who had never had a miscarriage and didn’t know what to say, and those who had had a miscarriage and didn’t want to talk about it. For me I have found that talking (or writing) brings healing, especially on the rare occasion that I have been able to talk (and listen) to another mother through her own grief.

And then there is late August, also three years ago. I was still recovering from the physical aspects of miscarrying (to say nothing of emotional) when I was verbally assaulted by our next door neighbors. I took a boy over to apologize for having traced his name (with his finger) on their freshly washed car. The husband started yelling at me that if our kids so much as rode a bike down the sidewalk in front of their house he was going to throw them in his car and take them to the police, and then his wife leaned out of an upper window to join in yelling about everything our kids had ever done in or near their yard. Yes, there were things that our kids should not have done. Most were minor and more importantly the kids had already apologized for the only thing that been brought to our attention before that afternoon. I don’t know how long I stood there with my mouth hanging open while they continued to yell; finally I pulled myself together and took my boys home.

When Larry returned home, he went to talk to them, pointing out that taking our kids anywhere, even to the police station, without our permission is kidnapping. They were calmer, but their words revealed that they dislike all children and are racist too. Well! There isn’t much we could do about that kind of attitude! We talked to our kids, took them over to apologize, handed out punishment as we saw fit, and implored them to not ride their bikes east of our house.

I wish I could say that was the end of it, but a month or two later the wife was pounding on my front door because I had sent a boy into the backyard to throw his temper tantrum: he was making a lot of noise and wasn’t wearing a coat (mid-40s weather). From that time until we moved, I felt I was watching over my shoulder every time I stepped outside my house. Even now I find myself tense around anyone who looks like our former neighbors, especially the wife. And this time of year, those kinds of thoughts seem to come more readily.

A time to mourn

Although the actual date of the second anniversary of my miscarriage slipped by unnoticed, the whole experience has been floating in the back of my mind the past couple weeks. The summer of 2006 I felt like my whole world was caving in on me; but after two years I find there is a time to dance again.

I have not shared this here before, but my Nanna had died the month before my miscarriage. Nanna was, hands down, the favorite aunt of 7 nieces & nephews, 13 great nieces & nephews, 22 great great nieces & nephews, and 2 great great great nieces. She was my Grandpa’s baby sister; and as the youngest of six children herself, I had looked forward to telling her that I was expecting our own number six. Most people raise their eyebrows at that kind of announcement, but I knew she would smile. But that was not to be; in fact we had not yet told anyone our news when she died. The day of her funeral I woke up worried I would be sick, having reached the six week mark where I usually begin my struggles with morning all day sickness.

I was fine that day. And the next, and the next. . .I was a little hungrier than usual, but I had no nausea. I worried about that off and on, but mostly I tried to relax and enjoy the fact that my sixth and final pregnancy was going to be my easiest. My first visit with the midwives was later than usual, due to scheduling; I finally had an appointment at 8 weeks and then the midwife had a delivery. I kept the appointment with Kathy, their nurse, to get the mountain of paperwork out of the way. We marveled at my lack of sickness, but her test confirmed that I was indeed pregnant.

One week later, on a Wednesday, some light spotting started. Late Friday afternoon, it started to increase and the midwife scheduled an ultrasound for the next morning. After a long, dark, sleepless night, I had lost all hope that this was anything but a miscarriage. Lori, my midwife, suggested we go to the ER. . .where she stopped by to offer sympathy and moral support while we waited forever, where the ultrasound confirmed there was no longer a baby within my womb, and where the doctor had the audacity to question whether I had truly been pregnant in the first place.

We don’t know if our baby was a boy or girl, but we named him Enoch, for “Enoch walked with God, and he was not, for God took him” (Genesis 5:24). We had only just told our kids and a very few close friends that I was pregnant, leaving us to either mourn alone or tell others about his life and death in the same breath. One evening during family devotions, Larry led our family in the order of burial for a stillborn or unbaptized child. The children reacted in their own ways; Twirly Girl seemed most affected by the loss of Nanna and our baby, and asked all the questions.  We mostly talked about how Enoch had likely had even more physical problems than our godson John, and that he just was not able to live long on this earth. I planned an embroidered sampler in his memory, although it has not yet been stitched. My mother’s bracelet includes an “E” along with his brothers and sister’s initials. Some days I wonder “what if” and “why”, and am especially plagued by the thought that perhaps Enoch would have been a daughter, a sister for my lonely girl. But most days I am content with the family that surrounds me.

To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven:

a time to be born, and a time to die;

a time to plant, and a time to pluck what is planted;

a time to kill, and a time to heal;

a time to break down, and a time to build up;

a time to weep, and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

 a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones;

a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

a time to gain, and a time to lose;

a time to keep, and a time to throw away;

a time to tear, and a time to sew;

a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

a time to love, and a time to hate;

a time of war, and a time of peace.

Forgetting to remember

Today marks one month until my due date, but it’s also the first anniversary of my miscarriage. Although I spent a lot of time remembering my miscarriage during the first months of this pregnancy, when the morning sickness was so much milder than usual, my former due date passed in March unnoticed. And so I wasn’t sure if I would remember when today came. Nor was I sure what to expect if I did remember.

I didn’t forget this time. While I was sad to think of the baby we will never hold in our arms, I didn’t spend a lot of time moping. I suppose that’s a result of the passing of time combined with the distraction of another baby kicking me in the ribs. Or maybe it was something else. I don’t know; this was my first experience with this kind of loss.

I actually remembered the date on my way to church this morning, while driving in pouring rain that would make anyone a bit melancholy. I found myself choking slightly on the familiar words of the hymns and liturgy, but then as we chanted the introit of the day I found myself comforted by these words from Psalm 55:

Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you; he will never permit the righteous to be moved.

and:

Give ear to my prayer, O God, and hide not yourself from my plea for mercy!

While the words of men can be helpful in a time of need, it never ceases to amaze me how the true comfort is always found in the word of God. Thanks be to Him!