Babies & Other Miscarried Hopes

This week it has been eight years since my first miscarriage. I found this out because of the strange relationship I have with my Facebook and its "On This Day" feature. On any given day, it will remind me of a mess of beautiful, mundane, and tragic events in my life's public history and then dictate them to me in a jarring contrast that makes me feel much older than my 36 years. It's like having the world's most insensitive and unaware friend who know you much too well and just won't stop talking. 

For instance, this week, in an array of years past, I: went to an opera, got a new haircut, became Facebook friends with someone I still don't really know, posted a video of my then-toddler getting stuck on a chair, and had my first miscarriage.

I don't feel like I'm the best person to talk about miscarriage, mainly because I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about my own. I often forget about them. I envy those women who can speak beautifully and precisely and tragically about motherhood and their bodies. Many have courageously brought to light this commonplace and historically silent pain; when I come across their work, I suddenly recall my shared experience. But unlike their articulate accounts of grief or distress, my memory is accompanied by a strange feeling of dumbfoundedness and blank confusion. Not that I haven't grieved the loss of knowing those children or that they weren't entirely real, but that with each miscarriage, the weightiest losses have seemed to be the intangible ones. 

By the time our daughter was four-years-old, she was dreaming about her future role as sister/mama bear/teacher/boss to this new family member we were expecting. She was ready and willing, and overqualified. My husband was excited, and I was just starting to come around to the face that parenthood was a thing we were actually REALLY doing now. (Our daughter was an unfairly easy first child, and we were able to just kind of fake parenthood for a few years.) And then we miscarried very early on in that pregnancy. Soon after, though, we become pregnant with our son and welcomed him, happy and healthy, just 11 months after this initial loss - - so the miscarriage just felt like some sort of strange blip on our timelines. But, I do remember it being the first time I ever had to reckon with my body really failing me. I come from a long line of hardy Scandinavian stock with bones that are seemingly unbreakable and relatives commonly living into their 90s. At 27, full of hope and youthful naivety about the future, I hadn't even considered the possibility of a pregnancy not coming to term. So, with this loss came a pause. An uncertainty about the fullness of life here. A brief brush with this veiled and quiet, shadow form of death. 

Four years later and one month before we found out that my husband had stage 3 melanoma, we miscarried again. This pregnancy was further along. The experience was awful and traumatic, and very real. We had wanted a third for some time and were excited and ready. (The oldest, having completed her on-the-job training with her little brother, had agreed to take on another subject.) This miscarriage was invasive, disruptive, and shocking. I am grateful for friends who stepped in and very literally helped walk us through that night. Physically, it was one of the most vulnerable moments I've ever experienced. Emotionally and spiritually, it carried the weight of the significant loss. But even more viscerally, it felt like the start of a fight. A ruthless struggle to push back an enemy who had come out of the shadows and now met us nose to nose, face to face - - an unfair and fixed fight with death.

For the next three months, we made our way through my husband's diagnosis, treatments, surgeries. And after receiving fleeting news that - - hallelujah! - - all of his scans were clean, we decided to try again for baby #3. Why waste time when you had just cheated death? All we wanted was to shove back death far enough down the road to realize the future we had been able to picture so clearly; one more bouncing baby, a little more chaos, a little more laughter. But, life is a vapor. Ultimately, grief over that second miscarriage and any hopeful baby-making plans became quickly overshadowed by the loss of someone already present on earth, someone already alive and known and embraced. And in time, this miscarriage would become additionally confusing because there was relief tied to it. Had it been viable, I would have attended my husband's funeral with not only two small children, but a newborn. And what was lost in that short time was not only two lives, but any lingering hopeful notion that death was a far off and distant threat, or that if it came to visit, there was anything I could do about it. 

And then about 18 months later - - after a funeral, after navigating single-parenting, after abandoning full-time homemaking for the working mom life, after falling in love again, after unexpected heart surgery, remarriage, and a newly-blending family - - there was the third miscarriage. This child had represented in so many different and literal ways, new life. Or more accurately, a new season of the same messy life, and with it, all the anticipated joy a most-likely chubby, blonde, 10 lb, Viking baby could bring. We had hoped. 

For the uninitiated, grief is just a dressed-down version of sanctification, inviting you to sit down and lay it all on the table. So, once again, I took a seat. Consider mortality? Piece of cake. Long for the light on the other side? Constantly. Remember that we are but dust? Sure, tell me something I don't know. On the meta, "giving up" is my jam. Let me throw my hands up in the air, laugh at what small shreds of control exist in this life. I've been tempted to make my home in Lent, skip to All Saints Day, and make Advent last all year-round. I know these Job-like reckonings well.

If I hope for the grave to be my home,
if I spread out my bed in darkness,

if I cry out to corruption, 'You are my father,'
and to the worm, 'My mother,' or 'My sister,'

Where then is my hope?
And my hope, who sees it?

Will it go down to the barred gates of death?
Will we descend together into the dust?"

Oh, Job! Did you ever think He would do exactly what you so plainly claimed as preposterous? That he would descend to the grave, ravage the gates of hell, and in doing so, defeat your every legitimate complaint of hopelessness? I wonder if God laughed when you said this - - the smile of a compassionate, but knowing Father. There was so much more to come that you couldn't see. There is still so much more yet to come.

If you haven't already, you will, at some point in your life, come to know these groans and pains -- this very real waiting for the brokenness of our bodies and world to be made whole in a way that makes Scriptures like this one, personal. For you, it might be a baby, a family, a future, a lighthearted perspective on life, ambition, or simple dreams. When our beautiful mortal hopes are miscarried and fail to attain their expected or intended outcomes -- when they go awry, become distorted, backfire, or turn cold and grey -- that is precisely when a child of God might find themselves, against all earthly odds and efforts, hopeful. 

Lists & Lists

Today is one of those days, which is really every third day or so, where it dawns on me the massive amount of things that are on my plate and need to be done currently and pretty immediately. Usually it starts setting in when things aren’t going so well, like this morning when I had to leave a sobbing Ozzie behind in his preschool class that he didn’t want to go to today. He just wanted to go home. I had spent about 10 minutes or so unsuccessfully trying to console him and peel him away, and was also aware that having left my completely capable 9 year old in the car parked outside the school is actually kind of illegal in Illinois, and so my stress level is increasing with each minute that goes by hoping that no one will catch a glimpse of her in the car and call 911 or take some other ridiculous measure. So I had to just walk out on him and trust that his (incredibly wonderful) teacher would be able to console him. 

And then my brain starts dumping all the things…  I need to clear up the IRS issues and scan and send documents and talk to a lawyer, the medical bills need to be sorted and organized and tallied so I can make the last payments and close accounts, I need to check to see if our health share network will cover the electrophysiology study I need done on my heart to see if I need heart surgery in the next few months, I need to order school pictures tonight because Oz has picture day tomorrow, Blinn’s room organization needs to be finished (my dining room is covered in jewelry, barbies, notes, craft supplies, books and other 4th grader treasures), laundry from two weeks ago that needs to be folded and put away, uniforms need to be washed before tomorrow, Greg’s business bank accounts need to be closed and utilities still need to be put into my name, about 300 thank you notes need to be ordered and sent off to the world’s most generous and wonderful people that have kept my life somehow functioning these last 9 months, so many babysitters to schedule, a tombstone that still needs to be ordered (which is a hard decision not only because it’s a hard decision but because Greg and I are so damn aesthetically picky), Social Security offices to call and update about employment, therapists to call and schedule, I really need to see the chiropractor/acupuncturist, work projects and emails and Advent music to prepare, upcoming trips to plan and pack for, a massive pile of mail to sort and tackle through, Christmas is coming, Thanksgiving is coming, Greg’s 38th birthday would have been on this Thursday, kids that need to be cuddled and listened to at the most inopportune times, homework that I haven’t been aware of or keeping track of, dishes laying in the sink and wondering how we can have so many dishes when we eat out 80% of the time, tupperware that needs to be returned to all the amazing cooks who have sent meals over the last few months, a will that needs to be updated, investments that need to be made, airline refund checks that never came from trips that weren’t taken 9 months ago, photos that need to be ordered and little boys that still need help with potty-training. This is a small sampling of my brain on most days. 

And it’s so easy to be resentful of the girl sitting at the coffeeshop on a Tuesday morning just reading a book. Who has time to read a book? My brain doesn’t even really process words on a page at the moment. (“Widow Fog” is a very real thing. Google it.) Or resentful of you when you said you just worked out or are super tired because you had a big test yesterday. It's hard to rejoice with those who rejoice right now on these days. And it’s not like I’m not trying to work in time to take a break or get out with friends. That’s like a lifeline for me many days. All the things I used to tell Greg about, ask Greg about, laugh with Greg about are now distributed amongst dozens of wonderful people. But that also takes time. You have to schedule coffee or babysitters (because you can’t really talk about these things within earshot of little kids’ ears) instead of just talking in bed in the dark at 12am before you drift off to sleep together. 

And I really don’t want this to sound like a pity party. I am hugely aware that I am not the only one suffering or struggling in this life. Most of the time I feel almost guilty for having such an amazing supportive group of family and friends and for all the ways God has provided. But I’m also aware that when I’m with you all, it’s easy for me to enjoy being with you all (extrovert problems!) and forget about the load I’m carrying. And then you ask how I’m doing and it’s the most confusing question in the world because I know it’s not great in general, but at that moment, with all of you around, I’m feeling pretty good. And I’m glad for the opportunity to hear about your life (which, by the way, I'm sad that I’ve missed out on over the past year). And so I try to be honest, but I can see the look in your eyes when I start to tell you of the load and then I see you become overwhelmed and then I remember that it’s pretty overwhelming and then I don’t know whether to leave you with it or then try to assure you (the one with the overwhelmed look on your face) that it’s going to be ok. 

And then there are good days when things are going ok or even really well, and those are sometimes the hardest because it hits you out of nowhere that someone is missing and things shouldn’t be ok without that person there.

Today, after leaving Ozzie at school, I was reminded of the verse that Greg and I clung to those last few days at the hospital. 

Isaiah 42:16
I will lead the blind by ways they have not known,
along unfamiliar paths I will guide them;
I will turn the darkness into light before them
and make the rough places smooth. 
These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them. 

I wrote a song for our church last year that really was just a cry from myself to my beautiful church family. If I'm being honest, I still need massive loads of help with dishes and legal issues and babysitting (so much babysitting) and laundry and medical bills and a bazillion other things that I would delegate or enlist help for if I knew how to instruct you on how to complete them. But more than that I really really you to remind me of God’s promises and presence on days like this. 

(This is the first rough draft recording I made and emailed to Greg the day I wrote it. There's little kids playing and eating lunch in the background and it sounds a lot more refined now after playing it for a year, but it’s essentially the same. Add “record music at a studio instead of an iPhone” to the list of things to do up top.)

https://soundcloud.com/samanthaconnour-1/family-of-god

Family of God

I am the weak and the wounded, the broken and torn-down
You say that You are the Healer, the Comforter, here now
I am the lame and the leper, the unwanted, cast-out
But You tell me Your arms are open, have always been open

And I hear voices, singing out your praises
As I join that chorus, Your words ring true, Your words ring true

Family of God, remind me again, the life that He lived, the God that He is
The words that He said, the child that I am

I am the thief and the beggar, the unfaithful lover
You say that all is forgotten, that You are enough now

And I hear voices, singing out your praises
As I join that chorus, Your words ring true, Your words ring true

Family of God, remind me again, the life that He lived, the God that He is
The words that He said, the child that I am

Six Months

I was looking today at this picture that our friend Mark quietly took at the hospice, just hours before Greg passed. I hadn't really been able to look at it until now, but I was glad that it was there, knowing it was stored somewhere on my phone or computer. When I was looking at it today I was surprised to see how intertwined we were. I vividly remember that day, being there next to him. I remember the hours. I remember how bizarrely peaceful and warm it felt. I kept brushing his hair back. There are things about being so familiar with someone that you don't even realize you know, like the thickness of the hair on their scalp or the direction their hair grows right above their temples. But I didn't remember his hand on mine or his hand on my thigh. But it now seems to be such a perfect picture of us. We were always that intertwined and it wasn't dramatic or obvious or even thought about, we didn't even really have to try that hard. It was just easy. Falling in love and living with and staying in love with and growing in love for Greg as the years passed, was the easiest thing. We would have conversations about this. Wondering why it was so easy for us -marriage- not in a boastful or prideful way, but in a really humbling way. We had sat with and walked with many friends for whom marriage was not easy or even seemingly enjoyable at times, and with some friends who just couldn't make it work and felt their pain. We knew the vast complexities of being joined together with another sinner from sun up to sun down. We had our share of arguments that lasted until 4am and hurt feelings and just simply being really annoyed at each other. But at the end of the day, reconciling and coming back together was not difficult. Being together was always better. I don't know why it was so easy.

At the beginning, you read and hear a lot about the mystery of "two becoming one." What you don't hear anything about is how in the world you untangle that oneness after till death do you part. It's not easy. Pronouns aren't easy. I'm constantly hearing myself say "we" or "us" and I don't know how or when I switch it to "me" or "I". I don't even know what's accurate. Filling out forms isn't easy. Identifying as a widow is not easy. Carrying in sleepy kids and luggage late at night after a roadtrip is not easy. Lugging out to the alley the well-worn crib that you no longer need to keep around is not easy. Trying to figure out how to sing all the songs you would sing together, by yourself, is not easy. Being now just one of the two isn't easy.

The past six months have been the beginning of the untangling. Trying in the mess of things to figure out what's left after your other half isn't there. Are you half of yourself? It feels like it sometimes. I'm not who I was before I was with Greg, but I'm not who I was with him, either, as much as I would like that. There's a grieving not only for him, but for us, for me. I miss who I was with him. His love for me was a daily picture of God's love for me... freedom to try things I would normally cower from, freedom to cry, freedom to be horrible, freedom to fail, freedom to be ridiculous. I felt more myself with Greg than I had ever known myself apart from him.

The hardest conversation we had at the hospital just a few days before he passed was weeping together, knowing that our time together was coming to an end. This oneness that we had shared and known, though so dim in comparison to the mystery of being one with Christ and going home to be with Him... it was all we had ever known and what we had treasured as an unmistakably undeserved gift. The thought of it coming to a close, even to be replaced with a greater joy, was unfathomable and bitter, because the reality of it had been so beautiful.

In this untangling of us (because I can't live there forever and I know he wouldn't want me to), I'm finding that grieving him is more about making room in my life for it, more than it is a process or some time-fixed thing. There will just always have to be room in my life for missing him. And some days there needs to be more room in it than others. And in each new day, there's also, bizarrely, life happening. There's laughter and new stories. There's new successes and accomplishments, new failures and new embarrassing moments. There's all of the life that I wish he was here for. But even with him not here, it's still happening. It's the most absurd of things, that life still happens. Some days I don't want it to. I just want everything to stop, because he's not here for it. But I guess that's the biggest mystery of all, the light in the darkness. And all at the same time, I don't get it AND I profoundly do, because it's buried there somewhere in the core of me, underneath all the rubble and the muck, by the grace of God.