Here is this week's edition of the Mom Chronicles. I titled it "Remembering Sam" as it is about my miscarriage and miscarriage support. This weekend marks the one year anniversary of the loss of my child Sam. I think of her every day and look forward to the day we can be together again. I hope you enjoy the column.
Amy
The Mom Chronicles: Remembering Sam
I am a mom. You all know that by now. What you may not know is that I am actually a mom of three, not just the two I so frequently talk about. And it is of that third child of mine that this article is written.
The baby whom I named Sam was conceived one year ago and lost an all too short time thereafter. September 5th, 2008 is a day that I mark the loss of that sweet child of mine. In this article I will refer to Sam as a “her”. I do so because according to the Chinese birth chart that I swear by, Sam would have been a girl. While I do not know that for certain, identifying her as such even with out knowing gives me a reference point and for that I am grateful.
Sam was conceived a short time after the birth of my second child, also a girl, whom you all know by now as my Ella. While it is very difficult for me to admit, Sam was not planned, nor did I rejoice in the news of her conception as I did my two other children. In fact, not only did I not rejoice in it, but I cried and agonized over it in a way I would have never imagined. What ever would I, a virtually single mom, do with three children under the age of three? This seemed like the most daunting task. My marriage was on the rocks. My daughter was barely four months old, and the depression issues that have plagued my life were raging with post partum hormones. To that I made poor choices.
To this day, I blame myself for the loss of my Sam. I did not take care of myself the way an expecting mom should. I made choices that were not the best for myself or my baby. It was no wonder then, that the day I found out that Sam did not make it, was filled with not only grief but a deep sense of self blame and guilt that lives with me even at times today. What a horrible mom, I thought. I deeply felt that not only was her loss my fault, but I went a step further and decided that I didn’t deserve her. After all, what kind of mom isn’t thrilled about the news of another child? I had after all, even had had a thought of not wanting her. But those thoughts had lasted for only a moment, and like any other mom, I had began celebrating her conception, even looking forward to it, only to be met days later by the agonizing news of her loss.
What I have learned since then, is that the grief of losing a child comes in many different forms. Some folks become sad, others angry, or bitter. I was many of those, at first. Thanks to my faith, however, I have come to view Sam’s loss in a different way and for me that has been very freeing. It helped me to accept Sam’s loss was not my fault, and it was not my being punished for my initial feelings of the news of the pregnancy. After all, whether they admit it or not, I think most moms have moments of apprehension at some points in their pregnancy. It allowed me to memorialize her in various ways, from burying the tissue that was lost and having my grandfather, a pastor, do a “funeral” of sorts just with he and I, to setting up a memorial in my bedroom that consists of a book, various forms of butterfly memorabilia, statues, even a wind chime, to most recently getting a new tattoo to mark the anniversary of her loss. I have written about her, attended a memorial service and grief group. These things have not made me less sad, but they have helped in letting go.
Thanks to my faith, I do have the belief that things happen for a reason, and for that I attempt to let myself “off the hook” feeling responsible for Sam’s loss. I do not feel like I will ever be completely dissolved of guilt, but as time has passed and I have seen my life unfold, I have seen reasons bigger than me for her loss, and for those I am grateful. I have been told by some to be thankful for the two kids I have, as if that is supposed to make Sam’s loss less of one for some reason. Believe me, having the two children I have has made it a little easier, but it also makes me think of those folks out there, who have miscarriages or lose children, and have no others. To that I still believe the loss is the same.
Something I learned in the loss of Sam is that there is a group of moms out there suffering in silence, because many folks do not view miscarriage as a true loss. My very own husband did not feel near the grief I did, in fact offered feelings instead of relief. It was very difficult then, to reach out to others who had similar losses. Something I felt in attending grief groups, was that there was little I felt in common with people who lost someone who physically made their way to this earth, and walked on it for a time. With miscarriage or infant loss, there are often no memories, no pictures, nothing tangible to hold on to. While others sit around and share memories of their spouse or loved one, a mom who has suffered a miscarriage simply sits feeling empty, wishing if only she had those memories to share.
The thing is, as moms, from the moment of conception we are mothers. From the very minute we see the plus sign or second line on the pregnancy test stick, we feel a sense of something within us that will never be replaced. We make plans for that child. We think of what we will name them, what they will look like, be like. We smile at the tiny pink and blue and yellow clothes in the department stores, or other pregnant moms walking down the street or clinging to their newborns at the doctors office. That will be us soon. So when that is gone, one is left with a deep sense of sorrow. For me, it was how could that thing that was just so alive and well within me one moment, suddenly not be there? And unlike when you progress through a pregnancy and deliver a baby, with a miscarriage, you continue to go through the months expecting to be growing, expecting to be expecting, and when the time comes that your baby was due, there is no great birth day or delivery of that child. Just as soon as people in your life hear about it, they often forget about it. When your due day comes and you are agonizing over the fact that you should be at the hospital delivering that baby, instead, there is just nothing and frequently no one at your side agonizing the same way. For me, the realization of there being no baby came a short while after the miscarriage occurred when I had an ultrasound for other female issues. Seeing my empty womb in the screen was perhaps the greatest blow to my heart. It made it real. As if I had expected to go there and see a beating heart and the doctor be like, “Just kidding! There is a baby still alive after all!” This obviously, was not the case.
While I take time to remember my Sam, I do it by remembering the things that have helped me survive the past year. Due to my marital situation, I have not been able to attempt to move on by having another child, and the fact is, that wouldn’t replace Sam anyways. But what I have done are some of the things I mentioned earlier. To grieve Sam I have done everything I can to memorialize her. I utilized a very valuable miscarriage ministry through my church, Our Saviour’s, and attended, albeit alone, a miscarriage remembrance service they had. I attended a grief group, and registered online with “A Small Victory”, a website that that sends out loss kits to help parents of little ones that never made it here alive to grieve and memorialize them. I visited various websites, and read the book provided to me by my doctors office. My favorite purchase, however, has been a book by Linda Deymaz, recommended to me by the miscarriage ministry at my church, titled “Mommy, Please don’t cry.. There are No tears in Heaven.” To this day, I can not read it with out doing that very thing, crying. It beautifully illustrates a message from a child living in Heaven. It talks of streets of Gold, singing with the angels in a voice she got from me, and about meeting man named Noah with a big boat and lots of animals. Have I heard of Noah? “When it’s time to rest,” the book reads, “Angels tuck us in. I never get scared mommy. There is no darkness here.”
This week is my anniversary, my week to remember the baby I lost one year ago. To those of you who also have these “anniversary” weeks, I am truly sorry. It is, afterall, an anniversary I rather not be having. My hope for you, if you do, however, is that in time, ever day will not be so dark. That in time, you will be able to take comfort in that one day, you and your child’s hearts will beat together again. Mostly, that you are not alone.
It is ok to mourn the child you lost. Everyone will not understand. They will not “get” why you can’t just get over it, or how something that you never even got to see, could hurt so deeply to loose. That is because they are not moms, or have not felt the loss themselves. Even if at the time, you didn’t rejoice over your child’s conception, I am certain, you did agonize over their loss. Do not feel guilt. Do not feel shame. Do not feel as if you did something wrong. Those, I am learning, are not helpful feelings. They do serve a purpose for awhile, but in time, I hope your mourning turns to dancing as you rejoice in the knowledge that while not safe in your arms, your child is indeed safe, and with out pain, or fear or flaw. My favorite statue is of a girl holding her dress “twirling”. That is how I imagine my Sam, and I can’t wait to one day twirl with her.
Take heart, my miscarried moms. You are not alone, and you have a friend here. Things will not always be this hard.
In memory of Sam Peterson, 9-5-08.
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