In the months since we delivered Virginia, I have struggled to find the words for this loss I am feeling. A few weeks shy of being clinically a stillborn, it feels almost like I am robbing others of their grief by using the wrong terminology. Yet, a miscarriage somehow feels to not be large enough to hold my grief or describe our time delivering her. And so, when people ask what happened, I stammer around it and fumble over my words feeling helpless to find the right verbiage to both honor her life and express how deeply this has changed our entire family.
Our friends talk of child loss and glance my way nervously, unsure of where I place myself in the bereaved parents column. And I avoid eye contact because I don't know either. Some text me blogposts about grieving parents and talk about hard milestones while others smile with the hope that a pat on the back and repeating "at least you have three healthy ones" will wipe away our sorrow and take away the clouds that seem to constantly hang over our heads. All agree that they don't have "the words," and I nod because neither do I.
My Obgyn, whom I adore, who helped to safely deliver both Baby K and Buddy, who held me while I sobbed after that heartbreaking ultrasound, who I recommend to all my pregnant friends, who stayed with us much longer than needed in the delivery room to offer what comfort she could, told me at my second check up after Virginia's delivery that these "flukes" just happen. And I have never had a rage burn more quickly or more intensely because of one single word. Even my seasoned doctor, it seems, stumbles over words for a late loss. Stillborn nor miscarriage - and certainly not fluke- seem to fit, so I simply repeat that we lost her. As if one day, on this side of Heaven, we might find her again.
As much as I don't have the words to describe what happened, even more so I struggle to find the words as we move forward. It feels disingenuous to answer cheerily with "three!" when people ask me how many babies we have. Every time I have said it since April 10, my heart has hurt with what feels like the heaviest of betrayals hidden in the smallest of words. Three negates Virginia's existence. Denies that she was ever ours, even if just for a moment, or what she means to us. But four. Four violently rips off the lid I have managed to force onto my grief so I can get through the day. It opens me up to hot, uncontrollable tears and awkward moments with strangers who didn't expect the flood of emotion and personal history to follow a seemingly innocuous question. So, I dread the question as the new year begins and we meet new parents at the ball field and school and we all dance through the same "get to know you" routine.
Over and over, I cycle back and forth on the same wave of guilt. Guilt of feeling like the very least I could do is honor her memory in the way I speak of her but, for the first time in my life, finding myself speechless. Guilt in constantly measuring my grief against others' and worrying I am stepping on toes from this weird no-man's land between miscarriage and losing a living child. Guilt of wanting to do nothing but cry and grieve and say Virginia's name over and over as we approach her due date but also the very heavy guilt of knowing how that affects the three babies who wake up each day in this house, bright eyed, full of love, and needing their momma.
And so, as we are just a month out from what should be her due date, I am still speechless. I miss her. I miss all that could have been. I miss my pregnant body and all the hope that it held. And all I can do is cry out - for comfort. For understanding. For peace. And trust that my silent pleas, the wordless aching of my heart, is enough for now.
Hear my cry, O God;
Attend to my prayer.
From the end of the earth I will cry to You,
When my heart is overwhelmed;
Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.
For You have been a shelter for me,
A strong tower from the enemy,
I will abide in Your tabernacle forever,
I will trust in the shelter of Your wings.
- Psalm 61:1-4
