I Already Knew I Loved You

Mother’s Day was a reminder of how very blessed I am, first to have a spectacularly loving mom myself, and now to have two amazing little girls to hold and help mold. It was a gift to have a special day set aside to reflect on being a mother, but it was also a day that brought back some more difficult memories for me. When I started this blog, I feared that there would be a time when I felt compelled to write a post about my other children, the ones that may not often appear in these pages of writing but are frequently on my mind. It is not an entry that is fun or lighthearted, but it is fundamental to my journey as a mother. I have two amazing, cuddleable, daily reminders of how good I have it as a mother, and my gratitude for them is even bigger when I realize that becoming a mother was not a guarantee, not something to be taken lightly or for granted. I have two children that I hold each day, but I have four children that I hold in my heart. Without going into too much detail, my hubby and I were thrilled to become parents and head-over-heels for our first baby. We lost that baby in a miscarriage that rocked both of us. The next year, we had the incredible experience of welcoming Emma Grace into our lives. When it came time to tell her and our family that a little brother or sister was on the way, we could hardly contain our excitement. Emma wore a “Big Sister” shirt that proclaimed the big news. Later, when we had to say “goodbye” to that baby, too, words can’t describe all that went through our heads and hearts. Thankfully, gratefully, after a high-risk pregnancy filled with unknowns, we welcomed Lily Rebecca into this world one year ago. Holding her for the first time was joy mixed with relief, sweetness seasoned with knowledge of what might not have been. Who I am as a mother is influenced daily by this knowledge. When we had Emma and people asked if she was our first baby, it was such a difficult question for me. I didn’t want to burden people with our history, but I didn’t want to discount the life of our first baby. On our first baby’s due date, we planted a Shasta daisy in memory, something that we could watch grow since we wouldn’t have that privilege with our child. This year, as it came up, my hubby said, “Look how big it is,” and I replied, “Of course, she is our eldest.” That baby remains a part of our family. Our third baby, the one we lost before Lily, also has a memorial plant in our backyard. They are the first plants I check for when warmer weather comes, the only ones that can bring tears to my eyes, and the small but tangible statements that our babies’ memories go on for our family. Each year at Mother’s Day, our church addresses the fact that Mother’s Day brings wonderful memories, but it can also bring painful ones, and I am so grateful for that recognition. Though our family has felt heartbreak, so many other families come to mind who have been through so much more. Pregnancy loss is much more common than we realize. In the medical community, it can even become so routine that there is a matter-of-factness about it, a lack of compassion. In circles of family and friends, it is an occurrence that doesn’t have a protocol to follow or a ready-made sympathy card to send. It is hard to know how the experience affects each family, so it is difficult to know what to do or say. I have had the privilege of having many friends and family ask me how to handle it when someone they know loses a baby. The truth is, I am far from an expert, but personally I suggest handling it like any other loss: with dignity, with compassion, with the realization that everyone handles loss differently, and with caring thoughts and prayers for the hurting family. I believe that the key is in not pretending that we know the answers (i.e. avoid saying that this is what God wanted, that the baby must not have been healthy, that it was for the best, that they will have another.) None of us are God, we most likely don’t know if the baby was healthy or not, we cannot assume that they would not have wanted a baby with health problems, we don’t know that they will have another, and quite probably they want the baby that they lost. Imagine attending a funeral and telling someone who has just lost a spouse that they will remarry soon. Somehow, we know that this is terribly inappropriate, but there is often a desire to tell people that their baby will quickly be replaced. If a family chooses to handle the loss with any of these answers themselves, then that is their right, but I believe it best that these pat answers not come from others. Typically, I tell someone, “I’m so sorry for your loss. You’re in my thoughts and prayers.” It’s simple and maybe not the most eloquent, but it’s the truth, and it avoids trying to fix something that I can’t fix for them. After our experiences, my hubby and I try to make it a practice to not ask anyone when they hope to have children, as we now know so many private stories of early and late pregnancy loss or challenges with fertility (not to mention that some people make a conscious decision to not have children, a choice we respect.) Though we are far from perfect, the last thing we want is to be salt in anyone’s wound. On the other hand, we are honored to listen if people want to talk about their personal loss. We do not claim to know how anyone else feels, as this is such an individual journey, but we truly hurt for those who hurt. This has been a difficult post for me to write, but one that has found its way onto the computer nonetheless. In part, I have written this for my children that I never got to hold. May they know that they are loved. In part, I have written it for others who have had an unexpected journey in motherhood that isn’t always acknowledged. May they know that they are cared about. In part, I have written it because I couldn’t not write it anymore. To all four of my children, from the time I knew that you were inside of me, I already knew I loved you. Whether that meant that I got to actively parent you or will simply always be your mother, you will forever be a part of our family, our story, our lives…and now you are forever recorded in my memories from motherhood.