This is the third in a series of posts about women’s bodies and consecration. Part I was about pregnancy, and part II about single sisterhood. I am using the information gathered in these posts to write an article called “A Living Sacrifice,” which will be published in the fall/winter 2007 issue of Segullah. Comments posted may be quoted in the article. (I will use first names only, or quote anonymously.)
I stared at the stain, not wanting to believe what I was seeing. Blood. Bright red. And I was seven weeks’ pregnant.
In an instant I knew what was happening: miscarriage. My first. After six live births, I was finally facing the terrible loss that one in four pregnant women suffer.
Knowing how common an occurrence this was didn’t help one bit—no rational thoughts could have helped. I found myself in a surreal state of being where I could literally feel life slipping from me. I sank onto my bed, whispering “oh no, oh no.” It was midmorning, and I was home with my toddler and my preschooler. It took me several minutes to fashion a coherent thought: Call the doctor.
But before I could do that, the phone rang. It was the Relief Society secretary, wondering why I was late for my visiting teaching interview. “Why aren’t you here?” she asked. “I’M HAVING A MISCARRIAGE, OKAY???” I shouted. Poor woman.
A few minutes later there was a knock on my door. My neighbors, who had been at their interviews when the secretary had called me, were anxious to help. One stayed with my children. One drove me to the hospital. There, an ultrasound confirmed my fear—I saw the tiny, tiny beginnings of a body, but no heartbeat.
Dang, I’m crying right now, just thinking about it.
I went home, opting to let the miscarriage complete itself. I bled, and waited, and bled, and waited. Two days later, after the bleeding had nearly stopped, I passed that tiny form I had seen on the ultrasound monitor.
It was beautiful.
The next day I called my friend, who had once shared with me a poignant written account of the miscarriage of her first pregnancy. I was so grateful I could call someone who understood what I was feeling—a mix of grief, bewilderment, frustration, and shame. We cried together.
A few weeks later, this friend called me back. She had just miscarried her fifth pregnancy, had even seen the little body. I revisited my own loss as she described her own. The worst part about it, I told her, was the sense of futility. Sure, I had only been pregnant for a few weeks, but I had already invested great physical, emotional, and spiritual energy in this new life. And for what? Some women receive revelation that the life lost will be resurrected, that the forming child will be part of her eternal family. But I had received no such reassurance.
Yet as I continued to speak, I heard surprising words coming from my mouth. “It wasn’t a waste,” I said. “It wasn’t a waste.” I wasn’t quite sure what I meant. I did not feel any more certain than I had before that the partially formed body I had passed would someday live again. Nor was I referring to the personal gain of knowledge and experience that comes from our trials. Rather, I knew that somehow, my loss COUNTED. God knew what had happened, he grieved with me, he would consecrate the experience for my gain. And, in some inexplicable way, my loss would somehow contribute to his work and his glory.
I felt better after that, even though it still took more time to recover, both physically and emotionally. But it was easier to accept my loss with the assurance that it hadn’t been in vain. I was convinced that when women offer their bodies as vehicles for new life, they are consecrating themselves to God’s purposes, and God honors this offering, whether or not it results in live birth. I sensed that this is especially true when we offer ourselves consciously, purposefully, to God.
A week afterward, my friend called again. The previous night she had passed another tiny body. She had been pregnant with twins. I didn’t know what to say to her, or to myself. I couldn’t wrap my mind around my friend’s double loss, which carried more than a double portion of grief. All I could do was hang on to that irrational, blessed conviction that God knew, that he understood, that there would be eternal compensation for this pain. Eternal meaning, eternal gain.
Many of you have suffered miscarriage. Please post any thoughts you are comfortable sharing about your experience. What did you lose? What did you gain? In what ways was your short-lived pregnancy an act of consecration?
Kathy, how beautiful and poignant! Thank you for sharing this. I had an early miscarriage over 9 years ago. It was an unexpected pregnancy and I was just getting used to the idea of another baby on the way when I started spotting. I was about 9 weeks along. It wasn’t until I went for an ultrasound and saw the evidence of life within me that the pregnancy suddenly became very real. It was also then that the loss began to sink in. The hardest challenge for me was dealing with unfulfilled expectations. The baby I had begun to think about, accept, and welcome, would not be coming. I felt compelled to share my feelings, but had not yet revealed the pregnancy news to any friends. It was a very lonely time. I realized that it was much more painful for my loss to be ignored or trivialized by others than to have friends ask me about it and let me talk. I wanted it to be recognized and my loss validated. I found a miscarriage message board (like an antiquated version of blogs) and reading and posting there was therapeutic. I also learned what kinds of things NOT to say to a person who is grieving. I could probably go on, so perhaps I will e-mail or post about it on my blog.
Out of ten pregnancies, four have been miscarriages. Two of those were before I’d had any live births, so they were especially traumatic because I feared that perhaps I’d never be able to carry a child to term. That experience has given me much empathy for those who struggle with infertility, the sorrow and bewilderment of a promise unkept. I watched friends and family struggle with what to say to me, but determined that any offense was more than swallowed up in the knowledge that I knew they loved me.
The other two were between child #2 and child #3. I was disappointed, but also okay with the idea that maybe two daughters would be the end of my childbearing. However, four more children came in fairly quick succession.
I’ve found that people assume that my prolific fertility and healthy children mean that I haven’t experienced loss or pain with regards to childbearing. I suppose I could consider it consecration that my experience with miscarriage compels me to seek out and offer sympathy to those who have suffered it, to be a listening ear and a validator of their mourning and loss.
A friend of mine had two children. The second was born 12 weeks early and had significant health problems for some time. I remember at one point my friend added up the time involved for number of things she was supposed to do to care for this medically fragile child, and it came out to something like 25 hours a day. That didn’t include time for sleep or to care for older son.
Yet even knowing the risks she faced, she wanted to have another child, and tried for several years. She miscarried many, many times during those years. It was hard to know how to talk to her, or what comfort I could offer. It seemed that at every visit she had seen a new little body pass from her, and the trauma and the grief she experienced were profound. I was deeply inspired by her committment to life and by her willingness to continue investing physically and emotionally in the process of bringing life forward. I felt the holiness of her committment and of her sacrifice.
So much to say….
One thing that surprised me about my miscarriages (I’ve had 4) was how a wave of grief would overwhelm me at unexpected times.
I cried during Sacrament meeting looking at the empty pew next to me, knowing that I wouldn’t be setting a baby carrier there.
I could hold countless babies and feel joy in their lives, and then for whatever reason, holding one would be too overwhelming and I would have to hand her back.
I would go days being completely fine, and then have a week where it was all I could do to drag myself out of bed and take my child to school, sometimes still in my pajamas, hoping nobody would really notice. (Yeah, and just in case you were wondering, they did.)
My last miscarriage was almost 3 years ago. I suppose what I needed to hear (and maybe would’ve, had I sought out the right kind of people) was that I needed to go through the actual grieving process, akin to what other people go through when they lose husbands, wives, other children, and give myself some time to do that. I didn’t understand that things would get better in time, and that eventually I would have a different perspective than white-hot pain. Had I known that the pain would ease with time, I think (wonder?) if it would have made it all a little more bearable.
That being said, every year, when my son celebrates his birthday, I think of his sibling who was due on the same day he was, only 2 years later. Every year I think about what it would be like to have a child just two years younger than my son. Mothers never forget their babies, even the ones they lose.
I always have a hard time explaining my feelings about miscarriage because I don’t seem to feel the way most women do about it.
I don’t feel that I’ve lost any children. I don’t think there were spirits for those bodies. I don’t think about the children that might have been in our family. They never were part of me.
Miscarriages are significantly more difficult for me physically than emotionally. My miscarriages always result in 5-6 months of feeling awful for literally nothing. I can’t think of anything I gain, and a lot that I lose, especially when it’s difficult to focus on the children I do have.
Well, maybe there are some things I’ve gained. There are several good things our family has been able to do because we don’t have babies right now- things that I never would have considered doing if we’d had a newborn and a toddler in addition to our two older children. While I don’t necessarily think those things are better than having more children, I do know that for the last several years we were not supposed to have more children. I am sure of that. And maybe that knowledge calms me. I know that our family is the way it’s supposed to be right now. I’m satisfied with that.
Thank you for these insightful comments, ladies.
Amira, I’m glad you were willing to share your perspective–it’s important for all of us to recognize that there are a variety of “normal” reactions to miscarriage.
It’s important to validate the recovery process that miscarriage can require, both physically and emotionally. Like Heather O. says, women need to know that it’s normal, and sometimes necessary, to grieve the loss. And we need to give ourselves time to return to physical equilibrium as well. After my miscarriage I had to remind myself that I was going through the same postpartum hormonal changes that come after birth.
It’s easy to pressure ourselves to “get over it” because the loss is so private; while the pregnancy may have been “real” to the father and to other loved ones, the mother often has had a connection with the pregnancy that others might not understand. It’s easy to feel alone.
Idahospud, thank you for reminding us that a women with many children is not necessarily exempt from miscarriage. Of the women I know with large families, several have suffered many losses.
Jennifer and others, I’m interested to hear what you have found helpful, and hurtful, to hear after a miscarriage. I don’t think there’s one right or wrong way to respond–we all react in our own ways for our own reasons. But I think it’s valuable to see what worked and what didn’t for different women.
Angie, thanks for that powerful example of consecration. Are you still in touch with this friend? Any chance she might be willing to share her thoughts here?
As far as gains go–I’m wondering how you found yourselves changed for the better as a result of this painful experience. How has your understanding deepened? Your compassion?
When I hear of someone suffering with pregnancy loss at any stage, something inside me wails for them. When I know someone who has a premature baby, I pray and actually plead for their baby to come out healthy.
I have three children, three amazing kids. Before they were born, I lost 3 babies. With two of these babies, I was between 4 and 5 months along in the pregnancies and one of the babies lived for five minutes. I buried two sons in the cemetery before I had any children at home. I also experienced an early miscarriage around 9 weeks between those first baby boys born too early to survive.
I felt incompetent as a mother, as a woman and as a daughter of Eve. The term “incompetent cervix” that labeled one of the causes for my miscarriages was no help in this matter.
I was reclusive and depressed. I became absolutely determined that no matter what I would have babies. Babies that survived.
The journey was hard and required more than doctors thought possible. But I did it. And I recognize the complete miracle of it all.
The necessary inconvenience of bed rest and surgery and other restrictions that my pregnancies require doesn’t even come close to comparing to the absolute emotional hell of burying a child. During pregnancy, my body becomes a something different. It becomes a house, creating someone else. It is something I willingly give.
There were things that helped me along the way and things that did not help at all. Since you asked, (and this response is already wordy anyway) here goes:
Visiting teachers that I did not know tried to comfort me. They had not seen a point in getting to know me or visiting at all before this happened. I am a private person (more so even then than now) and there was no way I was going to become fast friends with them in my grieving. They left things on my doorstep and invited me to go roller blading. Yes — roller blading. Maybe I should have been nicer, but I didn’t have it in me.
People who said, “Maybe you’ll adopt,” or “You’ll have another one,” Or “It’ll get easier,” did not help because there were no quick fixes.
I cried with my husband and my mother. I sat at the cemetery by myself and sobbed. I struggled with my sense of identity and my spirituality.
My doctor was kind and warm and real. She sat with me in the hospital and cried with me. She called me at home. She researched all possibilities since there was not a clear cut, obvious cause, but rather a combination of causes. She also determined to help me get a healthy child here — and she did, three times.
During this upheaval, I could not write anything. And I am a writer. If I wrote, somehow it seemed too close to a breakdown or something worse. Sometimes I thought writing would jinx things. It’s been ten years and I am writing about it now.
I had a blessing from my bishop (at that time) that makes me cry to this day. The blessing said I would have babies and that I would find indescribable joy and laughter them. He gave me hope. He promised me joy and I eventually found it.
I am stronger than I would have been otherwise. I feel God took whatever strength was in me and made it exponentially more. He filled my emptiness with joy and sweetness that was completely unknown to me before. I would not wish this difficulty on myself or anyone. My experiences and trials having children are, in part, responsible for the true joy I feel when I look at these three bodies bouncing off the walls of my home now.
Rynell, thank you. So poignant, so real. My heart goes out to you. Thank you for taking the risk of writing about these experiences. You have blessed us all. (And you are writer, indeed.)
I had two miscarriages, one at 8 weeks and one at four months. The first, when I was pregnant only long enough to barely realize I was pregnant, I got over fairly quickly.
But the second was fairly devastating, physically and emotionally. I think my body went through many more changes and it took me quite awhile to get back to normal hormonally. I was more attached to that little spirit.
My miscarriage occurred between the live births of my three children. I’ve heard of many women who miscarry between children–I suppose it’s more common than we realize.
But I know a woman who has only one son because she developed a disorder after his birth and was never able to carry another child to term. I can’t imagine the toll that took on her body and her spirit. I know that she had many miscarriages and had to be hospitalized and given IV’s of blood as well.
When I had my first miscarriage, in 1972, times were different. My doctors were less compassionate and informed. I think the young women of today are fortunate indeed in having kind and educated caregivers to help them deal.
I have had two miscarriages, separated by 4 years. With the first one I was already 11 1/2 weeks along when I went to the doctor. My uterus was tilted and one ovary was enlarged, he wanted to do an ultrasound. I saw the baby. I saw the thumping heartbeat. It was strong and beautiful. It was so amazing. I took the pictures he gave me and showed them to everyone. I would stare at them with excitement and wonder. The next week I had another ultrasound to look at my ovaries. What I saw was completely different than the week before. No heartbeat. No movement. No life. Just an empty shell of a fetus. It was the hardest thing ever. My husband was at work, my family was thousands of miles away and I was completely alone! I waited for more than two weeks before any bleeding started and then a few days later the cramps began. 19 hours later at 3 in the morning, I passed the pregnancy.
The second time around happened very early on, but not naturally. After a few rounds of fertility drugs we got pregnant, but from the blood tests they could tell the pregnancy wasn’t healthy. After a few weeks of time dragging on, blood tests, and ultrasounds, I finally had a D and C.
I feel that with my miscarriages that the vessels that I had in my body were not right for the spirits to inhabit them. I had a deeply personal and special priesthood blessing a couple years ago and I KNOW that the things told me will come to pass. I do not doubt that. I will have children, I will be a mother, I will get to use the white blessing blanket that my Grama crocheted for me over 4 years ago.
Miscarriage is a horrible thing. Sometimes I come across the ultrasound pictures of my little baby… and I still cry. I agree with Heather O.
It is a loss, it is difficult, physically, emotionally and spiritually. But, Heavenly Father has a plan and He is aware of us. He sent his son to be our Savior. As it says in Isaiah 59: “…a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief….surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows…”
He did so much more than atone for our sins. He carried all of our sorrows and griefs. He alone knows how we feel. That gives me a tremendous amount of peace.
Thank you, Becca. How heartbreaking to lose a pregnancy after already seeing strong signs of life.
Your words remind me of a favorite quote of mine from Chieko Okazaki, about how the Savior understands ALL of human experience, including experiences that come only to women. I believe this.
I made a mistake. The scripture is Isaiah 53, not 59. sorry.
Over the years, I’ve become almost clinical about miscarriage. 11 pregnancies; five miscarriages. I just figured I’d have to get pregnant twice and go through all the months of high risk restrictions if we wanted a baby–and had to decide if I was up to it. Other people have had it worse. (As an adoptee, myself, I’ve seen that up close.) I’ve written so much about it that it’s kind of out of my system. Now that I’m done having kids, it’s just one of those things in my past that I remember as being painful, difficult, but also as something that taught me some hard lessons.
Holy cow. Alison, thank you for sharing your perspective.
Everytime I go through something hard, I’m reminded that there are so many people suffering–you walk down the street and you have no idea what’s happening behind the neutral faces.
The following is a story my dear husband wrote after I miscarried at 11 weeks with our first child. I hope it may help some like it has helped me.
LITTLE SPIRIT
There once was a spirit child who was ready to come to earth. As he gazed over the clouds and down to earth he looked at all the beautiful places he could grow up in. A calm voice spoke to him, “You are ready little one. I have saved you for this opportunity, and now it’s time. Where would you like to go?”
The little spirit, with his big eyes, looked closer at the land which his Father had made for him. He saw tropical islands, beautiful to the eye. Birds sang to the sunrise. Green plants grew tall and ocean waves patted the sandy shores. There a family lived in a house at the end of a white sandy beach. “Would you like to grow up there little one?” The voice asked, “You will grow to be a strong man. You will be raised without a care in the world, with beauty surrounding you everyday of your life.” The little spirit looked on and said, “This is a beautiful place, but I worry that I may lose track of why you wanted me to come to earth. I may not want to leave the island. I may become too lazy and not work as hard as I know I can. May I look at another spot.” The voice replied, “Of course, my child.”
Next the little spirit looked to a land of great riches. It was a big city with many people. He saw a palace with steps of gold, and gardens that stretched for miles. This home had many rooms and everything you desired at the tip of your fingers. It had stables full of horses, garages packed with cars, and servants to cater to your every whim. The voice said, “What do you think about this spot? You will never have to work a day in your life. You will grow up to be a rich and powerful man. People will respect you for all you have.” The little spirit stood in awe, looking at such a rich existence, glanced back toward the voice and replied, “Although it would be nice to be wealthy, I did not earn this money. You have taught me that you should work for all you get. I don’t think that I would like people to respect me for what I possess.”
“Father maybe I’m not ready to go yet?” The little spirit began to weep. “Maybe there is no place for me?” Then he felt strong arms wrap around him, and his weeping ceased. He felt love, warmth, and comfort. He looked up at the person holding him, and this gentle man kissed him on the forehead and said, “Worry not my son I have the perfect place for you. Don’t cry, you passed your test. Look down and see your home.” The little spirit climbed down to look over the clouds once again. He saw a land with huge mountains surrounding a valley, he saw many temples that resembled the ones in heaven. He saw many good people singing to his Father, and he felt the love of his brothers and sisters. The little spirit jumped for joy, clapped his hands, and sang. He had found his place.
Now the voice whispered, “Pick a family to grow with.” The little spirit with a big smile looked for a family. He looked all over the land and found a family that seemed nice. The little spirit watched the for awhile. They attended church, they were married and sealed in the temple, and they prayed to their Heavenly Father. The parents came from a very loving and spiritual family. They loved people from all over the world. They enjoyed God’s creations, and they were ready to receive him. This was a family with humble beginnings, but could teach him of his mission on earth, and help him reach his potential. The little spirit turned back to his Father, ran to him, and hugged him goodbye. This time it was the Father weeping. So the little spirit wrapped his arms around him and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “You can go now, you have a lot to prepare for before March Thirtieth, Two Thousand Three”, said the Father.
The little spirit leaped from his fathers lap and ran to the edge of the cloud. His father told him to close his eyes. The little spirit slowly closed them, and with a deep breath found himself in thought. He could see nothing, but felt the warmth and comfort of another presence. He could not talk to them, but he felt love surrounding him. He heard the voices of two people. He remembered the earthly parents he had chosen, and could not wait to meet them. He could feel the rhythmic beating of his mothers heart, and knew each was full of love. He could hear her laugh and knew his father loved her with all his might. As time went by the little spirit was feeling more and more at home. Then a tranquil, still voice came to the little spirit. It spoke to him, “Little one, are you there?” “Yes I am still here, awaiting my mission on earth. Who are you?” “I am your Only Begotten Brother, I bring with me a message from our Father.” “What is it, can you tell me?” “Yes, Father would like you to come home now little one, your mission is complete.” The little spirit did not understand. “Are you sure, I just got here, I have yet to meet my earthly parents.” “You know them better than you think. You can feel the love they have for you. You can also feel the love their family has for you. Your father has a special mission just for you. You see, your earthly parents love you so much, and father sees that. With a heart as big as yours, you do not need to stay here. You have fulfilled your mission on earth.” “What about them? How will they feel? I do not want to hurt them. Will they understand why I have to go?” “Yes, that is the reason Father helped you chose them.”
The little spirit took hold of his Brothers hand. He spoke to the little one, “Lets go now, let the Angels lead you in.” As they walked back to heaven, the Angels stood proud and tall for the little spirit. He could hear his earthly parents weep for him. He heard them sing. “May angels lead you in.” He looked to his big Brother and knew they would be fine, just by the way he looked back at him. Upon his return, his Heavenly Father was there with streams of tears running down his cheeks, for he knew what it felt like to loose his first son. His tears were so strong it rained in the valley as a sign to the parents that the little spirit was home. It rained for the span of two days. The parents knew Heavenly Father was weeping with them.
The Earthly Father
oh my heart goes out to all of you. What a touching story.
Though I don’t recommend reading it if you are recovering from a bad cold, coughing and dealing w/all that goes w/it for the crying induced by this thread makes it worse.
I’m late to this thread, just heard about this site tonight. And though I am single and never married, etc I do care for and appreciate your openness in sharing these experiences. Hopefully it will help me be better at helping/caring for those in my life who have to undergo this trial.
Nita, you have the same name as my sweet mother-in-law. I’ve never heard of anyone besides her named Nita. You might enjoy reading Kathy’s other Living Sacrifice posts as well–there is an excellent thread on the physical sacrifice of being single in the gospel. There’s a link to them in the sidebar, or you can find them under “article discussions” if you go back a ways.