There is a part in Mr.
Magorium’s Wonder Emporium where Mr. Magorium is talking to Molly about
death. I used that excerpt at a friend’s funeral many years ago, which went
something like this:
In
Shakespeare’s ‘King Lear’ at the end of Act V, King Lear dies. Shakespeare,
this brilliant author and composer of literature that changed the world as it
stands today, who influenced so many parts of so many things, writes “He dies”
on the page. That is all that he can come up with. There is no fanfare, or
choice words, or incredible rhetoric that he writes. He simply writes, “He
dies.” And you’re frustrated, because you expected something more than just “He
dies” but you realize that you’re truly frustrated because the character that
you have been bonding with and learning about in the pages before, is now gone.
And all that is left is the memory that character. That is what is truly meant
by “He dies.”
All that is left is memory. All that we are left
with is the memory of a little one; a child that was greatly awaited. There was
so much excitement and fanfare over our little jalapeno, gone in an instant.
Mandy and I decided that we were going to write our
own story, our own thoughts on everything that has happened with us over the
past few months and post it to our blog. I’m probably not going to get
everything I’ve been thinking about in this, but I hope I hit on some of the really
big things. I expect that many of you have already read Mandy’s post, and if
not you should. It is great stuff and is eye opening to me on some of the
things I didn’t deal with through this process. So here is my perspective. But I will warn you, it’s probably not
for the faint of heart. I also realize in this process, that a few of you are
going to get upset. Some of you didn’t know that we were pregnant, and that
upsets you. Some of you didn’t know that we miscarried, and that upsets you.
Some of you probably thought that we were closer, and something of this
magnitude to find out about in a blog post upsets you. I’m sorry. I truly am.
If I had the ability, strength, and gusto to call up each and every one of you
I would, but this is hard. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve had to deal with
in a long time, so please, cut us some slack. Also note that Jesus, God, etc. will be mentioned thoroughly
throughout this post. I do not apologize.
As Mandy puts it, we “pulled the goalie” back in
November, meaning that we stopped using all kinds of birth control. We didn’t
realize that we would get pregnant so quickly. After having a conversation with
some friends regarding how Mandy was feeling, she was encouraged to take a
pregnancy test. Turns out, it was positive. Definitively. Mandy was floored,
and I was too. Only about a week before she had taken another test because her
cycle had not arrived, and the test said negative. Mandy called me at work that
morning, told me she was pregnant, and started crying over the phone. I
probably sounded cold and disengaged. There was a customer with another one of
our employees and I was trying to maintain my professionalism. After I said, “I
love you” all professionalism sort of went out the window. I hung up the phone
and the customer said, “Do you tell everyone that calls in here that you love
them?” A few minutes go by, the customer leaves, and I’ve sort of been staring
blankly into space. David, one of my dearest friends, asks me if everything is
OK. I look at him and tell him that I am going to be a dad. The news took off
like wildfire around the store.
My favorite part of those first few weeks of being
pregnant was slipping the announcement into general conversation. If you’ve
ever had a conversation with me, you know my sarcasm and dry wit. One of my
favorites was when one of my female co-workers mentioned that she was nauseous
and wanted to throw up. I asked her if she was pregnant. When she said no, I said,
“Well we are.” The reaction was priceless. “Wait, really? Are you serious? Is
this another one of your lame jokes?” Yep. That’s the dialogue I’ve created
with people.
Fast forward a little bit, and life is going good.
I’m getting promoted at work, we are starting a life group, and of course we’re
having a baby. Amazing things are happening. Life is going great. Yet, I’m
frustrated. I can’t really put my finger on it. At first it starts out as just
an emotional thing that weighs on me when I’m not preoccupied. Eventually, it
starts to physically show, to the point where Mandy and I are getting into
arguments about meaningless things. “I’m frustrated, and I’m frustrated that I’m
frustrated,” I said to Mandy, because that makes sense. But, after some time
passes, I finally put my finger on it. I’m frustrated because my relationship
with my Heavenly Father is broken, and I’m receiving amazing blessings, but I’m
acknowledging nothing. I didn’t feel guilty, or ashamed, or anything like that.
I was frustrated because I had been wasting time on meaningless things while my
life was blossoming around me.
There was still a problem though. I didn’t feel
like getting any closer to God. I didn’t want to spend time or energy deepening
that relationship. We had just gotten out of fourth quarter and the holiday
season. I was tired. I didn’t feel like doing any of it. My attitude and ambivalence
frustrated me even more. A few more weeks go by. Many of our friends and family
know that we’re pregnant at this point, and all I can think about is my
frustration. I’m not thinking about the exciting new life coming into our
world. I’m not thinking about my promotion. All I can think about is my
irritation. So, I decided that I need to make a change. I stopped praying
frivolous prayers, and I got into the heart of the issue. I needed to get back
in relationship with my Heavenly Father. So I asked Him, “Father, I do not take
this request light-heartedly. I completely understand the weight of this, but I
think that it is necessary. Please help me to get back to you. I don’t know
what it is, but put something in my life that will draw me to cling to you.
Yes, I realize what I am asking.”
That was a heavy prayer to pray and I don’t
recommend doing that unless you absolutely mean it. I meant it. How many of you
have asked for patience and got your patience tested more than you were hoping
for. God doesn’t always just give what we ask for, and if that is how you think
God should work, I’m going to be frank and tell you your vision of Him is that
of a third grader. He is so much more than that. He is deeper than that. Also,
don’t think that because I asked God for a life change that He decided to kill
my child. Again, if you think that your vision of God is that of a third
grader. I say that in love. What happened is that I asked God to shake some
things up. Things were then shaken. The truth is that whether I prayed that
prayer or not, who really knows what would have happened with our child. The
exact same turnout probably would have happened, but in this scenario, my focus
changed. My vision changed. My understanding changed.
We come back from Colorado after spending a few
days telling friends and family that we are expecting. That was awesome and I
wouldn’t trade those days for anything in the world. Such joy and excitement is
hard to find amongst a world filled with tragedy and anguish. We head to the
doctor for our first ultrasound and we don’t really see a whole lot. They are
able to find the fetal sac, but that is really about it. No heartbeat. The
measurements show that Mandy is only about six weeks pregnant, but based on
conception and other “determining factors” we were expecting between seven and
ten weeks. That discrepancy alarmed the doctors. They scheduled Mandy for more
blood work to measure her hormone levels, and a follow up ultrasound.
It was at that point that I remember my prayer from
a few weeks earlier and I started lifting this up to Him. It was out of my
control. There was literally nothing I could do about it. All I could do was
pray and be there for Mandy. A few days go by and Mandy’s hormone levels, which
are supposed to be increasing, have become sporadic, both increasing and
decreasing. Mandy was a wreck. When she heard that her levels had dropped, she
came to the store in tears. We went over to a more secluded part of the store
and I just held her for a few minutes while she wept. I felt defeated, but my
reaction was the same. “The ultrasound would show any improvement. All I can do
is pray. Just let us see a heartbeat.”
The ultrasound rolls around and both of us are
quiet. We knew what was on the line here, and this was really the determining appointment.
They pull up the screen and there it is, a little flashing/blinking light. It’s
the heartbeat. It was amazing. It was relieving. But it was also slow. Instead
of the 160 or 180 that is desired, it was averaging more around 100, and the
measurements had not increased like they should have in a week. The doctors
weren’t really sure what to tell us. They didn’t want to give us false hope,
but it was good news. There was about a 50/50 chance at this point.
For Mandy, that was great news. For me, I took it
the complete opposite. We had gone from a 0% chance to a 50% chance in one
week, but after seeing how slow the heartbeat was, by spirit was crushed. All I
could think was that there was only a 50% chance. The heartbeat was only 100. But
my prayer of seeing the heartbeat was answered.
After the ultrasound, we went to see Mandy’s
primary nurse, who started coaching us and providing supplies for a potential
miscarriage. She let us know what to expect, how it was going to feel, options
for collecting a specimen for testing, etc. It got very real, very fast. Mandy
went home. I went to work, and all I could do was pray.
The next day, Mandy started bleeding. At that
point, I had started to give up. My spirit was exhausted. I had spent more than
the last week “praying without ceasing” and I was tired. I didn’t have anything
left. The Bible speaks of the Holy Spirit praying for you in groans when you
have no words. I had reached that point. The only prayer that I could muster
was, “God, please keep Mandy safe. Please keep her safe. I know it is going to
be painful and awful, but please keep her safe.”
Sunday morning rolls around. Miscarriage. Many
people are getting out of church and preparing for the Super Bowl. Mandy was in
the bathroom and I was preparing the last of my stuff before I went out of town
for work training. When it was over, I went into the bathroom with Mandy to see
the specimen she collected for genetic testing. I was floored. If you know much
about Mandy, she is very type-A, OCD, clean-freak sort of person. There was a
lot of blood. The toilet, the sink, the “hat” they had given Mandy to miscarry
into. I’m not shy around blood, but this was different. This was heavy.
A few
hours passed and I had to get going for my trip. Mandy parent’s had been in
town since Friday evening. Mandy and I decided that with them here, it was OK
for me to go for training in my new position. She would be here when I got
back.
Driving to Fort Worth was more difficult than I had
anticipated. The five and a half hours just dragged by and there were several
instances where I almost broke down in tears on the highway. Super safe state
of mind to drive in. When I reached the hotel, I grabbed some food and watched
the last half of the Super Bowl to take my mind off of everything. I then
proceeded to do a little bit of work and watch Netflix. Midnight rolls around
and I start to get tired, but I couldn’t sleep. It was at that point where it
all finally hit me. I wept for about a half an hour, curled up with a couple of
pillows and eventually passed out. I’ve only wept a few times in my life, and
they’ve always been in seclusion. I don’t like to cry in front of people,
including Mandy. That’s something that we’re still working on.
My best friend Justin ended up coming down from
Oklahoma to have dinner with me. That was awesome. If there is one person that
has been there for me in all of my struggles (as well as my praises), that is
Justin. To have some time to decompress, let out some thoughts and feelings,
and begin to sort through all of this was more than necessary. I’m thankful
that even in the midst of me shutting down, Justin has known me long enough to
know when to push a little harder. I thank you so much for that.
I drive back to Lubbock on Thursday, much more
collected this time. I drop a few things off at work and then have three days
off before I have to be back in the office. Mandy’s parents were still here, so
we had some time together. They ended up leaving on Sunday, and then reality
began to set in. Just over a week has gone by since Mandy and I have gotten
back to our normal routine. 16 days since the miscarriage. I am now starting to
deal with the grief.
The whole time I was in Fort Worth, I kept dealing
with a heaviness and pressure in my chest. In the past I had attributed that to
anxiety, but I wasn’t really feeling anxious. Being the fool that I am, I
chalked it up to drinking too much caffeine and too much sodium from fast food.
“Stress and grief over the loss of a child? No that could not possibly be why I
feel this way.” I convinced myself that my chest pain was because of
dehydration. I didn’t realize it until yesterday when I was lying in bed trying
to figure out what was going on. That’s when it clicked and that’s when some
more tears flowed. I have a problem with compartmentalization, which is a fancy
word for burying stuff deep down until I don’t feel it anymore so that I can go
about business as normal. That’s really unhealthy by the way. I don’t recommend
it.
Over the past week, I started telling a few people
that I work with that we lost the baby. It’s not the easiest thing to bring up
in conversation. Hey, how was your trip to Fort Worth? Oh, you know, lost my
child. I decided that I would only bring it up to people that asked how Mandy
was doing, because otherwise it was too painful to tell them. All I could
muster was, “we lost the baby on the first.” I had to leave it at that. After a
bit of conversation, sometimes I would tell them about the testing we were
hoping to do, but that was about it. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t
want to think about it. If I talked about it and thought about it then I had to
deal with it. I didn’t want to do that.
Mandy asked me last night how I’ve been doing with
all of this. A few people have asked her and in retrospect, I haven’t really
talked to her much about it.
The truth is that it comes in waves, but in general
I’m not doing very well with it at all.
I’m not angry. I’m not bitter. I’m not frustrated
or upset with God about any of this. But I’m sad. I’m really sad. I feel like a
rock was shoved into my chest and I have to find a way to get it out without it
causing any more damage. The fact is that I’m broken.
What I’ve realized through the beginning of this
process called grief is that I didn’t want to deal with any of this because of
how frustrated I get with other people. I’m not sure why, but a lot of people
feel obligated to try and offer some sort of advice when they hear news like
this. I think that the purpose is to try to console you, but for me I often
find it unhelpful and upsetting. This is not every case. Generally the people
that have experience this I find more consoling than the people that have not.
The way that I wanted people to respond was, “I am so sorry. What can I do for
you?” Or something to that extent. Instead, I got a lot of responses that were
unhelpful, even if they were grounded in truth.
“Well, you’re young. There is plenty of time left
for you to try again.” I am young, but that doesn’t help me with the fact that
I just lost a child. We have to wait at least three to six months before trying
again, and even if we get pregnant right away that is another nine months. That
is over a year more of waiting. This isn’t American Ninja Warrior we’re talking
about here. Just come back next year. Train harder. It doesn’t work like that.
“My sister/daughter/aunt/mother miscarried three
times and then had four boys.” This one I’m a little less of a stickler on.
But, the reality is that all I hear in this is that since we’ve already
miscarried once, it is probably going to happen a few more times. I don’t know
if I want to go through pain like this again and again. We’re also not planning
on having four kids of our own.
“It’s God’s will.” I think what you meant in saying
this is something like “God has a plan” which is totally different, and stems
back to my prayer I discussed earlier. There is no way in hell that my Heavenly
Father “willed” the death of an innocent child. Did He allow it to happen? Yes.
Could He have stopped it? Yes. Should He have stopped it? Why are we even
having this conversation? Ironically I am probably the one person affected by a
miscarriage to not ask why of God. It’s just not a question for me, but I don’t
appreciate this question because now I am trying to rationalize who I know my
Heavenly Father to be and how He thinks/makes decisions.
“You were only a few weeks along in the first
trimester. Most places do not define that as life, so that should make it
easier.” Yes, someone did say that to me. No, I did not slap them. I saw a
heartbeat and little did I know, but I created a very strong emotional bond
with the little child. There was life. Your definition is repulsive and
obscene.
I never thought that I would feel so strongly about
something that I never physically touched. People talk about the family bonds
all the time. It is strong with me and Mandy. We lost a child, and that is a
hard reality to deal with. But, it is reality.
We weren’t able to get the sex of the baby. There
wasn’t enough DNA in the genetic material to determine sex. That is hard,
because we had names picked out. Mandy and I talked about what we wanted to do,
and it seemed only fair to list both a boy and a girl name:
Annabeth Rose
Rhett Colton
It breaks my heart to think that I never got to
hold you. I never got to console you. I never got to watch you sleep. I never
got to dance with you. I never got to hold your hand. I never got watch you
fall in love. I never go to hold your babies.
In only a few months so much of a bond had been
created that it’s frustrating. Like in my excerpt with Shakespeare, we spent
all of this time bonding with and learning about a baby, now gone. All that is
left is the memory of this little one. And it’s unbelievably tough when you’re
overcome with all of this emotion and you can only get out, “they died.” Now I
understand why Shakespeare wrote it like he did. Sometimes that is all that you
can muster.
