(This is an account of our loss, from the perspective of my wonderful and supportive husband.)
As I came
downstairs after laying my youngest son, Aldan, down for the night, I walked in
to the kitchen to find my wife, Ashley, standing with her head stooped into her
hands. Subtle quivers in her arms and chest along with a gentle nodding of her
head gave away the truth that her hands were trying to hide as she cried
silently alone. I didn’t ask, because I
knew what was wrong. As I placed my
hands of comfort on the sides of her shoulders, her pain at last became
audible. She gasped for a breath and
said, “I didn’t think it would be this hard”.
I knew the grief
she felt, but she felt it more intensely.
We had just confirmed that morning what we had feared for several days:
the life she was growing in her body was no longer. No longer life. No longer growing. When you’re expecting a child, a dark, seldom-accessed
compartment of your mind is always prepared for that. When you begin to think of the possibilities
of the future – birth, names, paint colors, crying, giggles, diapers, smiles,
crawling, walking, love – that compartment sneaks up and says, “Don’t get too
attached -- not just yet”. But the heart
never gets the memo.
“I didn’t think
it would be this hard” she said. When I had
been upstairs with Aldan, Ashley had been on the couch with Rhine, 4, and
Harper, almost 3. They were old enough
to know about the baby in mommy’s belly and would frequently talk about it or
mention the new baby in their nighttime prayers, but they didn’t yet know what
we knew. My son placed his hands on
mommy’s belly and gave it a kiss. The
New Baby In Mommy’s Belly was the best name his young mind had come up with,
and that’s what he called out as he rested his head gently on his youngest
sibling-to-be. That’s when Ashley broke
down. In an effort to shield her
toddlers from the pain or, perhaps, to hide her own, she left the room in tears
to where we would meet in the kitchen.
As parents, we
had talked, but not come to a conclusion about how or when we would tell
them. So, as that time was thrust upon
us, we had to wing it. I grabbed my wife
by the hand and brought her back to the couch where my toddlers sat, confused
about what just happened. I sat between
my children and as I spoke, my son could only focus on his mommy who sat across
from us in tears.
“Do you remember
the baby in mommy’s belly”? I asked.
Rhine shook his
head slowly, staring at his mother, “Don’t cry, mommy”.
His eyes began to
swell red and wet, “Mommy, don’t cry”, he begged.
Climbing across
my legs, which rested on Ashley’s seat, he reached for mommy and consoled her
with the kind of hug that only a child can give. He cared more for his grieving mother than he
cared about what I was saying, but he understood. He grieved too. Mommy still cried.
The next couple
days were very hard. As Ashley’s body
labored to expel our broken dreams, Rhine’s little mind perceived far more than
I had anticipated. His concern for his
mommy mounted and peaked exactly parallel with her physical distress. My wife needed attention and so did my son,
but with them both in the same house, I could give my attention to
neither. I sent the children to Grammy
and Pappy’s house for the night and for the entirety of the trip Rhine cried,
“Mommy not sick, mommy not sick”.
By the time I got
back to the house, the worst had already passed. The pain was less severe and less
frequent. The labor had ended. Her body harvested what had been sown, but
yielded no fruit except perhaps some sense of closure. The damage had been done; now we could begin
to heal.
As a father, I
felt bad abandoning my son in his time of need, but trusted his grandparents to
pick-up on my slack. As it turns out,
that was probably the best we could have hoped for from the situation at
hand. Rhine didn’t know yet how to cope
with the pain we were feeling and a distraction and good night’s sleep were
what his little heart needed. Ashley and
I spent the night together in prayer and rest as we tried to soak-in the Lord’s
peace.
When morning came
the next day we greeted our children with extra big hugs. Healing will come in time. Until then, we have a house full of love, joy
and blessings to be thankful for every day.
