Feeling the Memories

Last Friday, I answered a phone call from a friend, asking with excitement if she'd heard anything about our mutual friend's delivery yet. Instead of sharing in the celebration of welcoming our friend's 5th and last child, I broke down when I heard the baby didn't make it. There was a knot in the cord, and when my 39-weeks pregnant friend arrived for her scheduled induction (after having a successful sonogram just the day before), there was no heartbeat. She had to deliver the baby and they discovered there was a knot in the umbilical cord.

My heart has been broken for my friend, who also had a miscarriage two years ago and was pleasantly surprised by this pregnancy, deemed to be her last. For the first few hours hearing the news, I bawled like the day I lost Ty, hurting so badly for my friend. I am associated with a lot of women who have lost babies, meeting them at the cemetery or online support groups, or via friends sending their friends my way. . . I remember all the time what it's like to lose a baby; but this time, I could feel the memories for the first time in a long time.--aching in my womb, with that shock and loss of control making me curl into a ball as I sobbed for her.

It's probably a good thing my friend wanted space and didn't want anyone to contact her. I was not in a place to comfort. I wrote the following on the online support group for mothers who have lost babies:

"I am so heartbroken for my good friend who lives just behind me in my neighborhood. Her baby died just before her induction. She doesn't want contact right now. Probably good since I don't have words of comfort right now. I'm just bawling and feeling those first woes of "it's not fair! why, why, why. .. " The things I have learned from losing my little boy at 4 months have all gone out the window. I know it's a temporary displacement, and I will find that peace and understanding again. It's just part of that whole "mourn with those who mourn, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort". Right now, I'm choosing to mourn. The comfort will come later, hopefully."

For those first few hours of hearing the awful news, I felt angry for my friend, questioning why God would allow that to happen. "I don't understand!" I heard myself say through the day.

At first, I told Dan I was ok--I wasn't hurting for me, just for my friend; but as the day wore on, I realized that some of the pain I felt WAS for me. I was remembering so vividly my own pain from losing Ty, and that's partly why I was hurting so badly for my friend. Her loss brought so many emotions back, ones I haven't felt with such intensity since that first year of Ty's passing--and it killed me to know she was faced with them now.

Yesterday marked the first week. I went to visit her and we cried together some more. She said, "I know you understand. . . " I told her every loss is unique and personal, but agreed that the pain is similar. She said to me, "I keep think about you and thinking, 'If Erica can do it, I can do it, too. . . '" My poor friend.

I have plans to grieve with her and comfort her in time. I dropped off some music yesterday, music that will help her feel her pain, yet hopefully allow healing to take place as the music invites the Spirit and Christ to fill that hole. My wonderful Aunt Lori and cousin Kami dropped that CD off for me when Ty passed. It's called "Everything Speaks His Name" by Jessie Clark Funk, including a song, "Calling All Angels" written by Jessie's husband after the loss of their stillborn baby. I hope it helps her like it helped me.

It's going to be a long road. . .