One thing I've learned over this past year: People don't like to talk about dead babies. I'm sure just reading that last sentence made you uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable too. It was about a year ago that we lost our baby, and long before this milestone was upon us the "get over it already" vibe had taken hold among many of our friends, family, and co-workers. And, in fact, many of them had suffered the same kind of loss. (I still cringe when I think about the day my very thoughtful and well-meaning boss told me, "God is in control, and everything happens for a reason" and I shot back, "He was in control of the Holocaust too, and that happened for a reason: Does that make it OK?") Innumerable times, my wife and I have looked at each other and wondered out loud, "Are we weird, or is everyone else?" Is this just easier for some people? Or was this child's life less of a life because we never got to meet him or her? But the truth is that everyone who has lost a child to miscarriage or stillbirth has a choice to make: Suffer as part of a whispery, mostly silent group, or act as if it really wasn't a "whole" loss like the loss of a spouse, parent, sibling, or older child. Either way, it's a lonely, long walk.
So, I've made a conscious choice to do the uncomfortable thing: To honor this lost child by acknowledging his or her life; to always be sure to explain to people that I am the father of three, with two at home.
As you can tell, we didn't get a chance to find out if we were having a boy or a girl. We're not quite sure how or why -- in the rush of the events leading up to the loss -- we did not have the presence of mind to ask for a confirmation, and why nobody had the thought to make us the offer. So, we're left in that hazy perpetual state of mystery that all parents experience with their children early on. Blue or pink? New clothes or hand-me-downs? In a way, that makes it more difficult. (Grammatically, especially: It's hard to be eloquent when you're constantly saying "his or her," "he or she," "his or hers." But we refuse to dishonor him or her with the label "it.") In another way, it leaves a surprise to one day look forward to. Either way, we wanted to name this child, so we settled -- somewhat tentatively, I think -- on "Wynn." It's an ambiguous name, but also a family name, on my dad's side. For a long time, we had considered a Puritan name, like "Welcome" -- also, as it turns out, a family name. It would be a fitting name, because in spite of the loss, Wynn was most surely Welcome. And I take comfort as much as I can in two things: First, that all this baby ever new of life was peace, comfort, and love; that he or she knew the muffled sounds of the joy of his or her brothers, mother, father, and grandparents. Second, that God has a perspective so wildly different than that of my own mind's comprehension, that in some way in his vast being, this is somehow not a loss at all, and we just haven't entered into that knowledge yet.
At any rate, today I remember Wynn. This child was precious to us, and very much loved.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
5 comments:
I miss and remember Wynn too...love the name. How fun it will be to meet him or her some day! I've thought about that many times over this year. I was just thinking back to Wynn's owl that made its appearance this time last year...how cool that God gave you that to remember Wynn by.
Beth
Kevin, I heard it said well today on the radio. It was a radio station that was doing a fundraiser for a local Children's hospital. The bereivmant coordinator made a comment that struck me as I was tooling along in my car, on my way to work. She said that dealing with any loss, and especially a child, you never "get over it, or past it", you eventually learn how to live with it. I'm sorry for your loss, and it's refreshing to see a couple that so dearly love their chilren. Our prayers and love sent your way tonight!
Beth and Susy, much love to you both, and thank you for your thoughts and prayers. Susy, the description of that bereavement coordinator captures it very well: It's the sort of thing you learn to live with. I guess for me, there's a part of me that doesn't want to make others feel uncomfortable, awkward, upset, or "weird," and I think there's a certain amount of pressure in our society to act as though the loss of a baby is somehow a different (or lesser?) kind of loss. And I'm just trying to make myself act contrary to that instinct in me that says to keep quiet, not get all emotional about it, or to avoid making others feel uncomfortable at the expense of the memory of our baby. This is hard for us: Why should we act like it isn't? And, at the same time, I know it's hard for friends and family to know exactly what to say, especially if we don't bring it up. I guess I was really thinking more about the people who say unbelievable things, like: "It's really for the best"; "Aren't you lucky that God saw fit to spare your child such a hard life?"; "Better now than three years from now." Hearing people tell us that they miss him or her too, or that they don't understand either but that they love us, or that they're praying for peace and comfort ... that's the best. So, thank you!
Well said, Kevin. We have "chased after" two of our own this past year (one little beautiful one this week) who are now keeping eachother company in the company of the Lord. Beth sent me the link to your blog and it's beautiful - the original piece written in 2009 as well as this one. - Charity (Bishop) Poskonka
Charity, I'm so sorry to hear about the loss of your two little ones ... such an awful burden to have to bear. Liz and I will pray for you and your family, and if you ever want someone to talk to, Liz and I are both here for you.
Post a Comment