by Kirsten McCue Hawkes
Calgary, Alberta Canada
Copyright 1997 Kirsten McCue Hawkes

For years, I hated Valentine's Day--the decorations, the cards, the candy. I lost my first child, fourteen weeks into my pregnancy, on February 14th, 1991. When I returned home from the hospital, I found my mailbox stuffed with valentines from excited friends and relatives who hadn't heard the bad news. I looked at the bright red hearts and cried.

My pregnancy had started out with joy and excitement. Married for three years, my husband and I were celebrating the completion of law school and the beginning of his articling year. We were excited about my pregnancy and looked forward to starting our family. My excitement dimmed a bit when the morning sickness started--a rather optimistic term for the continuous nausea and vomiting I endured. Nonetheless, I was cheered by the oft-spoken comment, "At least morning sickness means the baby's healthy." When I could get out of bed, I played Primary songs and lullabies on the piano for the baby. My husband and I talked over baby names and I started thinking about maternity clothes.

But under the happy surface, I felt unreasonably fearful. I was convinced that something was badly wrong and my doctor's routine reassurances didn't make me feel any better. Some minor spotting at Christmas had frightened me, despite my best attempts at positive thinking. A brief moment of comfort came over the Christmas holidays. I remember sitting in church, hearing someone in my mother's ward sing "Mary's Lullaby," by Wanda West Palmer. The words, "Sing on herald angels in chorus sublime; Sing on and adore, For tonight you are mine," sank into my heart. I knew whatever the future held, I had had this baby for a brief and precious period.

For months, I struggled with fear of losing the baby. It wasn't rational--my pregnancy was going well and miscarriages were not common in my family. Finally, in early February, as I was studying my scriptures, I felt a definite spiritual impression. I was reading in Third Nephi about the Saviour blessing the children. I felt his love for the children and knew he loved them as deeply as he cared for me and my child. Finally, that night, I knelt and prayed, "Lord, thou knowest how much I want this child and how much I love this child. But I also know that thy love is greater than mine. I will accept thy will, whatever it may be." A few days later, I lost the baby.

I began bleeding at work and phoned my doctor in a state of panic. A quick ultrasound established that the baby was dead. Oddly enough, said the radiologist, the baby had apparently stopped growing early in the pregnancy, but the placenta had continued to grow, leading to the continued morning sickness and gradually swelling tummy. The trip to my doctor's office was a nightmare. He was curt and brusque. After giving me a quick speech on the routine nature of miscarriages, he said, "What are you crying about? You're still young--you can have a dozen children if you want to." He got on the phone with the hospital and said to me, "This is your lucky day. I have some space on Friday's surgery schedule. Be at the hospital at 11 a.m. for your D & C." My husband, usually very articulate, was so angry he was literally speechless.

I went home to cry and wait for my D & C date. I can remember lying in bed, trying to pray, but being completely unable to focus my thoughts. The radiologist's words kept floating through my brain like confetti-- "There's no heartbeat... there's no heartbeat... there's no heartbeat..." In desperation, I turned to my scriptures. I had always found comfort in scripture and as I read on that anguished day, I was comforted by the words of Isaiah: "O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted! For the mountains shall depart and the hills be removed, but my kindness shall not depart from thee, neither shall the covenant of my peace be removed, saith the Lord that hath mercy on thee." (3 Nephi 22: 11, 10) I was crying so hard that I read the verses in the reverse order, but that is how I will always remember them. As I read that inspired text, I felt surrounded by light. Warm arms wrapped around my soul and filled me with comfort and love. There was still so much heartache ahead, but I always knew that the Lord loved me and was aware of my pain.

Things did not get any easier in the short term. I began hemorrhaging before my surgery date and wound up in the hospital emergency room at midnight. The next day, on Valentine's Day, my emergency D & C was performed. I went home, feeling hollow, fragile, and desperately sad. For the next year, I struggled with powerful and often confusing feelings.

The most painful feeling was that of grief. I didn't know a person could feel so much pain. Not even my parents' divorce caused as much pain as losing that baby. I felt like I was slowly being crushed by a huge weight of grief. I sometimes wondered if I could even breathe. Some days, I felt like my heart had imploded, turning into a black hole which was sucking all of my consciousness into it and from which it could never escape. I desperately wanted the heartache to become a soft, sad memory; not a constant, bitter, wrenching part of daily life.

I also struggled with feelings of guilt. I didn't understand what I had done to deserve such heartache. I wracked my mind, trying to figure out what had caused the miscarriage--sleeping on a waterbed? working while I was pregnant? throwing up too much? I remember lying in bed one night, unable to sleep because of the turmoil in my mind. Finally, I slipped out of bed and wandered into the living room. Kneeling at the couch, I prayed in desperation. "Lord, why am I feeling so much pain? Why should I suffer so much for something that wasn't my fault? It wasn't my fault!" As I cried on the couch, a calm voice spoke to my soul, "No, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault." The storm in my heart stilled and I went to sleep.

For months I suffered from feelings of failure and anger. I was angry with myself--why had my body failed me on something so important? I felt cheated, like I had been robbed of my child. I was also resentful because a part of my life that was supposed to be happy had become a period of anguish, confusion and grief. At times, I was even mad at God. Why wouldn't he send me a baby that I would love and care for? My husband was, at the time, working for the provincial social services department, doing the legal work required to take children from unfit parents. The awful stories he heard made me feel even worse.

Eventually, the feelings of guilt, failure, and anger passed. But the grief and feelings of emptiness stayed with me for a long time. For a year after I lost the baby, I would find myself crying as I drove to work, or while I did the dishes or when my friends had babies. Although I was busy at work and at home, I still felt sad almost all of the time. It was as though sadness had become my "default setting." I even felt guilty for feeling sad--after all, I had a good job, a loving husband, a comfortable home, and a caring family. What right did I have to feel sad? It wasn't as if I had lost a real child, was it? The idea that I was mourning for no reason, because the child I had lost wasn't a "real baby" yet was particularly hard to deal with. I wondered if I was being foolish and neurotic when I should really put everything behind me and get on with life.

Finally, as a way to express the incredible void I felt within myself, I wrote a poem to the child I lost:

The poem was published in Humane Medicine in October, 1992 and has since been reprinted in two newsletters for bereavement groups. Expressing these feelings and sharing them with an understanding readership helped me to articulate the sorrow I felt, but the grief did not lessen in its intensity.

Finally, convinced that I was going crazy, I reached out for professional help. I saw a psychologist four times in the next year and her help was invaluable. She told me that "depression is often a manifestation of unexpressed sadness" and she "gave me permission" to feel sad. I also read a book entitled Motherhood After Miscarriage, which comforted and reassured me. Author, Kathleen Diamond, wrote:

As I thought more about the experience, I came to realize that not only was I mourning a child, however early in its development, but also the lost dreams that went with that child. A wise friend of mine who endured the anguish of losing a stillborn child once said that although she would suffer terribly if one of her living children died, at least she would still have the memories--she had no chance to build memories with her stillborn son.

Oddly enough, once I realized that I was entitled to feel sad after the loss of my baby and the associated dreams, I began to feel happier. I cried out my grief and I wrote more poems, working through the heartache I felt. Within a few short months, I realized that happiness had become my default setting once again. The memory of my loss remained painful and very vivid, but in a way, it served as a catalyst for making real changes in my life. When the miscarriage tore my heart open, I looked inside, and saw myself as I had never done before. That miserable year of anguish and heartache was followed by a year of growth and exploration and self-discovery in all aspects of my life. Although no child was born from that pregnancy, I had a personal renaissance during my emotional recovery. I became more creative, more assertive, less judgmental, and (I hope) more sensitive to the needs and sorrows of others.

It has now been six years since I lost that child. With the birth of a healthy, active son--now a talkative, determined, stubborn pre-schooler, my heart has been freed from the last lingering griefs. I don't have all the answers, but I am finally at peace. I still do not know why I had to lose that baby. I don't know if I will have that child in the next life. I don't know if that baby will have another chance to join our family. From time to time, I wonder what the baby would have been like, but I am no longer torn apart by questions and anguished memories. Most importantly of all, I have developed a deeper and stronger faith in Jesus Christ and his power to succor us in our times of distress and pain. And I know, beyond doubt, that my life is in the Lord's hands and all is well. I know that he loves us perfectly and will turn anguish to joy and give us "beauty for ashes" (Isaiah 61:3).

Finally, the miscarriage has become a "soft, sad memory"; not one which twists and tears at my heart. That experience has given me greater appreciation for the joys which have come since that heartbreaking year.

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