July 9th

There was no pain.  No feeling at all.  There was only a deep, deep, sadness and a profound sense of loss.  I wiped away a single tear that had slowly traveled from the inside corner of my eye to the outside corner.  When I awoke that beautiful, sunny July morning I found that I had started to miscarry during the night.  My doctor had scheduled a D&C for Monday, but it wouldn’t be necessary now as the miscarriage had started on its own. 

I grieved all weekend for the baby and had dreaded the procedure on Monday.  How strange to feel relief that my body had taken care of this matter on its own.  I mean, I felt so let down by my own body in its inability to sustain and protect my child; but so relieved that it was sparing me surgery.  I thought back to my visit to the doctor after my first miscarriage.  After he examined me and was sure in his findings, he told me that there was no need for a D&C and that I could definitely try again for another baby in a few weeks.  I watched him write “spontaneous abortion” on my medical record.  My eyes met his quizzically and he explained this is the medical term for a miscarriage.  The word abortion seemed such a strange explanation of what had happened to me.  An abortion seems so planned, but my miscarriage was definitely “spontaneous.”

As I follow my husband, Rob, out the front door and into the bright, early morning sunlight I hear the birds sing.  The sun shines on his golden head and I remember that he’s hurt too.  The shame this brings me is immeasurable.  He’s sad of course that we’ve suffered another “spontaneous abortion,” but he doesn’t feel failure like I do.  Will I be able to have a child?  How will he feel about me if I can’t?  Should we adopt?  How will he feel about not having his own child?

My mind rapidly fires one question after the other at me as we make our way to the car.  As he shifts the car into drive he reaches for my hand.  His grip is warm and reassuring.  I wipe away another tear as we drive down the road.  We are on our way to the one person who can truly comfort me – my Mother.  There’s nothing she can do to save my unborn child, but she will certainly know what to say to help her own child.  She’ll put her arm around me and tell me that it’s alright and that she’ll help me figure this all out.  Part of me feels so bad for burdening her with this because I can tell that she hurts for me as well.  She has the ability to take away some of the pain, but in doing so, it becomes her own.

As we pull into the drive and I walk up to the house I notice her begonia border in the flower bed.  Meticulously weeded and tended, the flower bed is like a jewel in the crown of the house.  The front door is flanked by two big pots of caladiums.  No yard is as pretty as Momma’s in the summertime.  As we enter the house, I smell bacon frying and biscuits baking in the oven.  My sister, Sherry, is cooking breakfast and tells me that Momma is still in bed. 

As Rob goes into the kitchen to see what he can scavenge for breakfast, I turn down the hall and head to Momma’s room.  Her room is at the end of the hall and I can see the sunlight coming out of her room pouring into the dark hallway.  I’m surprised when I reach her door to see her bed empty.  The sheets are gently thrown back on her side while Daddy’s side is still neatly made.  Daddy passed away seven years ago and Momma still sleeps on her side of the bed.  His side of the bed is never, ever unmade.  I call out to her to see if she’s in her bathroom that’s attached to her bedroom.  She doesn’t answer.  Since she wasn’t in the kitchen, I’m sure that she has to be in her bathroom.  As I enter her bedroom and start toward the bathroom door I call out again.  Before it even registers that she hasn’t answered for a second time, my intuition tells me something is wrong.

What an understatement that turned out to be.  Everything was wrong.  When I turned to go into Momma’s bathroom I see her feet and then her bare legs sticking out of her nightgown.  One more step reveals that she’s lying on the bathroom floor.  I didn’t stop to think, didn’t try to help her up, nor did I even think about taking her pulse.  She was dead and I knew it instantly.  I whirled around and ran through her bedroom and down the hallway to the kitchen.  I called for Rob to call 911 and told Sherry, who is a nurse, to come with me.  It’s strange to think of now, but she never asked me what was wrong and I didn’t volunteer any information.  I honestly think she knew when she saw me enter the kitchen.  She followed me as I ran back down the hallway and through Momma’s room into her bathroom.  I stopped at the threshold as Sherry knelt over Momma to feel for the pulse I knew she wouldn’t find.  Sherry looked up at me and confirmed my worst fear by simply saying, “She’s dead.”

Imagine going 160 miles per hour and slamming into a brick wall.  That’s what facing an unimaginable reality feels like.  You’re going along with life and SLAM – brick wall.  It’s so unexpected, so inconceivable that you lie stunned and unable to realize that you’ve stopped.  That’s how I felt – stopped in my tracks.  I’d come here to find comfort and solace, only to find the person who could provide this on the floor dead.  It seems so selfish to me now, hopefully in my right mind.  But, then, I said what I was feeling.

“I’ve lost everything.”  Did I say it or scream it?  I’m not really sure now, but my sister hugged and tried to console me.  I do remember feeling selfish even then because this was her Mother as well.  She shouldn’t have to console me.  I sank down at the end of Momma’s bed hoping and praying this was all a bad dream and that I’d wake up to the beautiful day this should be.  This felt like such a bad, bad joke that someone (God?) was pulling on me.  So, let me get this straight.  Just this morning I spontaneously aborted my baby and now I’ve “spontaneously” lost my Mother as well?  This has to be a joke or a bad dream.  Right?

She’d suffered for years with emphysema from smoking cigarettes since she was a teen.  She stopped smoking when I was a teenager and we were all so proud for her.  However, the damage was already done.  She couldn’t walk from the car to the top of the stairs of our split-level house without gasping for breath.  She also suffered from asthma and the summer months were especially hard on her. 

While we were waiting on the paramedics to get to our house, I went into the front yard to sit on her wooden swing.  Rocking gently back and forth, I know she was with me.  I could almost hear her say, “I can breathe.  I feel so much better.”  I also remember being at her funeral and while the preacher was asking everyone if they knew they were going to Heaven, I remember a potted plant by Momma’s casket moving ever so gently.  The leaves leaned slightly like a light wind was blowing them.  I felt her presence there and it gave me peace.  I’ve never felt her presence since then.  I think she was here for a few days and then after she knew we were going to be okay, she made her journey to her new home.  She didn’t make it alone, though.  I know she had my little baby in her arms as she ascended. 

She died on her birthday, July 9th.  I wonder how many people die on their birthday?  Sure not what you’d expect to happen.  After she passed away and I recovered from the miscarriage, my doctor did a few tests and decided that I was progesterone deficient.  He prescribed progesterone for my next pregnancy and in nine months I delivered a healthy baby boy.  We decided to name him Zachary which means “the Lord has remembered.”  What a perfect sentiment for someone who not even a year before had felt forgotten by the Lord.  Momma died in July and Zachary was born the next June.  They missed each other on Earth by not even a year, but I’m sure they crossed paths in Heaven. 
Progesterone worked so wonderfully for me that Rob and I added two more children to our family.  Zachary now has a brother, Carson, and a sister, Katie.  As I watch my children grow, I find myself thinking how Momma would love these three.  But, as I see it, these three have me here to care for them and my other two have Momma with them in Heaven.  When you’ve lost a loved one, it takes away the fear of death.  Of course, I would worry about my family here, but what a joy to know we’ll all be together again.

As for my questioning God that awful July day, I’m ashamed to say I did.  My faith faltered and I wanted answers.  I wanted someone to hold accountable.  Now, I’m proud to say I learned many lessons that day.  First and foremost, I try not to question God anymore.  I believe that his path is the only way.  Having my first baby when I did saved my sanity.  Losing my Mother was devastating and painful beyond belief, but having a sweet and most-wanted baby to care for within the year literally saved my life.  Had I not had Zachary then, I would have grieved myself to death.  So, I’ve learned there’s a reason for everything.

Secondly, I learned that day to comfort myself by finding comfort in the Lord.  He’s the only one that can bring us true peace.  That day I wanted my Mother to wrap her arms around me, but instead found myself wrapped in the love of the Lord.  The comfort He brings by trusting in Him and knowing His plan is divine is all-consuming.

Thirdly, I learned my own strength.  Sometimes, that’s all you have – your own strength.  When I said that day that I’d “lost everything” I really hadn’t.  Instead, I’d gained an insight to the strong woman I was destined to become.  I literally picked myself up (from the end of Momma’s bed) and carried on with my life.  When I think back on that day, I marvel at how I made it through.  Sometimes I have to remind myself where I’ve been so I can face where I’m going.

It’s hard to come to terms with our mortality.  I faced death at 18 when my Daddy passed away and again at 25 with Mother’s passing.  We don’t know when our time will come, but we do know to be ready.  Even though I’m only a mere mortal and my future is uncertain, I do know my redeemer lives!