“Two people are better than one. When two people work together, they get more work done. If one person falls, the other person can reach out to help. But those who are alone when they fall have no one to help them.” Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 (ERV)
You’ve most likely heard the quote “It takes a village to raise a child” on at least one occasion. But I would venture to say that this is an incomplete statement. It really takes a village to live life fully – no matter what your age. I know without my “village” I would not be walking through this journey and doing as well as I am. I am truly grateful for my community and their support.
January 1, 2016. A brand new year, filled with new hopes and dreams and according to the two pink lines on the test in my hand, a new baby to join our household. Our new year started with a joyful announcement. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that things could change so much in a few weeks. My two little boys, almost 4 and 2, were so excited when we told them. They started each morning by rubbing my tummy and saying hello to their new baby brother or sister. My oldest had already picked out names – Mario for a boy and Peach for a girl. I struggled daily with morning sickness, but was so thankful that it seemed to be less severe than I had experienced with either of my boys.
I have always felt an immediate connection with my babies in each of my pregnancies, often even before the positive test would confirm my suspicions. This time, though, I was struggling with a very strong feeling of disconnection, which had gone on for several weeks. It left me feeling like something was missing, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it might be. 10 weeks rolled around and I was heading into my first prenatal appointment. It was a routine appointment. We went through all the regular questions and then the doctor mentioned that she had a small hand held ultrasound unit and would like to take a quick look at the baby. After checking for several minutes and having an assistant check as well, she informed me that she was going to send me for a full obstetrical ultrasound. What she had seen on the monitor was not a baby that was as far along as my dates indicated it should be. Thus began the longest few days of my life.
Waiting. Wondering. It took three days before the ultrasound clinic at the hospital had an appointment available. I walked around in an anxious daze for those three days and finally we were headed into the appointment. A few seconds in to the ultrasound, I knew the truth. I could see there was no heartbeat on the screen and I knew from the measurements being taken that my baby was too small for it’s developmental age. The ultrasound ended rather quickly and we were sent across the street to my doctor’s office. There she confirmed that our baby had died at 8 weeks.
I had what is referred to as a missed miscarriage. At some point your baby’s heart stops beating, your baby stops developing, but your body doesn’t recognize it and continues to function as if it were a normal pregnancy. We were given the options. I chose to try to let things happen naturally and left the office numb with unspeakable grief. I’m no stranger to grief, having lost my mother at the age of 17, and my grandmother within 2 years after that, but this was different. I’d never had a miscarriage before. Technically, I hadn’t even had it yet, so how on earth was I supposed to process that my precious baby was gone? How do you reconcile losing a child? It doesn’t even make sense. I wept all the way home. How were we going to explain this to our 2 very excited little boys, when I couldn’t even wrap my head around it for myself? Our oldest took it very hard. My youngest was more accepting, but I know he understood what we told him, since he stopped talking to my tummy that day.
It would be another 10 days before my body realized the loss. 10 days of knowing my baby was gone and yet not fully able to accept it until the physicality of loss was complete; it came with a vengeance and the full pangs of labour. 6 hours of later and it was all over. That same day, only hours before, we celebrated our son’s second birthday. Now I had delivered my third child, but there was no joyful celebration to be had. I had someone tell me that I should feel relief now that it was finished, but there was none. Only an empty chasm where my heart once was and empty arms that ached to hold my little one close.
We named our baby Tayten Shalom. It means “beautiful happiness” because for a few short weeks that is exactly what our little baby brought into our lives. I may have had my sweet child for only a short time, but I wouldn’t trade those weeks for anything in the world. Even in light of the grief I am now walking through. Because during that time, my child was wildly celebrated, fiercely loved and deeply cherished.
Tayten’s life may have been short, but a lasting impact was made. My baby has taught me the value of a village. The importance of having a community of people to which you can belong. People who weep with you when you weep and rejoice when you rejoice. Who hold your hand and say nothing, because there is nothing to say, but the presence of another caring heart is enough. Who think of bringing meals to your house so that you don’t have to think about how to get the energy to feed your family or pop over to clean your kitchen without having to be asked. Who surround you with powerful prayers that carry your broken heart to the Father because you can’t even rouse your physical body from your bed. It’s that village that supports and builds and encourages, when you don’t feel like you can face another day. Whose love is a healing balm when you need it most. Reflecting the heart of God in tangible ways that make His Presence known.
Tayten has taught me to appreciate my village, but that isn’t all I have learned. My baby has taught me to slow down. To embrace and savour the moments. To take extra time to cuddle with my little boys and read a book even if I am in the middle of folding laundry or sending an important email. Because the everyday moments that we often take for granted are precious. We only get them once. My baby taught me to listen – to myself, to my husband and children and to others around me. Everyone has a story. Everyone has something to say worth listening to – they just need someone willing to listen. Will I be that someone?
Tayten has taught me to be grateful. To stop and think, even in the really challenging moments, and find something that I can give thanks for – because there is always something. It’s how we respond it the daily moments, the good and the bad that make us into who we are. The question is, will our responses in these moments make us more into who we want to be?
I have been so blessed to have been surrounded by an amazing support system of friends and family. People who encouraged me to allow myself to grieve and work through that process towards healing. Who have prayed the heavy prayers when I can’t and given me the permission to lean when I haven’t been able to stand on my own. Who have offered their shoulder to cry on and a helping hand; and yet, I know that is not the experience for everyone. Too often those who have miscarried suffer in silence; they grieve alone in secret. Losing a child is painful and the grief is hollowing – so why do we relegate people who have lost a child yet unborn to a dark corner alone? Where is their village? You don’t have to understand a person’s pain to offer support. I think it’s time that the silence was broken; I encourage you to embrace the freedom to acknowledge your loss and know that you have sisters around the world that share in that loss and grieve with you. You are a mother. Whether for a few days, or months, or years. Motherhood does not expire simply because your child is gone. You have the permission to grieve as a mother. Weep, journal, talk, paint, walk – do whatever you need to find a healthy outlet to your grief. But don’t stay there. Don’t let it cripple you. Allow yourself to heal.
I will never forget my baby. Tayten holds a piece of my heart that I won’t get back. But I know that my angel is with Jesus, spending time with my mother and grandmother and all my other family and friends that have gone on before me. My heart is filled with profound grief in the moment, but it is also filled with hope that each day the rawness will lessen. Hope that comes from knowing that the “I AM” holds me in the palm of His Hand – even in the midst of this pain. Hope that I will see my precious one once again. Hope. In a word, that is Tayten’s legacy.
Before now, I believed in the power of the village. Now that I am living it, I want to strive to make my own contribution. Is my heart still in tatters? Yes. But there is hope that it will heal again. Am I angry and full of questions? Most definitely! But, I am discovering that God has broad shoulders and He can handle the rawness of our wounds and all of the questions and emotions that come with them. This is probably the hardest thing I have ever written. And yet, I write it in the hopes that by sharing my story I can help others grieving their own losses – some silently. Perhaps by sharing I can give comfort to someone else that they are not alone. Perhaps allowing myself to be vulnerable will encourage someone else to unlock the deep recesses of their hidden grief; to take a step in their journey towards healing. And maybe, just maybe, in some small way I can become a part of their village.
Rest in peace, my sweet one. Mama will see you again, but until I do, I know you are happy and safe. Wildly celebrated, fiercely loved, and deeply cherished.
Of Shattered Things 