Physically Losing Thérèse

by Catherine | Nov 8, 2012 | Faith, Family

St. Thérèse, pray for us!

Since sharing the news on Sunday that baby #3, Thérèse, died and that I would be miscarrying at home, we received an overwhelming amount of support.  We are so very grateful for your prayers, phone calls, e-mails, meals, help with Janie and Walt, and all of the other ways that you are helping.  Since Friday, we prayed to God that He would spare us the agony of having to wait very long for me to miscarry Thérèse at home.  It didn’t happen how we thought it would, but God certainly answered our prayers.

I must warn any readers that I am about to share the story of how I lost dear Baby Thérèse and that I’m including every possible detail I can remember–even the graphic ones.  I know this might seem like a strange way of handling the death of our child, but I’m doing it for a few reasons.  

I know Philip and I will start to forget the details of these days as time goes on, and I never want to forget.  I want to remember every little detail of our child’s short life as well as her death.  I want to preserve these details so that as I start to wrap my mind around the reality of losing our baby, I have it all written out for me to relive and face emotionally.  I was so focused on physically enduring losing Thérèse that I want to have the details recorded when I’m emotionally ready to face them. 

I’m also writing about the actual physical part of losing Thérèse because of the multitude of women who have reached out to me.  Since sharing my blog post on Sunday, nearly two dozen women have thanked me for sharing my story.  For some, I am the first person they told that they lost a baby or a sibling.  I am hoping that opening up about my story and how we have begun the grieving process will somehow be helpful or healing for them.  I hope by my opening up about losing Thérèse that other women who have experienced the death of a child will be able to seek the help they need–whether it be calling a friend, making an appointment with a counselor, or just spending time crying in a chapel during adoration.

So, as you read, I apologize if the story becomes too graphic and you can’t read on.  Nonetheless, please respect that Thérèse is our baby and that this is our way of celebrating her life and grieving her death.  Thank you for allowing us to choose to grieve the death of Thérèse as we wish.

I thought that miscarrying Thérèse would be like a painful period with some heavy bleeding.  At least that was what my brain took away from how my OB described the process on Friday.  I anticipated that it would all play out like the plot of a story–the pain and bleeding would slowly build to a painful climax, I would endure the agony of delivering Thérèse, and the bleeding and cramps would slowly come to an end a few days later.

Sunday night, Philip and I were still emotionally numb.  After we put Janie and Walt to bed, we decided to take a break from talking or thinking about Thérèse and just watch a few shows.  At 7:30, I started having painful cramps and the spotting turned into moderate bleeding.  

A few hours later, the bleeding and the pain intensified, and I thought that surely I was going to deliver Thérèse any moment.  The emotional pain would be terrible, but I thought that at least the physical part would be over soon.  I was bleeding so heavily that I had to go to the restroom, and Philip was with me every step of the way.  

The most grizzly part of all was having to take that small sterile container that my doctor had given me to the bathroom.  I was to preserve as much of our baby as possible so that the tissues could be sent in for medical testing.  

At this point, the bleeding turned to uncontrollable gushing, and I started to pass blood clots the size of my fist or larger.  I knew that there would be a lot of heavy bleeding and probably some large clots like there was during labor and delivery, but Philip and I started to think that this was not how it was supposed to happen.  I started to pass clots and blood at such a rapid pace that I asked Philip to collect them in plastic cups to examine for tissue to collect in the sterile container.  I didn’t want to somehow lose our baby. 

We knew something was wrong as we couldn’t keep up with the pace of my blood loss.  I started to lose consciousness and told Philip to help me to lay on the bedroom floor.  At this point, I was unable to speak, was still bleeding uncontrollably, and I had lost all color.  Within minutes of laying down, I slowly regained my blood pressure and the blood flow slowed to a manageable rate.  

We called my doctor’s office after hours emergency line, and the nurse told us to go to the ER if I continued to bleed heavily or if after laying down for awhile I was dizzy and lightheaded.  After getting off the phone with the nurse, we called my mom to be “on call” in case we needed her to stay with the kids while we went to the ER.  I stayed laying down on our bedroom floor with towels underneath me.  I was so cold from the blood loss that I asked Philip to cover me in a blanket and to bring the heating pad to help with the pain from the cramps.  Philip continued to push me to drink as much water as possible, and I was able to eat a small snack.

Forty-five minutes later, I felt ready to try standing up again.  The moment I stood up, I passed half a dozen clots the size of my fist, and I started to get dizzy, so I laid back down.  We decided it was time to go to the ER, so Philip called my mom.  

I laid on the floor as he packed us a bag for the hospital.  My mom arrived shortly thereafter.  I was nervous about bleeding through duri
ng the car ride, so Philip helped me to double up and put one pair of underwear with a heavy duty pad on top of another.  I crawled from our bedroom to the stairs to limit the blood loss, and I put a towel on the seat and reclined during the ride to the hospital.  By the time we arrived ten minutes later, I was already bleeding through the towel, and I was extremely light-headed.  Fortunately, there was no one waiting in the ER waiting room at midnight, and I ended up being the only patient admitted overnight.  

I got checked in right away, and immediately got hooked up to IV fluids.  The nurses were incredibly sweet and serious about getting me efficient care all while being sensitive to the fact that we were there because our baby had died and I was miscarrying.  Soon, the ER doctor was performing an internal exam, and I felt all kinds of movement and heard strange sounds.  Philip explained that he was removing the clots and any remaining tissue to stop the bleeding.  (So long as a woman is retaining clots and tissue, her uterus won’t clamp down to stop the bleeding.)  After he was done, the bleeding seemed to stop, and Philip and I dozed for a few minutes here and there as the nurses came in and out of my room to check my vitals and change the bed pad.  

By 4 a.m., my blood pressure was at a safe level, and the bleeding seemed to be done, so the doctor said I could go home.  Philip and the nurses helped me back into my clothes and into a wheelchair so that I could use the restroom before leaving.  Philip went to get the car as the nurse wheeled me to the restroom down the hall.  She waited outside for me.  

Immediately, I knew something was wrong.  I felt the blood rush out of me, and I passed half a dozen clots the size of my fist.  I was able to wash my hands, call in the nurse to show her my blood loss, and she walked me back to the wheelchair.  She said she’d go and tell the doctor about the clots but that I seemed to be doing okay.  The clots were probably just from the blood pooling up as I laid in bed, she said.  

As I sat in the wheelchair in the hallway, I started to lose consciousness.  I heard another nurse approach me and said that I didn’t look well.  When she asked me how I felt, all I could do was shake my head.  I heard Philip’s voice, and they wheeled me back to my room.  I couldn’t say anything, and I thought I was dying.  If I could have talked, I would have asked Philip to call our priest.  The nurses had to lift me out of the chair and back into bed.  When they got me hooked back up to the monitor, my blood pressure was extremely low.  The nurses helped me back into a hospital gown, and I’ll never forget the look on my nurse’s face as she checked my bleeding.  She raised her eyebrows and said, “Yes, you’ll need to stay with us.  We’re calling your OB right away.”  

At this point, I was terrified.  I had thought everything was under control, that I had delivered our baby, and that I was going to have some light bleeding at home for a few more days.  Now, they didn’t know why I was still bleeding, and my OB was being called in.  At this point, I was on my fifth bag of IV fluids, and my hemoglobin was getting low enough that they were considering a blood transfusion.  I was given some medicine rectally to stop the bleeding, and an IV had to be inserted into my left arm since my veins in my right arm were shot from the first IV.  

Soon, an anesthesiologist was talking to me about surgery, and his nurse was prepping me.  My OB arrived at 5 a.m. and explained to us (but mostly to Philip because I was so out of it) that I would need an emergency D&C to stop the bleeding.  I would receive anesthesia through my IV, and my OB would dilate my cervix enough to use a vacuum catheter to remove the lining of my uterus and any remaining tissue.  I dreaded the thought of having to have a D&C to vacuum out any remaining parts of our baby.  It was too barbaric to even think about, but I didn’t have a choice anymore, and I didn’t have enough strength to say anything other than “okay.”  

Minutes later, I had to sign a few consent forms.  One form asked us what we wanted to happen to Thérèse’s remains after pathology performed all of the necessary tests.  I am so glad that Philip and I had prepared for this question and had discussed our plans ahead of time.  Processing that question while being nearly unconscious and prepping for a D&C would have been horrific.  We said that we wanted Thérèse’s remains to be returned to our care so that we could arrange for a proper burial and some kind of a prayer service.  

Soon after, the anesthesiologist’s nurse put oxygen tubes into my nose and a cap on my head.  Philip took my glasses and rings, and they whisked me off across the building to the surgical wing.  Philip gave me a quick kiss and told me he loved me.  I didn’t even have the strength to tell him that I loved him back, and I cried that I couldn’t tell him those words.  

They opened the doors to the operating room and helped me to scoot over to the operating table.  I don’t remember a countdown or a warning that they were knocking me out.  I just remember waking up in a recovery room bed with a sweet nurse sitting at a computer next to me.  She said, “Your husband is in the waiting room, and you’ll be able to see him soon.”  She wheeled me to a strange room with a reclining chair and gave me a Diet Sierra Mist and some stale graham crackers while she went to get Philip.  

I was still very much out of it, but I was so happy to see him.  He came in and gave me a hug, and the nurse gave us a few minutes while she got my clothes, our checkout instructions, and my prescriptions for pain medicine.  Philip helped me back into my clothes while he gave me the report from our OB on how the surgery went.  My OB had to leave for a delivery after my D&C, so he wasn’t able to wait for me to come out of recovery.  Philip said that my OB told him the D&C went well, he was able to remove all of the clots and remaining tissue, and that my uterus was able to clamp down to stop the bleeding.  Everything went as it was supposed to in surgery, and I was to schedule a follow-up exam with him in two weeks.  We both asked each other how the other person was doing, and I think we knew we weren’t ready to really talk yet, so we both said that we were going to be alright.  

The nurse came back shortly thereafter to pass along my prescriptions for pain and nausea as well as all of my post-op instructions:  Have someone with you for at least another 24 hours in case you get lightheaded and lose consciousness.  No driving, no alcohol, no signing documents or making important decisions, no showering for 24 hours, no lifting anything heavier than 10 pounds for 1 week, no sexual intercourse for 2 weeks.  Rest, wear the compression stockings for another 24 hours, and call if you have any of the terrifying symptoms rattled off to me on a sheet of paper.  As part of the routine, the nurse gave me a pamphlet on miscarriage with a fake white rose.  I couldn’t help but feel terrible for the sweet nurse as she had to give me the rose and the pamphlet and say that she was very sorry.  She suggested that Philip pull up the car while she got me a wheelchair and said that we’d meet at the front.  

When Philip and I got into the car, we said that we loved each other and that we were going to be alright, but we spent most of the ride in silence, processing everything that we had gone through in the last 24 hours.  Philip went in to Walgreen’s to get my prescriptions filled.  It took a little more than half an hour.  To pass the time, I sent family and friends text message updates to let them know that I had to go to the ER but that I was okay physically after my emergency surgery.         

Since coming home from the hospital Monday morning, I feel like I’ve been living in a haze.  I know a lot of that’s the strong medicine that I’m on, but I know more of it is my mind and heart struggling to catch up with what my body has been through.  That, and the reality that Thérèse is gone.  Our amazing family and friends have been helping to take care of Janie and Walt since I’ve needed rest and haven’t been able to do it on my own yet.  Hopefully I’ll be ready by Monday if not sooner.  In the meantime, Philip is cutting back on his hours, and he’s going to work until dinnertime instead of staying overnight for his scheduled 28-hour shifts.  He’ll have this weekend off, so hopefully we can use that time to begin processing what happened this past week.

I will be spending tomorrow at the hospital getting a blood transfusion.  I am still very weak and get lightheaded when I spend any time on my feet.  My doctor hopes that the blood transfusion will help me to get my strength back.  Philip is taking the day off to be at home with the kids after I get checked in.  I’m actually looking forward to have an entire day to be alone with my thoughts, read some books about miscarriage, and pray.  It will be nice to have some much-needed silence.             

Last night, Philip and I promised each other that whether we feel like it or not, we’ll set aside some time before bed to check in with one another and talk about whatever we’re thinking.  Our thoughts might be incomplete, painful to hear, or slowly choked out between sobs, but we’ll need to share them.  I keep telling Philip that it’s okay for us to process things differently and that we were forced to live out that night in the hospital individually, but that we need to share that experience with each other so that we can heal. 

Sunday night was excruciatingly painful physically and emotionally, but I am so grateful for all of the ways that we were spared more pain, all of the graces that are coming from Thérèse’s life, and all of the graces that are coming after her death.  I thank God that our children were asleep and that Philip was home as I started to deliver Thérèse.  We needed to go through that experience together, and it’s special that it was able to happen in the quiet and solitude of a lonely ER in the middle of the night.  I thank God for not allowing the physical process to drag on for weeks.  I thank God that our children are not old enough to grieve for Thérèse but that they can join us in praying for her.  I continue to find peace in the knowledge that Thérèse is a saint in heaven who can intercede for us, helping to reach our goal of joining her in heaven with our entire family.  I find comfort and strength in the prayers of our friends and family.

I heal a little more each time I talk about Thérèse. The best gifts that my friends and family are giving me is their ability to listen, let me cry, and tell me that it’s okay to feel however I’m feeling.  There aren’t any special words that take the pain away.  I know that miscarriage can be such a taboo topic because people just don’t know what to say or do, and some women never even share when they endure losing their babies.  Some people will stay away from me for fear of saying the wrong thing or just not knowing how to be around me.  Some people will unintentionally hurt me by saying something meant to help.  To those who have risked those awkward conversations and have courageously said that they don’t know what to say but that they are praying for me and thinking about me, thank you.  You will never know what your courage and compassion are doing for me.  For those who are staying away, please know that I know you’re just struggling to get through this tragedy in your own way.  I know we’ll make our way back to each other, and I hope it happens soon.  

Each mother has to find her own way to grieve and heal.  For me, writing, talking, crying, and sharing as I feel the entire gamut of emotions reminds me that our sweet baby Thérèse is real, that her life deserved to be celebrated, and that her family deserves to mourn her death.  Thank you for allowing me to share her story with you.

Please continue to pray for us in the days ahead.  

Baby #3

by Catherine | Nov 4, 2012 | Faith, Family

We started talking about having another baby over the summer as “Baby Walt” approached 14 months, and big sister, Janie, was about two-and-a-half.  Soon after, we received the blessed news that we were pregnant with Baby #3 and that he or she would make an appearance around May 16th.  Hooray! 

“Morning” sickness has been more of an all-day sickness for me that gets progressively worse into the night, and it lasted until 22 weeks with my first two pregnancies.  So, when I hit the 5-week mark with this pregnancy and the nausea started, I took this as a great indicator that everything was going well.  Great job, hormones!  Keep doing your thing! 

We shared the news early with our family and started telling friends shortly thereafter.  Our philosophy with sharing the news early is that we’re always going to want the prayers and support of family and friends.  If, heaven forbid, something happens to the baby, we want our friends and family to already know about the baby so that they can grieve with us.  Apparently my tummy muscles decided there was no hiding this pregnancy, so I seemed to start showing around 6 weeks.  Nonetheless, we decided to wait to make it “Facebook official” for awhile.

At the 8-week appointment, things went great.  I measured right on target, and my hormone levels looked good.  Unfortunately, the ultrasound tech had to go home sick with strep throat, so we were disappointed not to get a sneak peek at the baby.  Nonetheless, it was a great appointment, and we scheduled my next visit with an ultrasound for November 8th when Philip would be post-call and able to come with me to see Baby for the first time together.  (We like to keep each baby’s sex a surprise until delivery, and we don’t like calling the baby “it” or picking a gender by saying “he” or “she,” so we always call the baby “Baby.”)

As I approached week 11, my energy started to return, and I noticed that I wasn’t watching the clock waiting to be able to take my next dose of Zofran or other anti-nausea medicine.  I thought, “Wow!  This is awesome!  Either I’m getting way better at managing the nausea the third time around, or this baby is taking it easy on me.”

Having already announced our pregnancy to our family and several friends, we decided to go ahead and come up with a fun way to announce it on Facebook.  I put iron-on letters on the kids’ shirts that said “Team Pink” and “Team Blue,” and I wore a black shirt with a question mark.  

Last Sunday, October 28th, we posted this picture of me and the kids:

    
We included the caption, “Team Pink or Team Blue? Baby Boucher #3 will make his or her appearance in May! We can’t wait to meet you, Baby!“ 

Almost immediately, the outpouring of support came in.  Friends sent along their congratulations, prayers, and well wishes.  It’s silly, but making it “Facebook official” by posting that picture felt great, and it helped the reality of a new baby joining our family to sink in a little more.

Being a planner, I’ve been thinking about how we’re going to play musical rooms when Baby arrives.  Walt will move out of the nursery and share a room with Janie.  I’ll finally learn how to sew and make them coordinating bedding.  Baby will move into the already gender neutral nursery.  Maybe we’ll splurge and buy Baby some new décor.  

Baby became part of everyday conversation and our bedtime ritual.  Janie regularly kissed my belly, suggested I “take some medicine to feel better” throughout the day, and practiced swaddling her Baby Stella doll.  She’d stick her tummy out, pull up her shirt, and say, “Look!  Baby is getting bigger!”  

At bedtime, we’d sit on Janie’s floor in the dark and turn on Walt’s ladybug constellation nightlight.

The kids look up at the stars while we do our “Bedtime Sweet Talk” and prayers.  We say the Guardian Angel prayer and then we say, “God bless Daddy, God bless Mommy, God bless Janie, God bless Walt, God bless Monty, and God bless all of our friends and family.  Amen.”  When we found out we were pregnant, we added “God bless the new baby” to the prayer.

These daily rituals and reminders added to our growing excitement to meet Baby.

Thursday night, as I was getting into bed, I felt some mild cramping and tried not to work myself into a panic when I saw that I was spotting.  Philip was working an overnight shift at the hospital, so I called him to check in.  Fortunately, he was able to answer, and I told him about the cramping and spotting.  He suggested that I try my best not to worry, to call him if the cramping got worse or anything changed, and that we would call the doctor in the morning to see if I needed to come in.

The cramping and light bleeding continued the next day, so I called my doctor’s office and spoke with the nurse.  I described my symptoms, and she told me she would speak with my doctor to see if I needed to come in.  She called back to say that my doctor thought the bleeding I described sounded like the result of straining from constipation rather than something more serious, but that I should call back and come in if the bleeding or cramping intensified.

Within that hour, Philip came home from his 28-hour shift, and I relayed the doctor’s message.  He gave me a big hug, said that everything was probably okay, but that we should go to the doctor if I was worried.  

I hopped in the shower and the cramps seemed to get a little worse.  As I shaved my legs, I let myself cry a little and said a prayer.  “God, if it is Your will to take this baby, I will accept that.  I know it’s going to hurt a lot, but I know that if it’s part of Your will that You are allowing it so that some greater good will come of this.”

Meanwhile, I obsessed over the continuing cramps and blood and, after talking to my sister, decided to call my doctor’s office again.  “I know it all sounds like everything is probably okay, but since it’s a Friday, and I don’t want to be worrying over the weekend and until my next appointment on Thursday, can I please come in to check on things?”

Waiting
until the afternoon appointment seemed like an eternity.  I said a lot of prayers to the Blessed Mother and managed to take a nap with Philip and the kids.  I drifted off to sleep visualizing Christ holding Baby in one arm, and me in the other, praying, “Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, I place my trust in You” over and over again.  

After our nap, we headed to the doctor’s office.  It was too short of notice to arrange for a sitter, and I didn’t want to go by myself in the event that we received bad news, so we decided to go as a family.  Uncharacteristically, we arrived 15 minutes early, and we probably waited for half an hour before getting called back.  

My sweet OB walked into the exam room and asked the kids about Halloween and Philip about his current residency rotation before getting down to business.  We discussed my cramping and bleeding as he performed a pelvic exam.  

“Your uterus is measuring a little big.  Why don’t we take a listen?”  

He pulled out the fetal doppler to find a heartbeat.  This would be the first time we would hear the baby’s heartbeat.  He squeezed the “goop” onto my belly, and I waited to hear the quick galloping sound that always made me giggle and cry with joy.  Walt sat in the umbrella stroller, looking around, wondering where the sound was coming from.  Janie sat on Philip’s lap, and she said, “We gonna hear the baby?”  Despite moving the doppler up and down, left to right, we never heard the galloping sound.  

My OB wiped off my belly, helped me to sit up, and said, “OK, I’ll go and get ________ (the ultrasound tech), and let’s take a peek to see what’s going on.  I’ll be right back.” 

I got dressed and we gathered up our things to go into the ultrasound room.  As I laid down and got some more goop on my belly, the ultrasound tech asked me a few questions. 

“So, you’re having some cramping and bleeding, huh?”
“Yes.  It feels like mild menstrual cramps, and I see the light spotting when I wipe.” 
“This is your third pregnancy?”
“Yes.”
“Both carried to term?  No complications?”
“Yes, no complications with either.”
“OK.  Let’s see what’s going on in there.”

As she started moving the probe around my belly, I watched our baby appear on the monitor, and I knew.  I was twelve weeks and a day along in my pregnancy, so Baby should have looked nearly fully formed but still very tiny.  The baby that appeared on the monitor was very small, and Baby had very tiny limbs that only poked out a little.  This sounds like a cold and crude comparison, but Baby kind of looked like a little gummy bear.

I watched as the ultrasound tech took some measurements.  I couldn’t see a fluttering where Baby’s heart should have been.  Philip and the kids had been sitting in chairs along a wall behind the exam table.  I felt Philip’s hand on my shoulder as the ultrasound tech said, “The baby is measuring about 7 weeks, and there’s no heartbeat.  I’m sorry.”  

I heard the words, but my mind needed to take it in before I let my emotions catch up.  

I heard my sweet Janie say in her little voice, “There’s no heart?”  

The ultrasound tech told her, “Oh, I’m sorry, honey.”  Then she told us, “Unfortunately, this happens sometimes in the first trimester, and there’s nothing you did wrong.”

Probably thirty seconds went by before my emotions caught up with me, and I burst into tears.  It was the big, terrible, out of control, sobbing.  The ultrasound tech wiped the goop on my belly, said, “I’ll give you guys some time,” and left the room.

Little Janie said, “What’s wrong, Mommy?” and Philip told her, “Baby had to go to heaven.”  I sat up and he gave me a big hug.  Janie insisted on sitting next to me on the exam table.  Sweet little Walt kept smiling at me from the umbrella stroller.  Through bleary eyes in the dark room I got dressed, and my OB came in after a few minutes.

He shook our hands and said, “I’m so sorry.”  He reviewed the ultrasound images and repeated what the ultrasound tech said.  “The baby is measuring 7 weeks even though you are twelve weeks and a day today, and there is no heartbeat.  You see how the sac is kind of oval-shaped?  That indicates that the uterus is starting the process of evacuating the baby.”  

The tears stopped flowing long enough for me to hear and ask about the ugly, cold, medical side of losing a baby.  We talked about the logistics of what would happen as I miscarry at home–all of the ugly realities that I had never considered until facing miscarrying my own baby.  My OB said it could happen that day, the next day, or even in a few weeks.  If I wanted, I could take some medicine to expedite the process.  We talked about how to collect the tissue and bring it in for testing.  We talked about the pain, potential complications, what’s normal and what’s not, and the possibility of a D&C.  
 
At the end of our conversation, my OB said, “Please call us if you need anything or if you’d like that medicine to move things along.  This is a real loss, so take all the time you need to grieve your baby.  I am so sorry.  I’ll go and get _______ (his nurse) to bring you that container.”

After he left, I racked my brain, thinking of all of the things I didn’t want to forget about this moment or things to ask about or for before we left.  I said to Philip, “Can you please ask them for the ultrasound pictures?  I want to have them.”  He said, “Of course,” and went to find the ultrasound tech.  I started to pack up our things when my OB’s sweet nurse came in and gave me a big hug.  

“I’m so glad we came in today,” I said.  
“Me too,” she said, still hugging me.

She put the sterile container into my diaper bag and said that she was so sorry for our loss.  

Philip came back with the ultrasound picture.  As I zipped Walt into his jacket, Janie accidentally knocked some magazines off of a table.  Instantly, the ultrasound tech and my OB’s nurse said, “Don’t worry about it!  Go ahead!” as I bent over to pick them up.&
nbsp; We thanked everyone, said goodbye, and walked out of the ultrasound room.  

I was instructed to keep a full bladder for the ultrasound, so I told Philip I needed to stop at the restroom on our way out.  He said he would wait for me with the kids in the waiting room.  After I closed the door behind me, I cried for a minute and collected myself before walking out to the waiting room.  

I walked past my OB’s nurse who was on the phone with another patient, and I walked past the ultrasound tech who was talking to the office receptionist.  She didn’t see me walking by.  I heard her say, “I performed an ultrasound on Catherine _________, Dr. __________’s patient, and the baby is deceased, so please cancel her appointment on November 8th.”  That was that.  No need to come back next week.  My baby was deceased.  

I went through the waiting room door to find my sweet children and teary husband waiting for me.  The trip down the elevator, through the building lobby, and out to the car is pretty hazy.  I remember buckling Janie into her car seat and her asking me, “What’s wrong, Mama?  You sad?”  I told her, “Yes, Mommy and Daddy are sad because we miss Baby.  But Baby is a saint in heaven, so that makes us very happy.”  

Since it was November 2, All Souls Day, Janie had gotten a lesson on All Saints Day and who saints are the day before.  She said, “Baby’s in heaven?  I want to be a saint.”  

As Philip pulled the minivan out of the parking lot, I said, “I’m so glad you came because I don’t think I could have driven myself home,” and I burst back into those big, terrible, out of control tears.  Philip cried and said, “I know.  I’m glad, too.”        

I cried off and on during the ride home.  We talked about how glad we were that we didn’t wait to go in.  We talked about it being a blessing that we knew that Baby had died before I miscarried at home.  We talked about it being All Souls Day.  I admitted to Philip that I thought something might have been wrong when I started feeling less nauseous and more energetic.  I said I was scared to miscarry and wondered how painful it would be.  

Finally, I said that I wanted to call my family members and start sharing the news while I could still talk, and I asked Philip if he was ready to share the news.  He said to go ahead and start calling.  I figured it would be harder to talk as time went on, and I wanted to tell my family members about losing Baby myself.  

The hardest conversation was probably talking to my dad.  I had called my mom on her way out of the office for the day, but I waited a few hours until after I knew Dad was home and Mom had already told him before I called.  Ugh, it’s so hard to share sad news with your dad and hear him heartbroken for you.  We cried, we talked about Baby being a saint that will pray and intercede for all of us, and I told him how I was doing.  I said, “I know there’s not a right way or a wrong way to feel and that I’m still processing that we lost the baby, but I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of peace.  My faith and Philip’s faith is in such a good place right now that we have to believe that God loves us even more than we love our own children and that He is allowing this because He knows that something good will come of it.  I’m waiting for those graces to come, and I’m trusting in that plan, and I’m going to keep grieving, but the more powerful feeling is peace.  I’ve been praying to the Blessed Mother all day because she knows what it’s like to lose a child.  She’ll give me the strength I need.”  Dad said all kinds of sweet and supportive things, but the thing that made me tear up the most was him saying, “I wish you were a little girl again and I could take you to the toystore to try and cheer you up and make it all better.”  Now that I’m a parent, I understand that.  You want to do everything you can to take away your baby’s hurt, and he knows he can’t.

When we put the kids to bed that night, we gathered on Janie’s bedroom floor and looked at the nightlight stars and moon on the ceiling like always.  Philip recapped the day for our “Bedtime Sweet Talk” since I couldn’t, and he led us in our usual Guardian Angel Prayer followed with, “God bless Daddy, God bless Mommy, God bless Janie, God bless Walt, God bless Baby in heaven, God bless Monty, and God bless all of our friends and family.”  I love him for remembering Baby in our prayer.

It doesn’t get easier each time I call someone to say that Baby died, but it does help to talk about the reality of our loss and sadness.  We don’t regret sharing the news of our pregnancy a week ago only to have to share that Baby died shortly thereafter.  We are glad that we shared the joy of celebrating in Baby’s life so that we can grieve with those same people who shared in our joy.          

I haven’t gone through the physical ordeal of losing Baby yet, and I know that will be the hardest part of all.  Anticipating that time, I’m sure I’ll be praying two prayers, and I ask you to please pray them for me as well.  I will pray to the Blessed Mother to give me the strength she had to endure standing at the foot of the cross, watch her son die, and fulfill Simeon’s prophesy that her heart would be pierced with a sword.  My second prayer will be that I have the faith to pray, “Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, I place my trust in You.”  If I don’t have the strength to pray or do anything else but physically get through the moment, I hope I can find strength and peace as I gaze at my Sacred Heart high school class ring with the image of Jesus and Mary’s hearts intertwined.    

Philip and I decided we wanted to name Baby so that when we pray to our saint in heaven or talk about Baby, we have a name.  We weren’t far enough in the pregnancy to be able to know Baby’s sex.  Since Philip and I had an inkling that Baby was a girl, we chose a girl’s name–Thérèse.  Like St. Thérèse of Lisieux, our own “little flower” lived a short time and will spend the rest of her life in heaven, interceding as a prayer warrior for others.   

Last night as we were trying to go to sleep, I thanked Philip for being so good about hearing all of the things I was thinking, but that I wanted to hear how he was feeling and what he was thinking.  The thing that stood out the most was him
saying through tears, “I think we’re really lucky, you know.  We have a child that we know is a saint in heaven, and that’s what we want for our children.  We’re lucky to have the extra motivation to get each other and our other children to heaven so that we can all be together as a family.”

Thank you for sharing in our joy, and thank you for sharing in our grief.  Thank you in advance for your prayers, for allowing us to grieve, for listening, for just being there, and for all of the many other ways you are helping.  Having faith that God allowed this tragedy as part of His plan doesn’t make our suffering easier, but it gives our suffering purpose and meaning.  We are just beginning the grieving and healing, and we know we will somehow get through this time with our faith and the support, prayers, and love of our family and friends.  Thérèse is and will forever be a beloved saint for our family.