Our Grace would be ten years old now. She was wanted, she is still loved. We did not get to hold her, I never got to feel her move within me, but she is missed every day. She is still our child, she will always be a part of our family. I cling to the knowledge that I will get to hold her one day, that I will meet her in heaven. It is a comfort that our earthly losses have been her heavenly gains.
I hate when people ask me about my children, I don't count her in casual conversation. I want to avoid the awkwardness, and the pity from the other person. She still matters. The only time I mention her is when someone asks if we're ever going to try for a girl. I use my answer to shut them up, and hopefully make them think twice before they ask that sort of question of the next person. Miscarriage and child loss are not something that come up in every day discussion; those of us in this population typically hide it, as though it's something to be ashamed of. I get frustrated with people who refer to my loss as only that of a pregnancy. Grace was a human being, a child of God, formed within me. She may not have taken her first breath outside of my body, but she was still a person. She had a heartbeat. We lost a child, not a pregnancy. We lost a future, we lost opportunities and we lost memories.
Several years ago I learned the term "rainbow baby." This refers to the baby you have after the loss of a child, the rainbow after the storm of loss. A reminder of God's promise.
We are blessed to have two rainbow babies. After loss, illness and infertility, we were able to have Avery and Ezra. There are many who aren't that blessed, and this is not something I take lightly. I delight in all three of my boys, knowing each one is a miracle in his own way.
I will admit Shawn and I treated Avery's and Ezra's pregnancies, births and first few months differently than Noah's. With Noah, we went by the book. Everything was by the book--feedings, naps, bedtimes, discipline, schedules and routines. We were more lax with Avery, and we've been the same with Ezra. When you lose a child, the next one(s) are different. It's not that you don't love your first one less, you do, in fact understand how precious that life is as well--if not for having him when we did, we may not have been able to have him. However, you do see life differently, you're looking through different lenses, the lenses of loss. You understand how fragile life is, and treat it with the kid gloves it deserves. I've been lectured by well meaning, loving friends about allowing Ezra to nap in my arms, about holding him as much as I do. I've tried to explain that I don't want to let him go, that, on some level, I can't. If I let go, that's when the what ifs begin. That's when the fear creeps in.
My heart aches for the moms and dads who have lost more than we have. There have been times I did not think I could bear the pain, and times I've railed against the unfairness of it. I can't even begin to imagine what those parents go through.
We are survivors. We take it one day at a time. There are times the grief can still overwhelm us, even years later. Through this grief, however, I am grateful for the lessons Grace has taught me, even in her absence. Because of her, I appreciate Noah, Avery and Ezra even more every day. I am grateful for the time I have with them, and I do cherish them. Because of Grace, I know who is important.
"A person's a person no matter how small," --Dr Seuss.
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