Since our pregnancy loss, I have yet to make it through today, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, or August 28th, the day we found out our child had died, without an internal alarm sounding. It’s as if my soul doesn’t want me to forget the heartache. I know there are hundreds of thousands of women and men just like me. People doing their best to get through today. Struggling to understand their emotions. Trying hard to keep it together. So many people who want nothing more than to allow this day to honor their unborn child’s life but wishing that, somehow, the pain of their loss could be circumvented.
If you have experienced something tragic, like the loss of someone loved, you know the pain doesn’t suppress and contain itself to that specific date. You are reminded, usually daily, of the heartache. But with time, the sorrow becomes more manageable and you begin to find peace and sometimes, even a level of acceptance for that experience. However, like the phases of the moon, those particular dates cycle around each year. Upon their arrival, they have a tendency to bring you to your knees. Suddenly, that pain you thought you had managed to control rears its dreadful face. Why such power? How does a day, something so abstract, hold so much meaning? I don’t know why and I certainly won’t pretend like I understand the reason for heartbreak. Part of me feels like it’s God’s way of preparing us for His kingdom, by humbling us to the point of total surrender. Perhaps, but whatever it may be, I find relief in the fact that I don’t have to fully understand. On days like today, I lean on my faith. I take refuge in my Lord and I pray for an extra dose of His grace.
I leave you with the letter I wrote to our unborn child on the eve of my scheduled D & C. It’s a letter I’ve kept to myself for the past four years, not even sharing it with my husband. But I am ready now. I sincerely hope that my words will bless you with some comfort and provide an opportunity for a bit of healing.
Tomorrow I will shed the tangible part of you, the worldly shell that housed your tiny soul. It was just not strong enough to support your delicate life. While my heart weeps for my loss of you, my soul has genuinely found comfort in knowing that you are with Christ. As your mother, I find peace in knowing that I will not fear for you. I will never have to shelter you from evil or watch you suffer from things of this earthly world. I will never have to try and mend your broken heart or worry for your soul. I pray that I live my life well, striving always to follow in Christ’s footsteps and clinging ever so tightly to His promises, so that I can hold you some day. I loved you. I will always love you.
May God meet you where you are today and on those days that prove most difficult for you.