Another Naming

I have dreamed of a big family since I was a little girl: ever the ardent reader and scribbler, I was always writing wild fantasies about loving but chaotic families with 6, 8, 10, 20! children. There were always at least one set of twins, a mom and a dad who were poor but desperately in love, and plenty of drama.

As an adult, the dream hasn't died (well, maybe wee small deaths - I do want less drama...and maybe a bit more money, lets be honest). Ever since our wedding night, with every hope of a new baby, I have dreamt of the perfect names for the eternal souls sent to me. I weigh each of name carefully, considering all the possible combinations and all the great significance, both familial and faith-wise. I whisper them aloud, secret little prayers, with all a mother's hope attached to each one.

I dream of monogrammed towels, nicknames lisped by siblings, their name on a welcome home banner, a church bulletin announcement. To have the authority to name a child - I feel so connected to the first parents, to Adam and Eve, who named every creature. Isn't my child as new as each newly created creature? What a marvel, to name a precious new baby - to call them out of anonimity and place them in the family of God.

But I've only had the honor once. One precious time, one sweet name that I lovingly say so many times a day.

Now twice I've had the sorrowful honor of naming two new citizens of Heaven.  My first pregnancy was also my first-born into Heaven and I've no doubt that the banners there heralded his name with no less joy than our home would have: Francis Marian. This past week, our newest child entered into her Father's House - after three weeks where I was planning for her to enter mine.

I can't bear to name her, yet leaving her without a name is also breaking my heart. Another name to ask the intercession of, to jolt when I hear at the playground, or sadly read on a birth announcement; to murmur 'no' when people suggest it as a future baby name. Another name to love and never use as often as I'd like, to never cheer on at each new milestone, or get to mention in casual conversation. Another empty place at my table. How do I explain to people that my home is now missing two children? That I should have three names to rattle off when I tell of my family?  How do I feel this loss sincerely, without feeling crazy for mourning those I have never met?

The new baby is Louisa Frances. At our bedtime prayers, Zuzu always shouts "BABY" as the first person to pray for, which we taught her to do when we first learned of our pregnancy. Now it's painful, so tonight I worked with her to say "Louisa," which is for some reason less painful. It's precious to hear her say "oo-ee-sah?" Would've been precious for years.

So that's our naming again. Louisa Frances joins Francis Marian and the countless other innocents in Heaven. May their prayers gain their Mother the virtue needed to see them again.

Needle and ThREAD / First Pretty, Happy, Funny, Real!

Two linkups I've had my eye on for a while now and I'm joining in...

{pretty} 

Aren't these flowers lovely? Jen got them for me as a homecoming present! It was a lovely way to come back after over two weeks of being gone. 

{happy}

If I had one, I would put a picture of me reading this book in my husband's childhood bedroom, which is how I spent a good bit of Zuzu's naptime over vacation. But instead this lovely cover of it will have to do. I read it and wept and loved it - I still feel parts of it beating in my heart. Understand, koritsimou?

{funny} 
As I'm getting more into my creative side, I realized my mother thoughtfully gave me a great deal of her quilting stash for reasons unknown (it's not as if she's stopped being wonderfully creative!). I decided to tear through it and see what it contained. Well...now it's contents are all over my living room, but I'm really feeling the creative juices flowing!  {real} 

I wanted to put this under happy, even though it isn't. I've been working on a blanket for a friend: 

It's just a small baby blanket - sorry I'm not the best at taking pictures! Just about 45 x 60, basically a big pillow case with some batting in there too. 

Rose fabric for a sweet baby named Rose, then the other side is a brown Fall type pattern, since her spring and summer season has already ended and she has gone home to Christ. It's happy to be able to make something for a mother missing a baby, happy to be able to do something with my hands for someone else. But it's so real - so many lovely babies coming into the word, and others only being held by Mary and not their earthly mothers. 

O Mary, Mother of God, pray for us! 

Top 5 Things NOT to Say to Someone Who's Miscarried

I have had less than a weeks' worth of experience in dealing with other people's reactions to my miscarriage, but I already feel I could write a book about reclaiming tact in dealing with this subject. I must preface this by saying, I realize that most people just don't know what to say to someone who has suffered a miscarriage and their comments aren't meant to harm. Despite these good intentions, thoughtless comments DO harm, so there's still good reason to stop them from coming out of other's (and maybe our own) mouths.

As I reflect on these unintentional barbs that have been thrown my way, I recall that marvelous quote by Albus Dumbledore: "sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often." If you or someone you know could benefit from this article, please share, so that accidental rudeness might spare a few more victims...

1) These things happen/ the body has ways of riding itself of not good pregnancies / it was probably because of a chromosomal abnormality: I appreciate that the medical reason for a lot of spontaneous abortions (i.e. miscarriages) is something medical, though possibly unknowable, especially at very early stages, like I was. Despite this, God is the author of life, so no, I don't think my body just sloughed off some dead cells and oh well, life goes on. No. Life begins at conception, that was my child, and he died; please don't talk about him like he is medical waste and we are in a Planned Parenthood clinic, where you're trying to make me feel better about my abortion. Would you ever say to the mother of a child who died of leukemia, "Sometimes this just happens, natural selection takes it's course and the weak must die..."? No, because that would be thoughtless and rude. The same applies here.

2) Well, look on the bright side - you CAN get pregnant! : I have heard this a lot, especially since Tom and I were so concerned we couldn't get pregnant or wouldn't be able to for years. Now, yes, this sentiment is another one that has a grain of truth - we are of course happy to know that our reproductive organs seem to be working properly enough that we can actually get pregnant. But this look-on-the-bright-side mantra tends to gloss over our grief, and the reason for it: we lost a child. Losing a child means that we should be able to mourn the loss. Religious people especially seem quick to hurry us on to joy, as if grief isn't a holy enough emotion, as if Jesus did not weep over the death of Lazarus (even though Jesus knew he was about to bloody resurrect him!). Yes, I can get pregnant, and in fact I did and my child died - if that makes you feel uncomfortable, just murmur a polite "I'm so sorry" and walk away; I promise I won't mind.

3) I'm sure you'll get pregnant again: Yes, and I'm sure that you DO know the future and that you would really like if it I told you after your grandfather died, "well, thank goodness, you've got another one!" You are not omniscient and children are not interchangeable. My fertility is not up to you, and if I should happen to never get pregnant again I'm sure you'd feel rather silly about your rose-colored promise. Likewise, and we're coming back to this point a lot!, when a miscarriage occurs a child has died. That child will never be replaced; they are gone, forever. Try to think of the unborn child as if they were born, or maybe even 8 years old or a grown person, and then try to say the same phrases to the parent: if it sounds stupid then, it still sounds stupid here.

4) Just try to put this out of your mind / forget about it: I know you're shocked when you read this one - nobody would actually argue for outright repression of grief would they? Well, yes actually, it happened to me before Christmas Mass. It came from a person I love dearly, but upon hearing our news she said, "just try to put this straight out of your mind - just forget about it!" And then went on to say some of the other horrible things listed above. I think some people are afraid of grief, of sorrow, of the horror of losing a child - and so they tell you to have reactions that would make them feel more comfortable. But again, if this person's grief makes you uncomfortable, then just say something polite and walk away - we really will understand.

5) Don't get too stressed - it'll prevent you from getting pregnant again! : This is part II of No. 4 above. The woman told me to forget about the miscarriage because the stress of it would prevent me from getting pregnant again. Marilyn Shannon in her excellent book "Fertility, Cycles, and Nutrition" addresses this misconception quite adequately, but I will summarize: my daily stress, unless it rises to the level of PTSD or medical shock, will not be adequate enough to make me stop ovulating, thankyouverymuch. Telling me to relax and not to think about the fact that I just lost a child will actually stress me out more, and maybe cause me to go into real shock from how many cotton headed ninny-muggins give out conceiving advice just because their wombs are hyperactive and they get pregnant when their spouse sneezes on them. I already got pregnant, I'm hopeful I can do it again, and even if I can't, pseudo-doctors with poor bedside manner are the last group of people I will seek out for reproductive help.


In summation, if you know someone who has suffered a miscarriage, the best thing to say is "I'm sorry for your loss." The parents know there are no words - they likely have none themselves - in the face of such a mountain of sorrow. To recognize that they are truly grieving a real loss, their child, and that you are sorry for them, is the greatest comfort. If you happen to be Christian, offering prayers is very kind, and if you are Catholic, offering up Masses and rosaries means very much. Otherwise, just offer your humanity, for when grief robs us of all our well meaning words, that is the only thing we have left.

Christmas Peace

It has been a great comfort to realize that each day truly is new: just because I am miserable one moment, does not mean the next will be the same. I find that this is a great mercy from God, that my feelings are transient and do not stay for long. It is perhaps the mark of the most virtuous (wo)man that (s)he does not make decisions or even consider too greatly his/her own feelings: reason rules affectation.

I received a great deal of peace on Christmas Eve, before Midnight Mass. I came early for lessons and carols, but I decided to slip out to the Adoration chapel during the songs. As I knelt in prayer, I told Jesus honestly that I just didn't know what to pray for - I didn't know what I needed and I couldn't even begin to think of how to ask. But all I wanted was to do God's will, and I knew that even in my grief, I had to remain focused on doing the will of God. 

The Apotheosis of St. Thomas Aquinas by Francisco Zurbaran; he is the champion of reason, even if he knew crap about women! 

And it occurred to me that although there is a proper time and place to grieve, self-pity is never acceptable. I know that within my heart, some of my genuine grief over the loss of my darling Frances had turned to self-pitying indulgences. No longer were my eyes stinging because I so dearly wanted to hold my child, but just because I wanted to be miserable - and I was glad to have a reason to do it. Tasks I knew I had the strength and energy to do, I was excusing myself from simply so I could be idle and depressed. And as I knelt and prayed, I felt Jesus quietly admonish me: the most virtuous woman would not allow her feelings cloud the reality and truth of the situation, tragic though it may be. She would continue to love God, despite her pain and sorrow. My favorite theology professor always said, the most virtuous man does the best good the most promptly. And I have always been comforted by facts, for they help me reason and draw me closer to Jesus who is Truth itself. 

Me, praying in front of the altar in the Basilica of St. Paul in Daytona Beach, FL

It occurred to me then that the entire goal of parenting is to get one's child to Heaven, and that with our first child, Tom and I have already succeeded. What a blessing! Indeed, before Frances was given to us, I fear that Tom and I had begun to doubt God in a very subtle way. We knew that children might be a long time in coming, so although we prayed for them, we doubted that God would give them to us; we figured that when we were tired of waiting, we'd take the fertility drugs recommended by my doctor and have a baby then. We had begun to think of ourselves as the authors of life, not as participators in creation with Almighty God; it was almost a contraceptive mentality in part. Although we thought we were trusting God with our fertility, we originally expected many children; we were not ready to receive no children, or just a few children, or perhaps four children very far spaced out. Once it was apparent that we would not get pregnant right away, we thought we controlled the process; we thought we would force God's hand, when we were ready. Never did we say at each stage, "this is where you want us to be, Lord, for you are the author of life; thank you God for giving us what you know we need, even if we don't know why we need it." 

Eucharistic Adoration at a parish in St. Louis; photo taken by Jeff Geerling

This is one of the many gifts my darling Frances has given us: a realization that we have to have faith in God - both hopeful faith that He will grant our prayers in due season, and grateful faith that what He is giving us is for our best good. Trusting God with our fertility means taking whatever He gives us: many children in Heaven, or on Earth, maybe no children, maybe many adopted children. I am not sure how else we would have awoken to our turning from God in our hearts if not for Frances, if not for realizing how precious life is and how much we desire to welcome a new one into our home and hearts. 

With these sweet thoughts and reflections, given so generously to me in prayer, I went back to the church with a quiet peace. It is not to say that I am not still sad, but I feel a great deal more hope and joy at the will of God. I dwelt so much upon the loss of Francis, but I feel so much closer to my child now - knowing that he must pray for us, cheering us on to reach Heaven too, to be rejoined as a family.

Some of my family, a few years ago...that's my dad on the far left, my mom in the middle, and me on the end. 

With this peace in my heart, Christmas Day was pleasant and peaceful - and I didn't cry (at this point, a milestone). We had our big meal when Tom got home from the last Mass (he walked in the door around 12:40) and then opened our presents in a leisurely. We were blessed with many wonderful things, but I was most grateful to lay in my husband's arms, talk about our dreams for the future, and be grateful for the life we got to witness, right before Christmas, our darling Francis child.

Have Yourselves a Merry Little Christmas

Just a quick mobile update to say yes, my lab work came back and yes,  I really was pregnant. It's been a relief to know for sure.

This is the saddest Christmas I can recall. I have a hard time not crying, and I feel so lonely - a deep, aching loneliness that no amount of company can soothe. I miss my child, my Frances. Oddly, I now adore that name, though before I wasn't crazy about it. I am feeling a heartbreak I never knew possible: I love more than I ever thought I could. God give me the strength to bear the weight of so great a love!

I pray you all have the merriest of Christmases and ask you not to be too hard on the grouchy people - maybe they're just sad, maybe it is hard for them to feel Christ's love right now. Christmas is always a blessing but this year, does not feel a joy.

The Long Goodbye

Yesterday was a typical beautiful Naples day: a good breeze, strong sun, temperatures struggling to get above 75. My house is beautifully clean, which only happened because my mom and niece visited on Tuesday, and my garden is starting to take shape. There's food in my fridge, gas in the car, more than plenty Christmas presents under the tree. 

Here's our pretty church...where I cried my eyes out last night.

But the whole day felt like I was in a horrible haze, and from where I stand now, yesterday looks like just a bad dream. I have had to work very hard to convince myself that I was really pregnant: he was alive. Today I woke up and just wanted to believe, no, it never happened - I'm not grieving because no one died, we're still the carefree newlyweds, no great sorrow has touched our hearts. It's unfortunately only too easy to do - this is the busy season for my husband's work, since he works for our parish. He's immersed in work, bless him, and I'm just trying to figure out where to go from here. 

Tom's darling nephew, last Christmas. I thought this would be the gift we were receiving this year, just a bit smaller of course...

My doctor was so kind, so compassionate and apologetic. I could tell he kept expecting me to cry, to break down - but I just nodded and asked a few questions. I am not willing to share my grief; when I told my mom, I was still steeling myself. My dear Denise started to cry, especially because today is the one year anniversary of her father's death, but I couldn't. I possess a wickedly strong desire to protect my grief from any other eyes: it feels so private and small, just like his life was. It has been hard for me to share my grief with Tom: this part of myself is so new to me I don't even know how to offer it to him. 

I'm disappointed in myself. We spent three days not celebrating my pregnancy, but questioning whether I really was pregnant - too nervous to believe the three pregnancy tests that all said I was. We could have spent those sacred hours rejoicing, dreaming - but we didn't. We held our breath, we held back our joy, we were cautious. Why? Why was I so cautious to love my child, and rejoice at the blessing that I had begged for? Even now my fingers are itching to hit the backspace button - I don't want to type "my child," I feel that's lying, I don't want to believe I was pregnant. 

After reading the chapter on miscarriage in the Kimberly Hahn book, "Life Giving Love," Tom thinks we should name the baby. I reluctantly agreed. Isn't it horrible? Isn't it so horrible that I thought, 'I don't want to give the baby one of my favorite names - I want to use those for my children that will be here, so I'll get to say it over and over again.' In his desire to give me enough latitude to grieve, my darling husband has given me the responsibility to name the baby. I chose Frances, because that could work for a boy or a girl. I wish we could have name him together, though; he wasn't just my baby, was he? It wasn't just in my head?

Really great book, by the by. I got it at Good Will for 99 cents! Thank you, Jesus.

I pray that I will come to the point of believing we had a child. Right now I feel like a crazy person in a hologram sanatorium: I am wandering around looking for help, but everything I touch is an illusion. I thought this would ground me in reality, but instead, reality has changed so much I cannot even recognize it. 

The Good, the True, the Beautiful

Some news is so beautiful, it must be kept in ones heart to ponder, as Mary did with the mystery of Christ her child. I kept my little news in my heart, revealing it to a few, gently coaxing my feeble hope out of its cautious shell, willing it all to be true.

Yet as some dreams blossom, others fade quietly into memories. This week, we lost the baby. Yes, there was a baby - I don't know how long he or she (lets just go with he) lived, we only knew for a few days that we were pregnant, but he has gone home now. We have a saint in Heaven! I feel that's an honor our family doesn't deserve - our own little saint, who surely remembers our intentions at the throne of God. I wish I could have met him, but he must be so happy where he is, that I can't be too sad: my first child will never feel want, fear, sadness or cold. He will never see the ugliness of sin, or feel great pain. He will always be in joyful communion with God, and surely Our Lady will look after him - surely she will make sure my baby is well cared for, she who cared so well for the Christ Child and cares still for all of us.

I wish I knew how to feel: I wasn't even used to his presence yet, I didn't even know how I felt about being pregnant, and then he had gone. I miss him as a person misses an opportunity they didn't know they had until it was taken away: all the joy I could have had, just knowing it was possible for a little bit longer.

I don't know why this happened now, right after I mused about my desire for a child at Christmastime. But since my greatest fear was that somehow, that miracle would never touch my womb, I cannot be too distraught. This little one has left, but he was a sign of hope: not this Christmas, but maybe one in the future, I will have joyful news and joyful waiting. In a way I cannot grasp at this point in time, I am a mother and that has always been my dearest wish. Blighted though my motherhood at this point is, I have gotten to marvel at a miracle smaller than a grain of rice.

I'm sure I will have more thoughts, happier thoughts, more Christmaslike thoughts, at a later time. But for now, I want to think about my child: he who is good and true and beautiful.