Benjamin is my sixth child. I never got to meet him here on
earth but I trust in God’s mercy and hope to hold him in my arms in the next
life.
When I went in for my 12 week appointment, I knew deep down
inside it wouldn’t be a happy one. At my
10 week appointment, the midwife didn’t hear a heartbeat, but at that point we
weren’t too worried because it could have been the baby’s position or some
other factor. He was still living at
that point (as I later found out from his age on ultrasound), but a part of me
knew at that point what the outcome of the pregnancy would be. Samuel, my four year old, blurted out of the
blue the night before my 12 week appointment, “mom, is your baby dead?” I was taken aback and asked him why he said
such a thing. Sam has been particularly
sensitive to the loss and I find myself wondering if he had a connection to the
baby or if he is particularly attuned to me.
I keep my babies and toddlers very close and I think that connection
continues through their childhood.
The midwife couldn’t hear the heartbeat, so we went over to
the room with the ultrasound to look at the baby. I knew in my heart what to expect. When his image came up on the screen, I saw
his head and his body, but he was completely still and there was no
heartbeat. I started crying and my
midwife simply said, “I’m sorry”. She
hugged me and we talked about the next steps.
I was to go over to the hospital for an ultrasound for confirmation and
then I would need to talk to the doctors about the next step, which was assumed
to be a D&C to remove the baby because of his larger size (standard
practice is to let very early miscarriages happen naturally, but I was almost
in the second trimester).
The hospital got me in for my ultrasound very quickly, thankfully,
but of course when the baby’s image came up on the screen, his sweet little
body was there, completely still. I
asked the technician after a few minutes, “no heartbeat, right?” She replied, “no, I’m sorry.” I then asked for a picture of him. She said that he measured 11 weeks and 4
days. I should have been 12 weeks and 2
days at that point, so he had passed away only a few days earlier.
I was alone for the appointments as Steve was home with our
other children. I went out to my car and
cried for a few minutes. I called my
husband and told him. I asked him not to
tell the children until I got home, but Sam was in Steve’s lap and he heard the
conversation. He announced to his
brothers that “the baby is dead”. The
boys started their grieving before I got home.
The next person I immediately wanted to tell was my mom. I called her and let her know and asked her
to pray for me.
The rest of the day was filled with many tears, but I was
comforted to be with my husband and my children. While they were waiting for me to return
home, the four youngest boys had drawn several pictures for me. They were all so sweet- me holding Benjamin,
Jesus holding Benjamin, and Joseph drew himself facing Benjamin and holding
hands with him in a green field with the sun shining. The pictures were all happy pictures with
green grass and sunshine. I will forever
treasure those pictures. My seventeen
year old then came hold from school. He
hugged me and cried.
All I wanted to do was to pray and be with my family. Steve thought he should take me and the boys over
to our church to pray, and I welcomed the suggestion. I love my little church. On the way to the church there was a small rainbow
shining across one of the mountains. All
of us saw it and wondered if it was a sign from God. I think it was. I still don’t know exactly what it meant, but
I’m sure it was meant for us.
There is a park next to the church and it was a warm fall
day, so I thought the boys should play outside before we went into the church. The boys got out and Steve and I remained in
the car. He asked if he should stay with
me and I told him he should go play with the boys. I loved sitting there and watching them
play. Steve is such a good dad. At one point, Gabriel jumped off his swing
and as it kept swinging, I imagined my little boy who would never touch foot on
this earth swinging in the empty swing.
I will always remember that empty swing.
I decided to let them play and I went into the church. They came in and joined me a little while
later. After we had prayed and cried and
lit a candle, we went back over to the park.
We stayed until dark and then we returned home.
Now I had to deal with the medical decisions. I had never miscarried before and knew
nothing about what to expect. I had
immediate pressure to remove the baby surgically, but I have never let doctors
pressure me into a decision, so I verified that there was no emergency and
decided to wait and read about miscarriage and the options and take my time to
make the decision. The standard medical
management of an 11-12 week missed miscarriage is surgery because of the risk
of bleeding. But I had to wonder, if
this was a common occurrence for women (an estimated 20-25% of pregnancies end
in miscarriage), then why the rush to surgery?
Wouldn’t my body take care of it?
I learned that it can take up to six weeks for a woman’s body to deliver
a missed miscarriage, with two weeks being a common amount of time. It is hard to carry a baby that you know has
passed away, but it felt like the right thing to me. I didn’t like the thought of dismembering his
body to remove him. Burying him became
very important to me. I would never be
able to take care of him as a mother should, but I could protect and take care
of his body and honor him with a burial.
I went down to Albuquerque to stay with my parents because I
knew that there were certain risks to my decision and I wanted to be near a big
city hospital (I live in a very rural area, 40 minutes away from a small,
community hospital). I took the 4
youngest kids down (my 17 year old
stayed home with Steve because of school) and decided that I would call Steve
to come and join us when the miscarriage started happening. I also wanted to get another confirmation
ultrasound and a second medical opinion.
I saw a very sweet Catholic doctor who has four children of her own, whom
my mother knows. She took time to speak
with me and answer all of my questions about the situation and my future
fertility. She did give me a prescription
for Misoprostol which would bring on the miscarriage if I decided to hasten the
process. Again, that option had the risk
of bleeding and additionally of significant pain. I would call her if I decided to take
it. She was so kind, reassuring, and
informative and I appreciated that she knew what I was going through from a
faith perspective. She knew I had
carried a life and that the baby wasn’t just tissue as it is treated by many
doctors and hospitals- to the point that they throw away babies’ bodies with
medical waste. The doctor gave me a hug
at the end of our appointment and I felt her care and warmth. I have received many small blessings along
this painful journey and that hug was one of them. I think that speaking with her put my heart
and my body at ease and the delivery of my miscarried baby finally started
happening the next morning, about 2 weeks from the time Benjamin had died.
I woke up with a small amount of bleeding- brownish in
color, but no pain. I knew the process
was starting to happen. I was relieved,
thankful and sad. I called my mom, who
was at work, to let her know that the process had started. It was a beautiful day in Albuquerque and as
I didn’t feel like much was happening, I took the boys to a park close to my
parents’ house. While sitting on a
bench, enjoying watching the boys play, I started to have pain. I was surprised by how much the pain felt
like the labor pains I had with my live births- only they were not as intense
and started and maintained at a particular frequency- about every 45 seconds to
a minute I would have a pain that would feel like a tightening rubber band and
then it would let go. I wanted to feel
the pains and I sat there and appreciated and felt blessed by the pain. These were the final moments I would
experience carrying the baby I would never know. I knew his soul was already gone and in
heaven, but I was taking care of his body for him and I would soon be laying
his body down in the earth. The pain
then intensified and I knew it was time to take the boys home.
My mom hadn’t returned home from work yet, so I let the boys
play with the iPad to distract them and then I went to the upstairs
bathroom. I didn’t tell them what was
happening because I didn’t want them to be scared. I knew my mother would be home shortly. I brought the cell phone into the bathroom in
case I needed to call for help and got several towels and the thick pads I had
ready. I called Steve and he said he was
an hour away. The baby came out just
about five minutes after I went into the bathroom. I was sitting on the toilet because of the
bleeding, but I felt him coming out and I caught him. He fit in the palm of my hand. I held him and marveled at his little
body. He was only 11 weeks old, but he
already had the tiniest fingers and toes.
His life was short, but his life was a miracle. I then placed him in a folded up towel. I called my mom and she just wanted to come
home right away, but I asked her to go to the Catholic supply store and find a
pretty box to put him in. That suddenly
became very important to me. The first
person to see him after me was my mother.
She came into the bathroom as I didn’t want to leave where I was
at. She showed me the most beautiful box
that had a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the front cover. She had also brought some pieces of lace to
put inside the box. She asked to see the
baby. We laid him in the box and looked
at his beautiful, still little body. It
was at this point that I became thankful that my mother was a hospice nurse and
knew how to handle death. I didn’t know
if the kids should see the baby or not and she without hesitation said yes, if
they wanted to. All of them did. It was such a good decision to let the boys
see the baby. They were happy, even in
the midst of grief, to see his body and to have a tangible connection with
their little brother, even for a moment.
By then my father had also come home.
My dad and my grandfather also wanted to see the baby. And then Steve finally arrived, along with
our oldest son. I was so thankful to see
my husband. I felt so full of love for
him. He is such a good father; I was so
sorry his baby was dead. He would now be
there with me and hold my hand through the next difficult part.
I kept bleeding and I knew it was too much, so I told my
parents and Steve that I needed to go to the emergency room. My mom and Steve took me. Once I was checked in and in a room, my mom
went home to take care of the kids so that Steve could stay with me. I am not going to write about all of the
hospital details, but it did get somewhat serious at one point. I am not sure the staff knew how much I was
really bleeding (maybe because I kept changing and throwing away the Chux pads)
until I passed out on the toilet next to the ultrasound room. That got the staff’s attention. When they started treating me (putting on
oxygen and whatever else they were doing that I can’t remember), I became very
scared. But I then suddenly became calm
when I realized that if I died, it would be OK, because I could hold
Benjamin. I then actually wanted to die
for a few moments. But then I felt my
husband’s hand and I looked at the man I love and thought about my five sons
whom I love more than words can say and who need me on this earth and I stopped
allowing myself to wish for death. I did
undergo a D&C that evening to stop the bleeding and they had to give me two
units of blood for the blood loss.
We considered burying Benjamin in Albuquerque at a cemetery
that graciously buries miscarried, stillborn and young infants for no cost, but
we decided to bring him home. He is
buried at an old historic cemetery in the old west ghost town of Elizabethtown,
a few miles from our house. That is
where Steve and I will be buried, next to our baby. We had a grave site service with our
immediate family and our priest, who has become a family friend, and our
deacon, whom we also feel very fondly for; we were so thankful for and blessed
by their presence and caring for our family.
Each of the boys picked an item to have blessed and bury with the
baby. I put a blessed crucifix on Benjamin’s
box and our priest blessed an identical crucifix that I now have on our
mantle. Our deacon’s wife gave him six
roses to bring to us- five were red and were for each of our living sons and
one was white for the child we were burying.
It was such a touching and meaningful gesture. We had the boys lay the roses on the baby’s
grave. We came home and had our priest
and deacon do a blessing of our house and then we shared a meal together.
Throughout the process of losing our baby, I corresponded
with and spoke to my priest. He was a
great spiritual adviser to me and offered me bible verses that spoke to my
heart at just the right time. I will
always treasure Job 1:21: “…Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall
I return; the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of
the Lord.” I asked my priest to pray a
mass for the unborn, and he prayed three masses for the unborn at three
churches, including our mission church, that he pastors. I attended two of the masses and prayed by
name for my Benjamin and all of the mothers and babies that are part of an
online group of ladies that I know who have experienced miscarriage, stillbirth
or infant loss. I also prayed for
several mothers that I know personally who have lost babies. My pastor has said that he will pray masses
every year in November for the unborn.
I am still in the process of pondering in my heart this
event, how it happened and what it means in my life. I have no regrets about the decisions I
made. Even though I did end up in the
hospital, I am glad I chose a natural miscarriage. I believe I made the decisions that have
allowed me, my husband, and my children to connect with the loss and grieve in
the manner most appropriate for our family.
We named the baby Benjamin, because I knew that would be his name even
before he died. We named him after my
grandfather’s father. Steve wondered if
we should save the name for a baby who might be in our future, but I knew this
baby was Benjamin and there would never be another Benjamin. It happened that my grandfather (my dad’s
dad) had arrived to live in Albuquerque from Maine just a few days before I
came down to Albuquerque. I treasured
talking to him about our family who passed away years ago and through him I
felt connected to my great grandmother who suffered a terrible tragedy in the
loss of her youngest son in the Korean War.
I have imagined my baby being held in heaven by all the family I hope to
see one day. I particularly like to
imagine my saint of a grandfather, my mom’s dad, holding and cuddling my little
baby in heaven. He always loved babies!
I would like to say that I have responded perfectly and with
grace to this loss. But, I certainly
haven’t. Some days are better than
others. Even though intellectually I
know that there was nothing I could have done about his death, I find myself
talking to Benjamin and telling him that I am sorry I couldn’t take care of
him. There are some moments I wish I
could crawl into the earth next to him. I
have found great comfort in praying the Rosary and the Chaplet of the Seven
Sorrows of Mary, which was suggested by a friend of mine, who also experienced
a miscarriage, to pray. I do have to
admit that one week I stopped praying and started drinking several cocktails a
night. Cocktails are not a very
effective amelioration for grief, so I have given up alcohol and returned to
prayer. I have written this story one
month to the day that I buried my baby, so I can’t say I know how I will feel
or handle this as time goes on, but even though it hurts, I never want to
forget this baby or how I felt losing him.
And I want a permanent record that he lived, if only for a moment, and
that he will always be my sixth child.
That is why I have written his story.
