At an 18 week ultrasound our unborn baby was diagnosed with a diaphragmatic hernia. We were told our baby would probably not survive after birth because there was not enough room in his lung cavity to allow sufficient lung tissue to develop: he wouldn’t be able to breathe without the aid of a respirator. We prayed for a miracle but Thomas lived only 28 hours. He was born on 9th November.
From my diary
26th November
I saw Dr M. for the first time since Thomas died. I don’t know if she was going to say anything about our baby but I got out my photo box to show her anyway. Dr M. cried as she looked at the photos…
The receptionist, Jenny asked me how I was, on my way out. I told her we’d had our baby, and it was obvious that it hadn’t crossed her mind all was not well. She’d forgotten we’d had problems during the pregnancy. She was taken aback when I said, “He died two weeks ago.” Jenny also looked at the photos and she also cried. I was quite calm and dry-eyed and felt like the only person in control.
However moods change quickly and this afternoon I am weepy…
I remember how reluctant people were to bring up the subject of our baby. I wanted and needed to talk about Thomas but no one said, “Tell me about your baby. Tell me about Thomas.” I took my photo box wherever I went, in the hope that someone would want to share the photos of our son.
I hadn’t seen Doctor M. for some weeks because she’d passed my antenatal care onto a specialist. When I went to see her two weeks after Thomas’ birth about another matter, I wanted to tell her about our son. I had my Thomas box with me and I wanted to show her all the sad but beautiful photos. I wanted her to take an interest in our baby who had so recently died. The doctor didn’t immediately ask about Thomas. I thought maybe she wasn’t going to say anything but I was determined to show her all the evidence of his fleeting life. I think I wanted Doctor M. to suffer too. I wanted her to feel my pain, to leave her seemingly happy life even for a few minutes and join me in my sorrow.
I was upset the receptionist Jenny didn’t remember that our baby was probably going to die after birth. How could she have forgotten something that we’d thought about every minute of every day for the last few months? And so I wanted her to feel our pain too. I wanted her to cry even a few tears, to relieve me of a few of mine.
I didn’t weep with the doctor or the receptionist. Someone once remarked that we only cry with those people with whom we feel comfortable, those we feel truly care about us and our sorrow. Maybe this is true.
When I returned home it didn’t take long for the tears to appear again. I was back alone with my grief. The doctor had probably dried her eyes and was attending to another patient. I’d touched her with my sorrow for a few minutes but it was my pain, not hers. She couldn't really feel the depths of my suffering. No one can unless they have had a similar experience.
Grief is a very lonely existence.
But I found out that sharing experiences with other grief-stricken parents helped. We’ve all passed through that one way door of intense suffering. We all, without wanting to, belong to that exclusive club where the price of membership is so very high: the loss of a child. We all know the depths of the pain. And we all realise we are not alone. There is someone else who understands.
Then nine months later, we experienced a miscarriage at around six weeks in utero. While a little less devastating — because we only knew of little Innocent for two weeks — it nonetheless reopened our deepest wounds. Again, Brighid has been fully engaged: just last week she told us Innocent was a boy. We still don't know if she had a dream about him, or what, but she speaks as if she saw him.
Regarding being less certain of things than we once were: it is the hope and hubris of youth, to impose our wills upon the world, to assert our ideas as certainties and to promote our ideals as truths. I have Faith — "the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen" — that God is Love, that Love itself is a mystery, and therefore God is the unending font of the mystery of Love. I mean to say, albeit in a wordy way, that I believe a healthy sense of mystery is not only permissible, but usually required for a mature, honest relationship with God. I'm not without my doubts, but neither was Saint Thomas, and though Jesus mildly corrected him, He did not reject Thomas for his doubt. Likewise, God did not abandon Job, even when he doubted and cried out at the injustice of being deprived of an objective good (his children).
I've been meditating on Job's story quite a bit. One mystery I keep coming back to: God withheld any response from Job until Job demanded an answer. Granted, God's response was a bit frightening, and definitely humbling, but also consoling (paraphrased): "I am God, the Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth. You are not being punished. I have my reasons, and they are beyond you. Humble yourself and trust me. I will restore you." A very patient fatherly correction. Contrast that with God's response to Job's friends: "I am angry with you. You have not spoken rightly concerning Me, as has my servant Job. Let my servant Job pray for you; for his prayer I will accept, not to punish you severely." Not only does He call their "prosperity gospel" a lie, He calls Job His servant, and holds Job up as the standard by which his friends should measure themselves.
