I wear it every day and usually it goes unnoticed. Sometimes a stranger or friend will comment on it, that it looks cool, or is stylish, but hardly ever asks more about it. It’s a simple piece of brown leather; two buttons hold it around my wrist. Bound to the strap by two smaller pieces of leather is a copper ring. If you look closely, you’ll see two names engraved on the band.
These are my children, my pride and joy, my heart shared between two precious young people. On either side of their names is a heart. Decoration, a sign of my love for them, or something to take up the space? No, these hearts mean something much more. They represent a further division of my own heart, the love I have for an entirely different group of people.
Those hearts represent these months and years. Those hearts represent my four other children. My children who are not here. The ones who quietly came into and left my life before anyone ever had a chance to know them. I have six children; two are with me today, sleeping in their rooms across the hall as I write this, and four who were taken far too soon by an event we rarely speak of: miscarriage.
They each have as story, and to keep that silent is to ignore their presence in my life, and their absence that I feel every day. Each one had a profound impact on me and the course of my life. The first was a Christmas blessing and heartache. I was still newly married to my first wife, and we wanted to begin a family. Just before Christmas, on December 23rd as I recall, we found out that my wife was pregnant. Such excitement was hard to contain, but her immediate spotting tempered our exhilaration. It was a nerve wracking holiday, and not long after, it was confirmed: she was miscarrying. The baby was approximately 6 weeks old. We took some time and tried again, this time in the spring. Again excitement at a positive test, again spotting, cramping, and another heartache six weeks along. This heartache impacted more than just us, it impacted our families, and stole the joy I should have had at learning I was going to be an uncle early the next year. You see, there’s no instruction manual on how to mourn an unborn child; you fly blind and hope you find your way out of it. That’s a scary proposition. Autumn came and this time we enlisted the assistance of a fertility specialist. Again our hopes were up, and again they were dashed between 6-8 weeks into the life of our third baby.
Within weeks of the birth of my first nephew came the news that, with help, we were again pregnant. There is a joy that most parents have during the course of a pregnancy, a combination of excitement, joy and fear. I was barely able to savor a moment. The fear of another loss, the heart stopping moments every time a doctor opened his mouth, and the long, slow march of specialists that monitored every moment of this pregnancy. I finally exhaled when I saw my son, heard him cry, and could place a protective hand on him. Some day he’ll understand why I always place a hand on his back when I’m near him. It’s because this was where I first placed my hand when I whispered to him that I would always take care of him. His was my miracle baby, and I wasn’t going to lose him now.
More than a year later we decided to try again and give him a sibling. Back to the specialist and again good news. Now, I’m an optimist by nature. My wife was not, and understandably so, but I wanted to be strong for both of us. Pessimism can’t be good for you, so I would offer the opposite, despite my inner fears. She felt something wasn’t right. I wish she had been wrong. Late one night we headed to the ER, and our fears were confirmed. It was another miscarriage, this time at 15 weeks. She had to deliver the baby, and I had two phone calls to make. I remember the exact spot at St. Barnabas where I stood to call our parents and give them the news. It was nearly 4am, but both knew why I was calling. I can even recall the words I spoke as I broke down in tears and slid down the wall to the floor, “we lost the baby.”
Now the difference between 6 weeks and 15 weeks is profound. We knew it was a boy. He had two arms, two legs, two eyes, just like my children today. He also had a name; Mason Maxwell. We were asked if we wanted to see him, and at first we weren’t sure, but then knew we needed to see our son. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING can prepare you for when a nurse comes into your room with a wrapped up blanket, knowing your dead child is in her arms. Don’t ever make the mistake of telling me that’s not a baby, because after his mother held him and later handed him to me, I held him as she rested and we waited for a priest to come and bless him. I held my son for four hours, and that was the only time I ever had with him. I talked to him, kissed him on the head, and told him I was sorry a thousand times because I couldn’t save him. After he was blessed, a wonderful nurse who had cared for us with such tenderness said it was time. There would be an autopsy to determine what happened, and then he would be cremated. I made those arrangements after he was taken away. I watched as she carried him out of the room, knowing I would never see my son again. This, my friends, is what agony looks like. That was also a terrible way to spend my wife’s birthday.
Fast forward another year, and a mere two weeks after the anniversary of Mason’s death, we welcomed our daughter into the world. Again, specialists made it possible. Again we agonized for nine months and through countless doctor visits. Again I put my hand on my little girl’s back and told her I would always protect her.
Years have passed and life has changed. Divorce is always difficult. It changes the dynamic with your children, and unfortunately limits your time with them (anything less than seeing them every day is limiting). Getting married again was an easy choice, as I married my best friend. I feel so fulfilled in so many ways. Family and friends bring endless joy to my life, and my children fill me with love and pride. But there will always be a hole in my heart. A place where my four other children live now.
I’ve never been shy to talk about this topic, but I don’t go so far as to advertise it. This is the first time I’ve written about it, and it’s nearly 2am on a Sunday morning. I could have waited until morning, just rolled over and gone back to sleep, but I couldn’t risk losing this thought. I couldn’t miss the chance to capture this story so I could share it. So many other parents are out there who are similarly suffering in silence. No one knows how to mourn an unborn child. I’ve had plenty of practice, and I still don’t get it right in my mind. You don’t forget how you feel, but you can certainly feel alone. The only way to break through that is to talk about it. OWN YOUR MOURNING. These are your children, and just because they’re not with you now, just because you may never have met them, they are a part of you. Talk about it. There’s no shame in it, no weakness. If I lost one of my two living children now it would devastate me and everyone around me. The loss of my four children devastated me then, I just didn’t have someone to bury, to memorialize, but I did have someone to mourn and I do it every day. Sometimes it’s a day that just reminds me of it. Sometimes it’s hearing of a friend or acquaintance who is also experiencing this loss. Most of the time, however, it’s when I put on a simple piece of leather and copper every morning, and when I kiss it before I take it off at night.