Reflections on Mother's Day

Mother's Day was a hard day for me for many years. I belong to a religion in which family plays a central role. Because of that, services on Mother's Day really emphasize mothers and motherhood. During the years of infertility, this day was the most painful of any in the year. It was one more reminder that I was not a mother and may never be a mother. At the end of sacrament meeting each Mother's Day, all women over the age of 18 were invited to stand a receive a gift. Although meant for all women, it was another stab in the heart and I resented it. The day became so painful for me that it was easier not to attend church on that day. I would stay home and wallow in my sadness over missing the joys of motherhood. Even the promises of motherhood in the next life did nothing to soothe my pain.

Although I am a mother now and I enjoy the home aspects of Mother's day (a special breakfast, extra cuddles with Cam, etc), the church issue is still hard for me to deal with. I know there are women in that audience hurting over not being a mother or their feelings of failure as a mother. Each year, in spite of motherhood, I still have dread over attending church on this day. I go to church on this day now, but I am very aware of how things are worded and the pain they may be causing others. I want to hug each one of those hurting women and tell them I am so sorry for their pain and heartache. Even with the title of mother now, I cringe at some of the comments made yearly in a church setting.

This year at church, the comments at church annoyed me as usual. I knew the pain they would cause to women out there struggling with infertility and the heartbreak. But for me, there was a small moment of healing meant for my heart alone.

After Sunday School, I went to the bathroom while Mark went and picked up Camden from nursery. As I came into the chapel to meet my family, I heard Camden calling for "Mama." As soon as he saw me, he ran up to me, calling my name, and handed me a blue piece of card stock. On it was a little poem about hand prints and there was his little hand print. The nursery workers had the kids make these for their mother's. Brave women that they are, they dipped each child's hand in black paint and placed it on the paper. And even more amazingly, there was no trace of black paint on Camden's skin or church clothing. It thoroughly touched me the effort put in by these women to make these small tokens for the mother's of the children 3 and under. And even more touching was Cam's excitement in presenting me this paper. He was so proud of himself! I cried as its simple beauty touched my soul. In that moment, a bit of healing came over me and the pain of Mother's Day at church lessened to a degree for me alone.

I know that day was hard for many women. I understand and I empathize. I am so, so sorry for anybody struggling through infertility and its pain. I am grateful, however, that for a brief moment I could see the beauty of such a day in a day that has been painful for so many years. I am grateful for that small moment of healing. I hope I never forget how Mother's Day can be a painful reminder for many women. But I also hope I never forget the moment my heart received a small moment of healing on this day. My hope for you, if you are struggling through this, is that you can find healing on that particular day as well.

Mourn with those that mourn

Sometimes it doesn't take much to put our trials in perspective. It's been easy to get caught up in my loss and feel sorry for myself at times. I haven't done it much, but it's happened. Then something happened this weekend that changed my outlook completely.

One of my best friends, M., was pregnant and due at the end of December. She's been like a sister to me over the years. This was her first child. The day after my D&C, she came over and let me talk as much as I needed to about my loss. Although she was big pregnant and worried about making me uncomfortable, she was there for me in a big way - one of my only in-real-life friends who was there for me.

Saturday morning I was out shopping when I received a phone call from M. She told me she had her baby that morning, a little girl. I congratulated her and then she went on to say her little girl had only lived an hour and then died. I cannot even begin to describe what those words did to me. I started sobbing then and there, my heart breaking for a friend so dear to me.

There was no indication anything was wrong with her baby until she was born. Although almost full term (born at 37 weeks) she weighed barely 3 pounds and was only 12 inches long. She also had several physical defects that many ultrasounds had not picked up. Because my friend was not able to find out the gender of her baby at the first ultrasound, several had been done to try to figure out what she was having and not one of them detected a problem. M. was in no way prepared for what happened. To top it off, the baby was breech so M. had to have a c-section. When they started the surgery, she had felt the pain of them cutting her open, so they had to put her completely under. When she awoke, she planned on being handed a perfect little baby. Instead she was being told there were problems and shortly after, her precious baby passed away.

As I sat with M. this weekend and cried with her, for the first time I was grateful I wasn't pregnant anymore. How hard it would have been to sit with her while carrying a new life. For the first time, my pain seemed so insignificant and I realized how much worse it could be. Any loss hurts and I won't diminish the pain of any loss - from early to late - for any of my readers, but I gained perspective this weekend. I am actually grateful for how my situation turned out. I realized that for me, I would have much rather gone through what I did than what M. is going through now, or what my good friend K. went through just a few brief months ago.

K. went through infertility with me. We had baby boys two weeks apart after trying together for years. She got pregnant again and in August, developed a massive uterine infection. Her baby boy was born at 19 weeks and only lived a few brief minutes.

The last several months have been filled with loss. First K., then my loss, and now M.'s. Although different in so many ways, each of us has felt the pain of losing a baby so wanted, so loved, so longed for. I realize comparing the different losses is like comparing apples to oranges, but each of these losses has touched me so deeply.

I'm at a weird point spiritually with all this. Rationally, I understand the purpose of trials. I know they are given to us to grow and to learn. And in my own trial, I have not questioned why at all. But as I watch dear friends of mine lose their children, I wonder why they have to go through this. What are they meant to learn from it? And can't they learn it in some less painful way? It breaks my heart to watch them suffer.

Life is so fragile. Bearing life is such a fragile thing. I've learned never to take for granted the birth of a healthy baby, of a successful pregnancy. I always thought that once you heard a heartbeat, you were safe in a pregnancy. And I always trusted ultrasounds to tell you when there was a problem. I realize any of it can be taken away in an instant. I have been stripped of my innocence. Never again will I feel safe in any pregnancy. Never again will I take the gift of life and of bearing life for granted. If you are one of those fortunate people who have never had a loss of this sort, count yourself lucky. If you know of anybody who has gone through such a loss, especially this time of year, give them an extra hug. I know I will be counting my blessings a little more. I will be reaching out to those who hurt a little more. As I sit with M. tomorrow as she buries her precious daughter, I will be praying for the comfort of the Lord to be upon her, upon K., and upon all who are mourning a loss.