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on carrying and missing

64 Comments

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

We’d planned it perfectly. A baby in early spring, before work got too busy and the summer too hot. The worst of the morning sickness would be passed in time for the holidays, and I could curl up on the couch for football season in the fall when exhaustion set in. We’d have a few months to get the boys adjusted to our addition before the oldest went off to kindergarten, and then I’d have just two at home again.

Perfect.

Of course, in hindsight I see the hubris of thinking we were in control, of micromanaging the most mysterious realities in our lives. We struck out boldly into the prospect of baby #3, assuming that we’d frontloaded our share of heartache on the infertility side of parenting.

But pain and loss know no quota. There was never any divine promise that suffering could be skipped over. Only that we will be companioned the whole way through.

. . .

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I was early in the pregnancy, far enough along for us to celebrate the giddy joy of finding out and making plans and scheming how to share the news. But even when the signs started to point south and the tests confirmed our fears, I figured that since I was so early, it wouldn’t be too painful or drawn-out even if it did happen.

Instead I was overwhelmed by pain that felt like the worst wrenching of labor, contractions that came so fast I could barely breathe, shaking and numbness in my limbs that finally made me crawl to the phone and call the nurse who told me to get to the ER as fast as we could. I’d never heard stories of the real, raw truth of what it means to miscarry, so I had no idea what to expect.

But just because a death comes early does not mean it is lighter to bear or let go.

. . .

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Carrying was supposed to be the part I could do. Sure, there would little deaths all along: the wine, the caffeine, the favorite foods, the comfortable sleep. But I knew what it meant to feel sick for six months; I was ready to make the sacrifice again; I needed no convincing that the end product was worth it. Infertility was the struggle we knew, so we figured that once the lines blurred clear on the test stick, we’d be sailing straight ahead till delivery day.

Instead I have to learn what missing means. To white out the appointments already marked on my calendar. To stop mentally scheduling around a due date that is now a ghost. To take the time – the infinite long ache of time – that my body needs to heal. To let a dream die. To mourn a baby that will never be.

. . .

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. In my heart. In our plans. In everyone’s hopes.

But supposed to is a shimmering mirage. One of the few truths I know is that if you’re lucky to do enough living, it will inevitably break your heart. We forget that supposed to means a guess, a wonder, an attempt. We craft an illusion of control believing that supposed to means the right way, the my way, the only way.

Only when life and death crash up against each other in one powerful smack of a wave do we remember that we exist at the mercy of greater forces than our own mind, and that supposed to was never a magic potion to wave away mortality.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But it is.

I wanted to carry. But now I learn to miss.

. . .

But we hold this treasure in earthen vessels,

that the surpassing power may be of God

and not from us.

We are afflicted in every way, but not constrained;

perplexed, but not driven to despair;

persecuted, but not abandoned;

struck down, but not destroyed;

always carrying about in the body the dying of Jesus,

so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our body.

(2 Corinthians 4:7-10)

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Comments

  1. chappelearfamily says

    12 August 2013 at 6:40 am

    Prayers for you today. I cannot say that I understand. I don’t. But today your words gave me strength as I was called upon to visit another mother in my congregation facing the days after her third. Sadness fills my heart for you and for her. Thank you for sharing…as always words that give hope amid the difficulty

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:13 pm

      Thank you so much for these words, Erica. I am grateful for your prayers and to think of another mother who needs my own as well.

      Reply
  2. Peg Conway says

    12 August 2013 at 6:53 am

    Sending you prayers and hugs and sympathy at this heartbreak. Thank you for your openness. It is a gift to all of us.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:14 pm

      Thank you so much, Peg. It is a vulnerable thing, to write like this, but it is the only way I know how to be, right here, right now.

      Reply
  3. Kay Rindal says

    12 August 2013 at 6:54 am

    Stunned speechless — yet, praying for you and your family. Bless you for sharing such a deep time in your life.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:14 pm

      Thank you so much for your words, Kay. They mean so much to me.

      Reply
  4. Lauren L. says

    12 August 2013 at 7:25 am

    I love you.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:14 pm

      Ditto.

      Reply
  5. Beth Murray Pendergraft says

    12 August 2013 at 8:00 am

    Prayers and love…

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:15 pm

      Thank you so much, Beth.

      Reply
  6. Sherry says

    12 August 2013 at 8:04 am

    You are such a lovely soul. Prayers.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:15 pm

      Deepest thanks, Sherry. I am grateful for your prayers.

      Reply
  7. K. Woll says

    12 August 2013 at 8:51 am

    Laura, leave it you to create such a lovely meditation on such a sad experience. And I understand the strange loss — the loss of something you didn’t quite have. My thoughts go out to you as you move through this.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:16 pm

      Thank you, Kris. The loss of something you didn’t quite have – indeed. I learned that in Buddhism, babies lost to miscarriage are known as “water babies” because they slip away without having fully been. So much grief and truth there.

      Reply
      • K. Woll says

        16 August 2013 at 9:13 pm

        Hmmm. What a graceful image.

        Reply
  8. Michelle says

    12 August 2013 at 9:23 am

    I am so sorry for your loss. I have experienced my own this year, my first after 5 full-term babies. It’s something no one can tell you ahead of time how it will feel. It’s something you realize you don’t truly understand until you experience it yourself. This is a beautiful post and I am so very sorry for your loss. I will pray for you today. God bless you and your family.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:17 pm

      My heart goes out to you, Michelle. I agree that it is a loss and grief without understanding if you have not felt how full its ache can feel. I will keep you and your family in my prayers as well.

      Reply
  9. HomemadeMother says

    12 August 2013 at 11:10 am

    I am so sorry for your loss. But, I have faith that your baby knew and felt your love during his or her too short life. And, what a lucky baby it was to have you for a mother! Sending prayers to you and your family.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:17 pm

      Thank you so much for these words, Maureen – they brought tears to my eyes.

      Reply
  10. KJL says

    12 August 2013 at 11:13 am

    I am so so sorry you’re going through this. And you said it perfectly, just because it’s early doesn’t mean it is any less painful. This baby was still a baby, still a soul. I remember that pain every day like it was yesterday. Please know you and your family are in my prayers. If you ever feel the need to talk, write, or cry about it, please do contact me.

    May Jesus fill your heart today and in the road ahead of you.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:18 pm

      Thank you so much, KJL – I am so grateful for your reaching out. Still a soul – oh yes.

      Reply
  11. Val says

    12 August 2013 at 2:01 pm

    In all the days leading up to and even the moments including the funeral of a childhood best friend last week, I remained (and remain) stuck on the question of which is worse: missing the child you knew for thirty three years with hundreds of other people who the memory of her beautiful life in their own lives, or missing forever (and alone) the child you never got a chance to know. People who say the former of those two haven’t looked at the latter from the inside out. I still don’t have an answer, maybe never will, but on some level — though the two are very different — the pain is the same. Thinking a hug in your direction, blessings for your week.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:19 pm

      Your question haunts me, Val. There are never any winners in the Pain Olympics, but we cannot overlook how deep a loss can feel that others might want to smooth over or soften by belittling. Pain and grief, they are the same deep ache.

      Reply
      • Val says

        16 August 2013 at 3:12 pm

        Well the question that haunts me is what to do with my question? It’s too fresh to tactfully write about in my friend’s case, but as I was reflecting to a pastor friend of mine? There is a line between the idea that what best equips me for ministry is that I am a “real” person, but there are also a lot of people who think being a “real” person with “real” problems is a disqualifier for ministry: it’s like walking a tightrope made from fishing line. For so many reasons I can’t just walk up to my friend’s mother and say “I don’t claim to understand, but I understand more than you know.” I can’t say that, but I’m thinking it.

        But on good days my crazy busy seven month old niece beats on me as her personaly jungle gym, trys to eat the rivets out of my jeans and the buttons off my clothes, will attempt to disrobe and strangle me if necessary to get to the particular (sturdy!) cross around my neck, and is generally hilarious and adorable. On bad days I take the stories of Epic Princess Grumpypants Short-Nap second-hand.

        Pain and grief are the same deep ache, or can be, but the grace of providence is the unexpected blessings like so many Flanders Field Poppies in the aftermath of a battle.

        Blessings to you.

        Reply
  12. Erica says

    12 August 2013 at 11:17 pm

    Beautiful and painful. You are held in our prayers as we too know the deep pain of missing our baby Sarah that we only knew for a short time.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:21 pm

      Thank you so much for your words, Erica. In the midst of the past few weeks we remembered your family’s experience, and I was strengthened to remember how you honored both the life and the loss of your child. Hearing others’ stories brings me hope.

      Reply
  13. DefiningMotherhood says

    12 August 2013 at 11:44 pm

    This is achingly beautiful. Thank you for sharing.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:21 pm

      Thank you so much for your words.

      Reply
  14. Roxane B. Salonen says

    13 August 2013 at 9:07 am

    Oh dear heart, we lost our third as well…little Gabriel. Our story is included in a little book with others that, if you have found it already, I think would bring you great comfort. I don’t share to sell a book since I have nothing to gain, only because I wish it had been there for me when I was missing…and you’re right. It’s painful. Very much so. Please let me know if you need an ear. rbsalonen@cableone.net. I remember how much I needed to talk to others who had gone through it…just to know I’d live to the other side. I’d love to share whatever insight might help. Know this. You do live, and the living is all the more precious, and heaven, all the sweeter as you anticipate the reunion. Hugs and love from North Dakota…

    Reply
    • Roxane B. Salonen says

      13 August 2013 at 9:08 am

      If you “haven’t found it already” that should say…

      Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:23 pm

      Roxane, I meant to drop you a line since I had stumbled across a story you wrote a while back for Catholic Mom (which may be similar to what you share in the book?) and it was incredibly moving for me to read how you had ritualized your grieving with blessing and prayer. I will definitely check out this book – thank you so much for your words, your prayers and your support. They mean so much.

      Reply
  15. Roxane B. Salonen says

    13 August 2013 at 9:07 am

    Almost forgot the link: http://www.amazon.com/After-Miscarriage-Catholic-Companion-Healing/dp/0867169974

    Reply
  16. euripides318 says

    13 August 2013 at 11:37 am

    I’m sorry for your loss.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:23 pm

      Thank you so much for your words.

      Reply
  17. Lara Cornell says

    13 August 2013 at 2:03 pm

    Saying how sorry I am doesn’t seem to be enough. All my love and thoughts to you and your family, Laura. ♥

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:23 pm

      Thank you so much for your words and your thoughts, Lara – they mean so much to me.

      Reply
  18. mary says

    13 August 2013 at 3:28 pm

    I am so sorry for your loss, and so sorry you’re now part of “club” of women who have experienced obstetric loss.
    My main advice to you is to put your feet up, be really good to yourself right now, and try not to take personally the dopey things your friends and family might say to you.
    I am praying for you.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:24 pm

      Thank you, Mary. I appreciate your words, and have to tell you that your line about the “dopey” things that well-intentioned people might say made me laugh out loud. I am grateful for that! And for your prayers.

      Reply
  19. Angela Weitnauer says

    13 August 2013 at 3:55 pm

    Beautifully said, so sad and yet, so full of hope and faith. After overcoming infertility, the heartbreak of miscarriage shouldn’t be. Our thoughts and prayers are with your family. Thank you for writing.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:25 pm

      Thank you so much for your thoughts and prayers, Angela – they give me peace and strength.

      Reply
  20. Jane Weinstein says

    13 August 2013 at 4:25 pm

    Thinking of both of you, Laura and Franco, at this difficult time.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:25 pm

      Thank so much, Jane – I am grateful that you “stopped by” and even more grateful for your kind words.

      Reply
  21. Natural Mama Nell says

    15 August 2013 at 10:04 pm

    Sending you all our love & prayers. What an incredibly difficult and painful time. You write it so eloquently but from the heart. My heart’s heavy for you, friend. HUGS.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      16 August 2013 at 2:25 pm

      Thank you so much, Nell. Your words lift me up and give me hope. No small thing. Peace.

      Reply
  22. Marie says

    17 August 2013 at 9:20 pm

    Oh Laura, I am so sorry. I just read this tonight and this overwhelming dread came over me and as I first started reading the post I started thinking “no, not her too…wait, she is talking about someone else…no NOT HER too.” Words are failing me…but I will say, my first 2 early miscarriages were the most horrible and painful moments of my life. I am so sorry you had to experience that as well. Many prayers and virtual hugs for you. Can I bring you a meal? Can I just come and sit with you? Can I do your laundry? I am serious…let me deal with some of the mundane things and you can focus on the healing? I am serious. I will e-mail you. St. Catherine of Siena, pray for us!

    Reply
    • Laura says

      20 August 2013 at 9:33 am

      Thank you so much, Marie – your reaching out means so much to me since I know that you know this pain all too well. I would love to connect and get together…let’s make it happen.

      Reply
  23. Maria says

    23 August 2013 at 8:05 pm

    Laura, I am so sorry. The words are inadequate but I am sad for you and your family, I am sad for your baby for not getting to experience being in your family, and I am sad that the world won’t get to know that little soul. I will pray for you and all of us.

    Reply
  24. Sarah McKenna says

    22 July 2015 at 6:48 pm

    Thank you for your words. You have a true gift with language. I feel as if this spoke straight to my soul, as did The Gossamer Veil. I too struggle with infertility and was thrilled to be pregnant with my third, assuming that my grief cards were already stacked with the infertility at the start (and the inevitable PPD at the end). Last weekend I miscarried and the physical pain SHOCKED me. I can’t believe no one talks about it more. It is LABOR. Now I am rambling, but I just wanted to say thank you for using your phenomenal gift with words to put the emotions of so many would-be mothers onto the page. Your sharing is a gift to those of us who are still feeling fresh pain, and I’m sure to those being haunted with it down the road.

    Reply
    • motheringspirit says

      23 July 2015 at 6:48 am

      Oh Sarah, I am so sorry to hear of your loss. It is absolutely labor; you are right. I had no idea either, how painful and wrenching it could be. The way I’d heard miscarriage described, it seemed like “a heavy period.” No way. Labor. I am so grateful that you found your way here and that you shared your story with me. It is so similar to my own. Please know that I will keep you in my prayers.

      Reply
  25. Sherry Antonetti says

    16 March 2016 at 1:19 pm

    I am so sorry. You and your whole family are in our prayers.

    Reply
  26. Shannon says

    11 August 2016 at 12:14 pm

    Laura, I know this is an old post, and I have been following your story for some time, but I had to come and read this now as I’ve just experienced a miscarriage. Even though it was early, my grief is so intense and real. I didn’t anticipate the effect changing hormone levels would have — intensifying emotions even more. I’m finding some comfort in reading others’ stories. Thank you for sharing and for your beautiful reflections always.

    Reply
  27. Nora says

    6 December 2019 at 5:25 pm

    I am currently experiencing a miscarriage…8 weeks in and already so many visions of what would be…and then suddenly, what would not. I know it is a mercy but it feels like suffering now. Especially after what feels like unrelenting infertility. Your words remind me that I am not alone, there is always hope, and our Tiny baby was a gift from God. For that I am grateful.

    Reply

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I’m Laura Kelly Fanucci. Mother, writer, wonderer. This space is where I explore mothering through writing. It’s where I celebrate how God shows up in the chaos of raising children. It’s where I love to build community with readers like you. Read More…

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Watch me try not to laugh while my kids are scream Watch me try not to laugh while my kids are screaming upstairs at my spouse while I muse on motherhood & creativity 😝

Check out @grottonetwork for thoughtful reflections on relationships, work, faith, and life’s big questions. And let yourself thank someone this week for the creative work of nurturing new life in you!
Pilgrimage update! I shared in my last newsletter Pilgrimage update! I shared in my last newsletter that we were able to add Chartres & Mont-St-Michel to our itinerary, plus an extra day in Paris. Three of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been, so I can’t wait to pray there with you on pilgrimage in October. Check out my bio for details.

Want to hear more about the trip? Join me on Friday, May 6th, at 1:30 pm CT for an Instagram Live with Claire Swinarski - founder of @thecatholicfeminist & leader of last year’s pilgrimage to France with @selectinternationaltours 

Claire will share her experience on pilgrimage, her favorite places in France, & her wisdom for anyone thinking about joining us this fall. 

Have you ever been to France? Or made a pilgrimage? I’d love to hear your favorites!

#pilgrimage #travelwithselect #holyplaces #travel2022 #france #thesacredway2022
For years these words hung on the wall of my offic For years these words hung on the wall of my office. A reminder to behold the beauty in the ordinary.

I took them down after grief tore apart my world. Normal days, what a joke.

But years later I pulled the words out again. Turned out they were true, of course.

I had always caught my breath at the line about war, barely able to imagine longing for boring days from bloody battlefields.

Today I keep the wise words before my eyes again, as a way to keep praying for Ukraine.

For all the places where war or violence make for (ab)normal days.

May the common rock of any ordinary day we’re given remind us to remember all whose earth is upheaved right now.
The sun came out for the first time in days (weeks The sun came out for the first time in days (weeks? gloomy where you are, too?).

So I followed every ladybug in the bedroom to the window, closed my eyes and sunned my face. I could have curled up like a cat for hours. But the sun slipped back, retreating behind the grey wall as quickly as it came.

May today hold a gentle reminder to turn wherever you find the light, to let it warm and delight you. The spiritual practice of sunning ourselves (for a whole holy second!) is not trite or toxic: we are creatures who crave what is good and this is not wrong.

If you linger there for a moment, to remember God and grace and any good gift that has been poured out upon you, unasked or undeserved, you can return for a flash to the Source of your Being.

All the Psalms about the sun sing the same. We were made for the Great Light.
I spent years wondering about the opposite of grie I spent years wondering about the opposite of grief.

Would it be joy? To hold happiness again, to have tears turned into dancing?

Would it be gain? To find what was lost? To have arms full again around the ones I love?

Would it be peace? To breathe into the space of calm? To soak up healing as balm?

This morning I rose and realized: the opposite of grief is Easter.

Joy, gain, peace, hope, love, healing—all of it rolled into one and heaps more besides.

You know that awful feeling in grief’s first weeks, after someone you love has died, when you rise and remember yourself back into reality, and the grief-pain of loss washes over you again? The terrible turning moments that torpedo the day.

Easter Monday was the first morning that humans got to experience the utter opposite.

The undoing of what seemed undone. The resurrection of what looked impossible to restore.

The flip side of every grief and loss.

This morning I pictured the women rising again on Monday, the first ones to find and preach the Resurrection.

What joy & delight & hope & astonishment must have washed across their faces in their first few moments after waking, as they remembered themselves back into a world made new.

This is what every single one of us has yearned for, in the impossible imagination after loss. What if I could wake up and they would be back here again?

Exactly what all who loved him found when they woke up on Monday morning.

Now we only taste it, glimpse it, grasp it for a moment—but one day it will rise for us and never leave.

The opposite of grief is here.
To see others in pain while you are in pain— To To see others in pain
while you are in pain—
To reach out to the grieving
while others are grieving for you—
To lift up the least
while you are the greatest—
To speak to the suffering of women
while your own body is suffering—
To stop for others
while you walk the hardest road—

Until now I never noticed how much it meant that Jesus stopped for the women of Jerusalem.

He stops for the women of Ukraine, the women of Juarez, the women of Afghanistan, women everywhere who suffer and grieve and mourn.
 
He stops for them and for us. He tells us not to weep for him but to weep for this world, not to despair of the present but to steel ourselves for the future, not to lament unless we are willing to change.

What is he calling me to grieve? How is he calling me to change?

What might he see in us—our lives, our sorrows, our griefs, even our bodies—that we have not let ourselves lament?
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