On a recent February morning, my 82-year-old mother who lives next door seemed a little blah as I greeted her. She is generally cheery, living in a humble apartment with her cat. For years she had confessed to suffering from mild seasonal depression—the darkness and cold of winter had always been her nemesis, and she’d recently been widowed after a 62-year marriage—-but today, February 6, was different.
“We lost our baby fifty-one years ago today.”
As the youngest of three boys, I was taken aback. I knew of Mom’s miscarriage, of course, but it was not something spoken about, let alone commemorated sorrowfully, each year. Or was it? She sat for a moment at the kitchen table and explained how she’d always noted February 6, the date of the miscarriage, and August 19, the baby’s due date. Mom was always known as the go-to person for remembering birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, and assorted odd ones (“Oh, you broke your wrist on August 8, remember?”), but these two dates she kept mainly to herself in quiet contemplation.
Like many couples with three of one sex, Mom and Dad had been “shooting for a girl,” though they would not be disappointed with another boy. On that cold February day in 1968, Mom was hosting a birthday party for Kevin, the oldest boy, while Dad worked at one of three jobs. (He’d always worked three jobs his whole life.) She developed bleeding, however, so he rushed home and called the doctor who put Mom on bed rest. That necessitated Dad buying a TV for the bedroom since the Olympics were beginning “and Dad knew I wouldn’t want to miss those for anything!” Yet a day later she was rushed to the hospital and, ironically, brought to the maternity ward first before moving to another room. An emergency D & C was performed successfully and Mom was brought home to rest.
One month later, Mom and Dad met with the doctor and learned that, had the baby been born, they would have faced many challenges. And the sex? “We don’t know,” said the doctor, “because it was like an egg with no yolk,” an indelicate phrase Mom would never forget. Furthermore, if she planned to get pregnant again, the doctor instructed, she’d have to be on bedrest throughout the pregnancy. “I have three boys,” barked Mom. “I can’t stay in bed that long!” And with that came the realization that she would never have another child, let alone a baby girl. Mom cried. All night. And a little each February 8 and August 19. For 51 years.
Also on February 6, 1968, the same day of Mom’s miscarriage, our next-door neighbors celebrated the birth of their boy, Tony. Each time she saw Tony, admittedly a pleasant little boy, Mom thought of her own unborn child and what might have been. Dad hadn’t understood at first how Mom would suffer for some time until a close friend educated him that she would need his patience and understanding. One day Dad visited the Catholic Church rectory and scheduled a mass intention to be said that year, and it was followed by many more thereafter to always remember their unborn child. The private intention was something my parents could share together. Every February 8 and August 19.
My parents never had another child, leaving me as the youngest of three boys and, well, said Mom, “the girl we never had!” Many years later my wife and I called my parents from a hospital 1,000 miles away to announce the birth of our first child: a girl, and their first granddaughter. Gasps were followed by silent sobs of joy. Said Mom reflecting on this cold February day: “You don’t always get what you want, but God provides what you need.”
Tags: miscarriage, grief, sorrow, commemoration, loss of child, motherhood
cgregoryphd.com 