In this third part, I'll give some reflections on how things have changed since the miscarriage and how we made some decisions. I think this might illuminate some of my rationale for my behavior for people who were around me at the time. I think people who have experienced loss will read about some familiar experiences. This will end this week's "series" of posts on miscarriage, but I am certain it will come up again in my writing.
Who we told--and did not tell--and why
Laura and I grieve in different ways. I tend toward more public expressions of grief, and of talking about grief more openly than she seems to do. This became much clearer with the miscarriage in that I felt like I needed to tell people much more than she felt like she needed to. So, we had to come up with some sorts of rules for who we told, and check with each other before we took that step.
At the time of the miscarriage, I was in Divinity School training to be a pastor. This seems like it would have been one of the best places for one to be open about loss. However, one rule above all others that Laura and I agreed upon was not to make the miscarriage public to the school. The last thing we wanted was to become the target of the (well-intentioned) pastoral attention of possibly dozens of people. Laura did not want to chance the possibility of constant reminders of the miscarriage.
Still, as I was in divinity school in which the community was somewhat close-knit and collaborative and I felt some need for pastoral care, I needed some criteria for who I told. (Not in chronological order) So, I did tell the people at the divinity who were responsible for the pastoral care of students--that seemed like a no-brainer and they were fantastic in caring for me. I told some others who I knew had experienced miscarriage and/or fatherhood, who were a wonderful support network. While I was somewhat cognizant that changes in my behavior and demeanor might have been noticeable to people very close to me, I decided not to tell them unless their success in class or in ministry was somehow dependent on my ability to hold up a sustained effort on a project.
The aftereffects of the miscarriage hung over me for the entirety of my third and final year of seminary. Some very close friends did not hear about the miscarriage until the weeks after graduation, and these times were moments when I was asked "what happened to you at the beginning of the semester?" or when I felt like I had to explain a particular bit of flakiness a friend had witnessed in the fall.
I knew I wanted to write about the miscarriage soon after--and so make the loss public--but Laura and I decided not to do so until Colin was born.
How prayer changed, and options for remembrance
Many of the folks who knew about the miscarriage offered to help put together a service for me. I'm likewise willing to do that for anyone who asks.
The Episcopal Church has a wonderful resource for prayer known as Enriching Our Worship 5:
Liturgies and Prayers Related to Childbearing, Childbirth, and Loss (available in PDF for free!) I learned about this resource when I was a chaplain intern at a hospital, and assigned to Women's Services and delivery. There are options for prayer services to memorialize, remember, and lament the loss.
For months after the miscarriage, I would include litanies and prayers from EOW5 in my private devotions, and I found them to be so incredibly meaningful in giving language to emotions too deep to find my own words to express.
[Occasionally, deeply emotional experiences become the linchpins of opinions that do not seem to be related to loss. This reminds me of one of those cases. There is some 'controversy' over the EOW series of resources for prayer. The series represent exactly what their titles suggest: they expand the range of options for prayers that can be used in our denomination in ways that include gender neutral language, and modernized language. In the case of EOW2 and EOW5, the resources address medical and care issues that were not covered in the Book of Common Prayer. I say there is some controversy because it is not uncommon to hear folks who prefer more traditional language refer to EOW as "Impoverishing our Worship" or accuse the series of sneaking heretical notions into our liturgy. I once sat through a class presentation in which the fellow student began lecturing on how EOW was clearly inferior in terms of critiquing the beauty in EOW's use of the English language. When these comments come up, I have had a hard time biting my tongue. In my loss, EOW went to places in prayer that the Book of Common Prayer could not go, and I consider myself indebted to the work of the committees that offered these resources. I wish those who argue against EOW on purely aesthetic grounds would consider the fact that these prayers have "worked" in profound ways.]
Preaching
One of the most difficult things that I experienced after the miscarriage was All Soul’s Day, about five months after the miscarriage. The grieving really came to the surface. The setting aside of a day for recognizing loss and those departed moved me deeply.
The worst part was that I was scheduled to preach at Berkeley Morning Prayer on the morning of All Soul’s Day; which created within me a sense of panic and a moment of resentment. Was I in the midst of some cosmic cruel joke? There was no way I was going to make it through the sermon, on a day set aside to recognize loss without tears. And I didn't want to have to explain to everyone why I was sobbing on the floor during my sermon, since the miscarriage was not being made public. A moment of inspiration the afternoon before gave me a sermon, and I was able to preach through my grief refracted through a memorial of my great, great aunt who died in 2009. After the sermon, preached through threatening tears and a choked throat, I left Berkeley—skipping coffee hour— and went to the Annand Room for some time to myself in my grief. By 9am, I was through with All Soul’s Day.
Some observations
Dates. I find myself situating the miscarriage in reference to other events in my life, which is natural. Two seem important. The miscarriage happened the day after my bishop called me to offer me the position I currently hold as campus chaplain to ASU Polytechnic. The miscarriage also shares another important anniversary in my life: my ordination to the Priesthood.
For months after the miscarriage, I noticed that my learned-extroversion took a substantial hit. Debate/ argument held absolutely no appeal for me. I've become much more of a listener in the past few years, but I know I was quieter than I normally was. For months I felt like I had lost some of my ability to put together any argument or thoughts with cohesion.
Along those lines, mental tasks were incredibly difficult. Many people have told me I am intelligent, and I guess two master's degrees probably evidence that to some degree. So, the semester after the miscarriage, I was going to take Greek, which was strongly suggested by my bishop. I was almost treading water in the course for two weeks, but one day--after four hours of studying--I went into a quiz and completely bombed it. Simple recall of new information was impossible. I dropped the course.
A contributing factor to the above was that I began to notice I was experiencing lost time. It was different from procrastinating, or just staring at a screen in distraction. I'd come out of it realizing that I hadn't seemed to have moved--or thought--for anywhere from three to fifteen minutes. This made school work considerably harder.
After the miscarriage, I was really happy that my mother and sister were sensitive to some possible reactions. I was even happier that their sensitivity was not tested. My sister got pregnant shortly after the miscarriage, and there was some trepidation on her part in terms of telling me and Laura. I can see where that might be a possible reaction, but Laura and I were able to celebrate with those who were happy about their own children and pregnancies. I never experienced any resentment.
Relatedly, a few weeks after the miscarriage I found myself in Mobile, AL for a funeral, and I was in the presence of a dear friend who has a son who is almost exactly a year older than our miscarried child would have been. While in town, I occasionally held the child (nicknamed 'Bonkers'). I was fine holding Bonkers--I actually really wanted to--and I think in those moments I came to peace with fatherhood. My grief may have been showing me that I was more ready than I thought I was to have a child (as though one is ever really prepared). I think my peace with it all was a surprise to my mother and sister, who witnessed me holding Bonkers and asked afterwards how I was feeling, and probably relieved that I was not resentful or sad.
I noticed that the Church's worship impacted me more strongly during Advent following the miscarriage. I'm finding that Advent as a season and the Holy Triduum hold for me incredibly strong emotions of loss and identification with Mary in the loss of a child. That said, I wonder what Maundy Thursday will hold for me, as we begin to recall the last events of Christ's life before the Resurrection.
I do not have a clean, concise note to end upon. My grieving does not feel complete yet, though I think the emotional wounds is scarring over. I am grateful to God for the goodness and love I have experienced after the miscarriage. I'm grateful to the people who have held this secret for years and have cared for me and Laura. I'm grateful to Laura for her support of me--as one who grieves so differently from her. I hope these reflections may be helpful for someone going through the same, and I hope someone who would like to speak of their own experience would feel safe contacting me.
Some observations
Dates. I find myself situating the miscarriage in reference to other events in my life, which is natural. Two seem important. The miscarriage happened the day after my bishop called me to offer me the position I currently hold as campus chaplain to ASU Polytechnic. The miscarriage also shares another important anniversary in my life: my ordination to the Priesthood.
For months after the miscarriage, I noticed that my learned-extroversion took a substantial hit. Debate/ argument held absolutely no appeal for me. I've become much more of a listener in the past few years, but I know I was quieter than I normally was. For months I felt like I had lost some of my ability to put together any argument or thoughts with cohesion.
Along those lines, mental tasks were incredibly difficult. Many people have told me I am intelligent, and I guess two master's degrees probably evidence that to some degree. So, the semester after the miscarriage, I was going to take Greek, which was strongly suggested by my bishop. I was almost treading water in the course for two weeks, but one day--after four hours of studying--I went into a quiz and completely bombed it. Simple recall of new information was impossible. I dropped the course.
A contributing factor to the above was that I began to notice I was experiencing lost time. It was different from procrastinating, or just staring at a screen in distraction. I'd come out of it realizing that I hadn't seemed to have moved--or thought--for anywhere from three to fifteen minutes. This made school work considerably harder.
After the miscarriage, I was really happy that my mother and sister were sensitive to some possible reactions. I was even happier that their sensitivity was not tested. My sister got pregnant shortly after the miscarriage, and there was some trepidation on her part in terms of telling me and Laura. I can see where that might be a possible reaction, but Laura and I were able to celebrate with those who were happy about their own children and pregnancies. I never experienced any resentment.
Relatedly, a few weeks after the miscarriage I found myself in Mobile, AL for a funeral, and I was in the presence of a dear friend who has a son who is almost exactly a year older than our miscarried child would have been. While in town, I occasionally held the child (nicknamed 'Bonkers'). I was fine holding Bonkers--I actually really wanted to--and I think in those moments I came to peace with fatherhood. My grief may have been showing me that I was more ready than I thought I was to have a child (as though one is ever really prepared). I think my peace with it all was a surprise to my mother and sister, who witnessed me holding Bonkers and asked afterwards how I was feeling, and probably relieved that I was not resentful or sad.
I noticed that the Church's worship impacted me more strongly during Advent following the miscarriage. I'm finding that Advent as a season and the Holy Triduum hold for me incredibly strong emotions of loss and identification with Mary in the loss of a child. That said, I wonder what Maundy Thursday will hold for me, as we begin to recall the last events of Christ's life before the Resurrection.
I do not have a clean, concise note to end upon. My grieving does not feel complete yet, though I think the emotional wounds is scarring over. I am grateful to God for the goodness and love I have experienced after the miscarriage. I'm grateful to the people who have held this secret for years and have cared for me and Laura. I'm grateful to Laura for her support of me--as one who grieves so differently from her. I hope these reflections may be helpful for someone going through the same, and I hope someone who would like to speak of their own experience would feel safe contacting me.
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