Of Mothers and Memorials

OF MOTHERS AND MEMORIALS

Good day and good month to you, one and all! This month I think I want to tell you a little story, all fictitious, of course, but still, all names have been changed to protect the innocent (and not so innocent).

This is a classic version of ‘boy meets girl’, nothing special, nothing exciting. Paths cross, looks are shared, butterflies in the bellies of both. The two become exclusive and plans are made to wed. Just like the stage manager observes about marriage in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, “…once in a thousand times, it’s interesting.”

This couple, after a few years of wedded bliss, decide to begin a family together, and the thought brings both of them joy. For the longest time, though not for a lack of trying, conception was elusive, almost provocative in nature. But the pair were determined, and finally the day came when tests came back positive, and a new family was on the near horizon. Happiness was shared, tender and sweet.

The world had other thoughts, though. Only a few months into the pregnancy, something went wrong. Horribly so. The life inside stilled and the baby was lost to miscarriage. The husband and wife were mortified. Inconsolable, nearly. Many tears were shed, in public and in private. She felt it was her fault, he felt it was his. They held to one another and got through the healing process slowly. Life, like before, resumed.

Time passed, and the two decided it was time to try again, to bring a new life into their lives. Their extended families rallied behind them, offering them the support they needed. Again, after a time of trying, another test came back positive. The couple were happy, yet apprehensive. They made it past the point of the previous pregnancy, and increased the amount of doctor’s visits. Apprehension began to fade into expectation. The world, however, still had other thoughts.

The second miscarriage hit them like a freight train, each in their own, individual way. The wife, the mother of two unborn children, wore her anguish and grief on her sleeve, reaching out to those around who loved her, and who she loved dearly. The father, having not suffered loss such as this before, drew more into himself. While the mother knew exactly how she felt, the father was unclear, he did not know how to express his emotion, he only knew that he needed to guard his heart.

In doing so, he hardened it against the world. Unfortunately, this included the mother, who only wanted to love him and bear his children.

Some damage is irreversible, like rot in damp wood. It festers and grows, though the exterior appears to be strong and sturdy.

The father, the husband, failed his wife that day. He did not intend to, but he was selfish in his need to run away and hide from the pain he felt. Perhaps he was taught this as a child, perhaps in the lessons he had learned through past relationships. That did not matter to the mother, his past, his grief. All that mattered was that he drifted away.

Of course, the couple worked through most of the issues, but the inside of their log foundation had become darkened with rot. But they painted over the exterior and made it look pretty, eventually conceiving and having the two most beautiful daughters anyone could ask for.

This story, this blog post, is dedicated to all mothers out there who have suffered the loss of an unborn child, and in memory of love ones lost, by any event. Consider it, also, as an apology by all the fathers out there who, like in my story, had become numb and distant to the pain. Mothers, it was not your fault. Never your fault.