Sorrow
I suspect I will be writing here more often again soon. I’ll have a bit more time and I have some mental things I need to get worked out. Writing is one of those things that helps me work them out, and putting it out there for the world to see helps me know that I’m writing for someone… even if nobody actually does read it. The idea of a journal never worked for me specifically because I knew nobody would read it… the writer’s endless desire to be seen.
It’s been a rough week in our household. We were looking forward to Tuesday: a doctor’s visit where we would get our first glimpse of a pregnancy we had kept largely secret. We miscarried twice before our little boy was born, and that instilled in us a fear of sharing the exciting news of expectation until we had more confidence about the pregnancy staying. The appointment came, but it wound up not being as happy an occasion as we would like. The pregnancy was found, but there was no heartbeat. In the past, we had known about the miscarriage before going to the doctor’s office, so this was a very new experience.
Miscarriages are strange things. The child that would be has not arrived, and yet it creates an atmosphere of a funeral. There is no body to be put into the ground, and only a few people are affected, but there is still a pervasive sense of loss. One of my favorite authors, John Scalzi, described it as such in his entry, The Child on the Train:
If I could describe to you what a miscarry feels like from an emotional point of view, I would ask you to imagine a dream in which you are standing on a train station platform. While you are waiting, you look through the dirty windows of the train car in front of you and see a small child looking back at you. The child’s face is indistinct because of condition of the windows, but what you can see looks achingly familiar. For a moment, the child is separated from you by only that single, dirty pane of glass. Then the train starts to move, and the child starts to move with it.
And you realize that the reason you’re on the platform at all is because you’re waiting for your own child to arrive, a child you have yet to meet. And you realize that you could have claimed that child as your own. And you know that whatever child eventually comes to you, you will love that child like the sun loves the sky, like the water loves the river, and the branch loves the tree. The child will be the greater whole in which you dwell.
But it will never be that child, the one you could only glimpse, the one who went away from you. All you can do is remember, and hope with everything in your heart that the child who went away from you finds another who will love it as the sun loves the sky, the water loves the river, and the branch loves the tree. You pray and you hope and you never forget. That’s what you do. That’s what I do.
When these things happened previously, my wonderful wife and I leaned on each other, but that was pretty much all I had. My family is great – some of them are supportive, others often choose to give space when events like this ocur, but there’s always been a feeling of isolation in what we were experiencing. This time there has been an overwhelming level of support. Kristi has great friends and her family to lean on. I have the best co-workers a guy could ever wish for. Maybe it’s because we’re all teachers… even the administrators I rely most on are teachers at heart… but the level of understanding, support, compassion, and empathy has been beyond words. To paraphrase Aragorn (of Lord of the Rings – so this entry gets some geek cred), I would follow them into the very fires of Mordor.
So… I am unfortunate in that my family suffered a loss that we will never be able to recover. We will mend, but we will not forget. At the same time, I am fortunate that I have some of the best friends, colleagues, co-workers, and administrators a person could wish for.
March 5th, 2011 at 8:18 pm
I can share my experience in hopes that you feel less alone, and that someone out there may have just a hint of what you are feeling, as no one can truly feel your heart. I lost two babies. One between each successful birth. The first happened in the first month. The second happened at 13 weeks, and I had to be hospitalized to have the necessary procedure. Melissa was two when this happened. The loss and confusion we felt was indescribable. To feel so blessed when looking into Melissa’s eyes (as well as each others), and such loss and pain at the same time.
My explanation to myself, to help me through these times, was that it was God’s way of preparing my body for a successful and healthy pregnancy and baby. This seemed the only reasonable explanation that I could come up with, though it also felt absurd to think that fate worked in such a devastating fashion. The truth is, there is no reasonable explanation. We are meant to treasurer our blessings, and not always meant to understand our losses.
You and Kristi found each other through crazy circumstances. You found a wonderful, strong, and trusting life together. You’ve created a happy and stable home for a perfect and beautiful son. You have the strength and love to keep trying to do what feels right for you, until you decide it is no longer right. Your love gives you the security and strength to make those choices and to adjust to necessary changes to keep your family strong.
You two are wonderful, and my heart is with you. I am so thankful that you have such supportive family and friends.
April 30th, 2011 at 10:19 pm
Mr. Telsch.
In my short years of living I would never understand this kind of pain you are experiencing but I would like you to know that you are never alone in this matter.
I am utterly useless as your previous student to give any words of comfort, but I do hope that those around you will pour on you and your family great amounts of love and hope.
God bless you and I hope even through a tragedy like this, a great amount of happiness can be found.
-Esther Park. class of 2010