Pray for Me Little Saint
I am not entirely sure why I felt such a strong pull to Saint Bridget of Sweden, but I can take a guess. If it were not for the love of God and His saving grace I do not know where I would be. You know the people in your life who have such a profound impact on your spiritual growth, your gratitude does not seem like it alone is enough? Well, pray for them. There are people who have come into my life, some decades, and other people only a moment; profoundly changing my spiritual path. I met Ryan’s grandmother when I was a teenager. I instantly fell head over heels in love with her. She radiates joy, love and she welcomed me into her circle the moment we met. Her stories of faith and miracles would hold me captive for hours; regardless, if it was the first time or the seventh time I had heard a specific story. I would always seek out her wisdom, throwing myself feet first into novenas, decades upon decades of Rosary prayers, becoming friends with saints before our time. I would take our youngest two and we would have sleepovers while fighting off sleep to finish the 20th decade. Grandma Beth introduced me to the Pieta Prayer Booklet around the time we decided to homeschool our two youngest kids. Grandma Beth gave me her well-worn copy and told me to pray these prayers every day. That was the start of something beautiful. I have overcome tragedy, trauma, loss, abuse, and it was the gift of faith that has allowed me to see the sufferings as an opportunity to grow towards God. Maybe not as a child, but it was the prayers I sobbed into my tear-stained pillow every night as a child, that gave me the grace to face another day. Every moment of every day we have a choice to sanctify ourselves in the wounds of Christ or separate ourselves. It was the prayers along the way that paved my most recent wound with grace. This past year has offered me so many opportunities to grow in faith. I dove into Saint Teresa of Ávila study. Unknowingly her wisdom would shine light on the very things I was struggling with, and prayers were answered within her text. It didn’t make that time any easier per say, but I knew what I was called to do. It became ever more apparent when living out Matthew 7:15- all in the name of charity. Regardless of the virtue or vice the answers and inspirations have always been found in divine word. When justice fails John 15 comes to mind and it’s those words alone that hold me together. Psalm 34:18 teaches us that God is close to the broken hearted. How many times has this life given me an opportunity to grow closer to my Heavenly Father? Why would I count times of sorrow? I must focus on light in the darkest moments, and if I have trouble seeing light, I’m not praying hard enough.
I watched one of my favorite people fight a battle she ultimately lost. My Meme went into the hospital for exploratory surgery in August and never left. She passed away in October from ovarian cancer. The women before me, paternal and maternal sides have fought female cancer in one form or another. It was the only time in my life I felt like God was picking on me. It was the only time I felt like I had shown him my devotion and love over and over again. When was my suffering ever going to be enough? This version of myself had yet to study Job parabolic or not.) The grass had just started to grow over Adalynne’s grave when my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2010. She ultimately overcame it and survived. In 2014, after we had our fifth child, I underwent a procedure that would prevent female cancers by 70%. The countless women who surrounded me on both sides who battled cancer in all the female forms helped make the decision. The surgery I elected to have in 2014 not only reduced my cancer risk, but it also made me sterile. I did not regret the decision, until the day I did. I woke up one day and realized I had made a terrible mistake. Why would a child of God fear suffering or sickness? I have begged God to forgive me. I am working on forgiving myself.
When we conceived Adalynne there was a 0.0001% chance, she would have Trisomy 13. There was less than a 0.01% chance Vincent would be conceived. And here we are. I don’t know why, but I don’t feel worthy of my sorrow. I don’t feel like I have a right to cry. I have been having this recurrent dream since October. I’ve had it three times now. In this dream, we have a little baby boy. He is perfect. Life is different, but so joyous. Watching Mary with her little brother was everything I thought it would be. But every time someone takes him. He goes missing without warning. I beg everyone around me to help me find him, but my pleas are met with dismissive glances. The people in my dream refuse to help. I would scream and cry begging them to help me. The most recent dream I woke to a tear-stained pillow, feeling like I had truly lost someone. It was bizarre.
Nothing makes sense yet pieces are falling into place. I’m trying to see joy. I’m trying to be the mom my children deserve, but I’m so tired. I can’t get out of my head. It’s similar to the initial days that followed Adalynne being called home. Except this time, I’m not pretending to be okay. I know God is close to the broken hearted. I know it’s only through the grace of God my flame has been dimmed, not extinguished. I know with every fiber of my being, that it is His true and pure love the veil of sadness will be lifted. When we lost Adalynne, I never gave myself time to mourn. I was too focused on convincing everyone around me I was okay. And I was, until 10 years later I wasn’t. I am giving my momma heart time to be sad, if only for a moment. Why do I feel like I’m unworthy of the sadness? Why do I feel like I don’t have the right to mourn this little baby? It’s the enemy. I was gaining weight and looked pregnant because I was…Pregnant. I have had a stomach bug that lingered for so long, only it was because I was pregnant. It wasn’t a bug. I was pregnancy tired because I was pregnant. But I’m not now.
Last week was such a gift. I needed to be fortified in my faith in order to walk the days that closed the week, the week’s end. I needed to be a part of the Apostolate of the Holy Motherhood to know this too shall pass. Saturday, I backed out of song writers’ night at our church because of a stomach bug. As much as I wanted to go, I didn’t want to spread the bug. I remember the first time I heard the song “Thy Will”. I use to pray that one day the artist would be at peace with her path. One day she would be given the grace needed to accept His will even when the solid ground beneath your feet turns to quicksand. I thought of her again Wednesday night. I labored all night Saturday. I rarely take medicine for pain, but Saturday I broke down and took ibuprofen. I did not realize I was in labor, although between the moments of sleep and sleeplessness I dreamed I was in labor. I would wake truly breathing through the contractions. In through my nose, slowly out through my mouth. I looked over to my buddy who slumbered next to me, praying I did not wake them in their slumber. When sleep would take over my consciousness, I was in a hospital laboring. It was then I realized I had not felt the baby move since the morning; I lost count of the hours. The dream was so real. I used to be a high-risk OB nurse, so in my dream I was frustrated they did not leave the heart monitor in the room, and wondered why they did not monitor the baby’s heart rate continuously. I was just going to find the baby’s heartbeat without disturbing the nurse. It was not the nurse who came to help. It was the doctor. I can still see the sadness in her eyes, and how she looked down at the ground when I asked, “there’s no heartbeat, is there?” In my dream I thought, okay I am going to have to deliver a stillborn. When I woke on Sunday morning, I had never seen so much blood. Our little baby was born in the shower, and I was in total shock. I gathered his little body and put him in a white linen cloth. We have dozens. They’re for making bread. I couldn’t process what had occurred. I. Could. Not. Wrap. My. Head. Around. The. Events. That. Made. Up. Sunday. Morning. I was distracted by my commitment and getting there on time. I laid my bewilderment, confusion, and sorrow at the foot of the cross. I focused my prayers on others and the intentions I promised I would offer up. I focused on His word. I stood in silent support, until the nausea and bleeding caused me to falter. It felt like my head was full of helium and it was going to just pop off and float away, or I was going plant face first on the tile. It’s a strange feeling being surrounded by others and feeling utterly alone. I am not sure how the rest of Sunday went. I was in a tunnel. I remember it was tortuously beautiful outside and I could not enjoy it. Again, it took me back to losing Adalynne. I do not know how long she had been gone at this specific memory, a couple of weeks maybe, it was a yellow light the car next to me flew through. While this person was in a hurry or liked challenges, I do not know. But as they were embracing the road that met them after this yellow light, I was trying to slow down time. My life was shattered at that moment, and theirs was full speed ahead. One’s life can be shattered, even if only for a moment, while the world moves on. As much as I wanted to embrace the beauty of Sunday’s sun I succumbed to sleep.
On Monday morning I took my third pregnancy test. It read positive before the time was up, and that was when I allowed myself to live this moment and be present versus disassociating like a spectator. I cried. I cried out in gratitude because our Father answered my prayers. I had been begging and pleading for another chance to carry a child in my womb. I cried because I did not realize I carried a miracle until he was gone. I cried like I did when we learned of Adalynne’s terminal diagnoses 14 years prior. It was ugly. It was loud. This time my tear-soaked pillow wasn’t from a dream of my child going missing, it was because in fact my child went missing. I didn’t have to worry about traumatizing our children they were in school. Ryan was at work. I had my moment and allowed the hormones to take over and cried harder than I can ever remember crying, until I surrendered to a dreamless state. I thought I had gone through life without ever experiencing the loss that comes with miscarriage. I was right all along. I didn’t have to experience a miscarriage to know what I suspected all along. Losing a child is terrible, but losing a child to miscarriage is so much worse. I used to try to convey this, but I only knew the loss of a child I held in my womb and in my arms.
Tuesday I finally had the courage to call my GYN. Prior to calling her office, I already knew she would refer me to the OB ER. Her practice is not obstetrics. I had left my OBGYN years ago because I was sterile. As much as I loved her, I did not want to have to wait on her in the event she had to attend to a delivery when my appointment time came. My GYN is great, thankfully I do not know her very well. I’m healthy. The kids’ voice lesson was cancelled, if only I could get a hold of Ryan. Regardless, I did not want them in the hospital, so I dropped them off at his office in the very capable hands of their oldest brother. I do not know how I got to the hospital or why I parked two blocks away on the yellow floor. As I was walking to the emergency room, I felt like my head was going to just pop off. I had this feeling in my head. I do not know how to explain. I wondered if I was going to pass out. When I got to the emergency room, I did not even know what to say, when they asked why are you here. “Well, strange thing... I know this sounds crazy… but… my doctor did tell me to come. No, she’s not an OBGYN. She’s a GYN. I did not go to the OB ER because I am sterile, but I think I am having/had a miscarriage. The pregnancy test came back positive… but I do not have fallopian tubes. They were removed ten years ago. I feel crazy, I know I sound crazy. I’m sorry. This is crazy. I’m just at a loss.” As I sat down waiting for my name to be called, I did the only thing I knew to do. I asked Mother Mary to help me. I pulled out the Apostolate of Holy Motherhood for guidance. Once again, the tiniest of details are woven into our lives. Nothing is by chance. The OB ER doctor was someone I knew and who remembered me, but more importantly she remembered Adalynne. She was a part of the group who cared for me when I had Adalynne. I caught her up on the two miracles who came after Adalynne. We talked about how fast life goes by and how small of a town Nashville is even as it grows. Her presence was the best distraction. We caught up. We (me) gushed over the best high risk OB doctors I was privileged enough to work with, and my short time in high-risk OB. I already knew I had miscarried at this point, but I needed reassurance that I was not crazy. I needed the scientific proof that there was a pregnancy; viable or not; to take the next step. I needed to know what direction to go, me going to treatment for another “nervous breakdown” or call Calvary… there are still questions lingering. I know I need to surrender it and move forward. As I have come to an end of my thoughts, movement in the corner of my vision catches my attention. A little ladybug has crawled up the charging cord. I love ladybugs. It’s the light we find in the mundane until one day we realize nothing is mundane. No prayer to small. No prayer too big. There are no coincidences.
“Mary pray for me to have a heart like yours. Take my hand and lead me to your son.”
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