My most recent lie was unintentional. I hesitate to even call it a lie. You know when you have your mind completely on something else – tonight’s dinner, the Cubs game, who’s going to get that damn rose – but you still tell your sister or your mom that you’ll absolutely take care of feeding Aunt Betty’s cat? And then you don’t. You don’t even remember saying it. And then Aunt Betty gets home and the cat is eating silk flowers. This is not your fault. It’s actually THEIR fault for asking you during “The Bachelorette.”
Well this is similar. Not really, but somewhat. It’s only similar because I can’t be accused of blatantly lying. “The Bachelorette” was on. I mean, it’s possible it was on. I have no idea. I would rather watch stainless steel rust than watch that crap, but I was trying to make it relatable. I fear I may have failed.
Anyway, I said in one of my earlier posts – and I referenced it on my homepage – that I discovered some months ago that I was able to make some sense of addiction and sobriety when I wrote about it. I also said I had not written for ten years prior to this blog. Those are both lies I had no idea I was telling. I actually HAD written something in the past ten years. And I actually got the idea to write about addiction and sobriety from something completely unrelated.
My wife’s miscarriage.
She actually reminded me recently that I had written a letter a few days after we saw an empty sonogram. About three days earlier, that sonogram held life. It’s tiny, pencil-tip heart was beating. And then it was just gone.
As I told her then and I would still tell her now, a miscarriage cannot and will not be as heartbreaking for the father as it will be for the mother. There are always those rare occurrences where a couple has scratched and clawed and fought biology or bad sperm or an unfit womb to get pregnant, only to lose the baby over and over again. But in most cases – those cases where a woman has one or two miscarriages before or after having a baby and the miscarriages have no explanation – the father has ZERO physical connection to that tiny baby. Not even the slightest inkling of a connection. For that reason, it’s very, very hard to empathize with your wife’s grief. She’s absolutely destroyed and you feel like your new pet fish didn’t make it home from PetSmart alive.
That was me. My soon-to-be new pet fish died before I got it home.
I will be the first to admit that I am a crier. I’m not necessarily proud of it, but it doesn’t really bother me either. It’s just who I am. I think it’s good for your spirit to let some tears flow every now and then. It reminds you that you’re capable of giving love and capable of being loved. And it reminds you how important both transactions are.
One thing I’m thankful for is that I do not know how many times I made my wife cry. My guess is hundreds. I was a drunk. I was a nicotine addict. My addictions came before my family. It’s heartbreaking in hindsight to consider what I did to her. She was prepared to leave me and fight for full and complete custody of the kids because I did not deserve to be a father. And I didn’t. She would have won. I had no case.
But when that miscarriage happened, I had been sober about nine months. I had not made my wife cry in nearly a year. And then she cried a much, much different cry for days and weeks. And I could NOT empathize with her grief. It was stressful and confusing and awkward and it just sucked. I could not feel her pain. I wanted to SOOO badly, and I simply couldn’t.
Until I sat down and wrote about it. It was during the letter that I wrote to my unborn child that I realized how much I needed to write. I was unable to grasp any connection whatsoever with this tiny thing that to me was nothing but a fetus. But then I addressed the letter to the baby, not its mommy. And I found my connection. I still feel it to this day. And I still cry reading what I wrote.
That baby would have been born this month. We’d be celebrating and falling in love with our new baby and we’d be tired and cranky and all that other wonderful stuff that comes with new life, but instead, we had to wait a little while. We have a rainbow baby coming in January. To my wife, it meets the criteria and definition of what a rainbow baby is. It’s the baby that comes after a miscarriage, so called because a beautiful rainbow is born from a storm.
But you know what? When I read the letter I wrote to that baby again a few days ago, I cried the happiest tears I’ve cried in months. My wife’s storm was the miscarriage. My storm was addiction. My storm isn’t over – I doubt it ever will be – but this rainbow baby will be my first and last child as a sober man. It’s got some work to do still in gestation, but God willing, it’s going to shine a big ole bright rainbow on some pretty dark and painful storms.
We have a thirteen year old whose daddy was a drunk for twelve of her years. For the first ten months of my son’s life, his daddy was a drunk. They deserved better than me. In many ways, they still do. There’s a lot of stuff that I missed, especially with my daughter. But this new one – Mr. or Ms. Rainbow Baby – will get its entire life with a sober daddy. And that feels really freaking good.
Because of that, the letter I wrote to my unborn child needs to be on my blog. Because sometimes I need to cry.
A Letter to My Unborn Child – Written February 6, 2018
I don’t know how heaven works – I’ll never claim to – but I’ve been wondering these past few days what you might look like. When God needed you more than your mother did, did he make you fully developed? Do you have eyes, a nose, little arms, a brain, and two cute little butt cheeks? Mostly I want to know about the eyes. I would have loved your eyes.
Another thing I don’t know about heaven is if its residents can see those of us down here that they left behind. And if those eyes work and you can see us, I hope you don’t understand how to read the heartbreak on your mother’s face. Your daddy can, and her heartbreak is pretty painful to witness. I don’t like it at all.
But for seven weeks – seven weeks filled with hope and dreams, even sickness and early pregnancy backaches – your mother’s heart was alive. It was full. It was joyous. It’s been that way since she adopted your sister and your brother was born, but you were going to finish the motherhood dream. You were the final piece.
And then you couldn’t hang on. Something was never quite perfect enough within the perfection of human life. For whatever reason, God’s miracle of human development wasn’t meant for you. And your mother’s heart lost a little of its joy. How could it not? Her baby died.
I guess I need you to know – and I hope your mother knows – that it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t her fault either. These are rarities in life. Those things that happen where no one is at fault. They also appear to be the toughest to battle simply because there is no one to blame. Who do we get angry at? God? He gave us two of the greatest gifts married couples will ever know, and he made them perfect in every way, so how do we blame him for taking you away?
I honestly think I know the answer to that, and if you don’t mind, and if this is even doable in that unknown place called heaven, tell God we’re sorry. We’re going to blame him for a little while. He’s a big boy. He’ll understand. Your mother especially needs somebody to blame. She needs her anger displaced so she doesn’t carry so much of it herself. I personally think God can help carry her burden until she’s ready to carry it all herself. He knows she believes in him and will forever honor and worship him. So just tell him she needs a little help carrying the anger and burden for a little while. I think that’s one of those prayers he probably always answers when his servants need it. If not, he should consider it.
Little one, this is not your fault. You tried hard. You fought hard. I wish you could have come to live with us in September and met your sister and brother. I wish you could have laughed your cute little butt cheeks off with daddy’s rough beard tickling your belly. I wish you could have let your mommy cuddle you well past the time you actually fell asleep just because she couldn’t stop staring at you and falling in love a little more every second. I wish you lived. I just know you would have been great at it.
I doubt it’s ever a great idea to make grandiose promises to God if he’s willing to answer a prayer and send your brother and sister one more little sibling, but I can make you a promise, little one. Every day in my life that passes, I am finding it plausible and enjoyable to truly appreciate the process of life. I don’t love the valleys, but I respect them because of how much I’m growing to appreciate every moment from the view on the mountaintops. You leaving us before you ever had a chance to live was a valley, but I can promise we never want to forget that valley. You were beautiful, if only for a fleeting moment.
If we’re blessed with the opportunity to be parents again, we’ll fly up to that mountaintop of joy and love and appreciation again, and because of you, all of that love and joy and appreciation will be so much greater. Because of you, I already want to do so much more for the two God blessed us with because he gave me today to spend with them. All we will ever need is today. We’ll fill tomorrow with as much love as we can muster when we get there. Today we get a chance to live our best lives as parents and fill our house with love and joy and appreciation.
All because of you. Sweet dreams, little one.
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