Artist At Work

"Hey, Maria, remember that one time you blogged on a regular basis?"

I owe everyone an apology for saying stuff like "Blogblogblargh" on Facebook without ever actually finishing the post that I was blogblogblarghing about. I will finish that particular post and I have accumulated even more topics and lists to share with you, but I needed a brief hiatus from blogging and social media in general in order to finish something incredibly special to me-- it has officially risen to the top of my list of Artwork That I Am Proud of and Will Actually Allow People To See.


Unfortunately, this inspiration came at a heavy price. I recently experienced a miscarriage and, at the burial, I had a strange urge to take a picture of the grave site. Of course, I don't actually need a picture of my child's grave-- I'll remember the sight of that tiny, blue box for the rest of my life. I just wanted a picture of my baby, like every parent does. 


As it turns out, the physical ordeal and the grief are only a small part of what makes miscarriage so tragic. In the midst of it, you begin to realize every little thing you've lost along with your baby. For me, I was able to let go of the future I had lost before I was able to find peace at the idea of never having a picture of my child.

That was very hard... harder than telling my family, harder than putting away the prenatal vitamins, harder than missing my friends' graduation, harder than postpartum depression, harder than being congratulated on my pregnancy by straggling co-workers who hadn't heard about the miscarriage yet.


It might sound like a strange thing to mourn, but what physical items are left behind by people who never made it out of the womb? My baby has no personal effects, no room to leave empty, no diplomas left hanging on the wall. When we lose someone, it takes a long time to see those items and feel something other than a deep, aching hole in our hearts, but they eventually become a reminder of what it was like when our loved one was still with us.

We create foundations, funds, awards, and scholarships to honor those people we lost because the thought of them being forgotten is worse than actually losing them. There is nothing left of my baby but a tiny grave on the far side of town. The children we miscarry are invisible. Out of everything I have gone through, nothing is more tragic than the idea of a stranger passing through my home without ever realizing that our family has been transformed, in love, by a life that was lost too soon.

So, I was faced with a challenge. For our healing, Mark and I wanted something in our home as a memorial to our baby. Our prospects were very limited-- we're still saving up for a proper grave marker, so anything elaborate and expensive was out of the question. We also don't want this memorial item to inspire sadness-- if I wanted to cry all over again, I'd write a blog post about it I'd go visit the grave itself. But, what does that look like? Inexpensive. Small. Inspiring happiness. Could legitimately be displayed in a public part of the home and become a talking point or could be moved to a private part of the home, if needed.

Well, friends, here it is! My labor of love:

These are seed beads, sewn into a painter's canvas. Lee is our baby's name and the vines are my artist trademark. There are smaller vines painted between the beads with acrylic paint and the entire piece is sealed with Mod Podge which will protect the thread from breakage and provide a glossy finish. It is matted with painted card stock and glued into a solid wood frame. I could not be happier with this piece-- the meditative process of making it is only half of the peace and joy I have experienced now that it is done.

Can this story get any better? Yes, it can! A few days ago, on my way home to Tuscaloosa, I had a pretty intense God moment. Out of no where, it occurred to me that this does not have to be the only piece of its kind. There might be other people who have been looking for something just like this-- a joyful but decorative memorial.

So, please consider this my official offer. I am now accepting requests for commission. My desire is specifically for families who have lost children or infants. This is the first piece I have done, so I may discover limitations along the way, but I am fully confident in my ability to do baby feet, blocks, balloons, full names, initials, dates, and basically anything else that can be broken down into a pixel-like diagram.

My last intention is to take advantage of the healing process. I do not mean for the proceeds from this crafty adventure to replace my income. Therefore, I only intend to charge for the cost of supplies, shipping, and a very small hourly rate, all of which can be adjusted and discussed.

I am so excited by this! I want to do more! If you are interested in commissioning a project like this and would like to discuss the details, potential costs, or anything else, please do not hesitate to e-mail me (littlebirdbeading@formyfriends.org) or send a Facebook message. YAY, PRETTINESS!

ART HAPPENED!!!

Miscarriage

***This is the story of my miscarriage. I have not included graphic details, but please be advised that this testimonial does include relevant information about the symptoms of miscarriage and the miscarriage itself.***

On May 5, 2012, I miscarried during the 9th week of pregnancy. Mark and I had already announced the happy news that our Easter baby would be born in time for Christmas, partly because we just couldn't contain our excitement and partly because we needed prayers. We had no specific fears-- I am young, healthy, and had no reason to be concerned about complications, but prayers are never a bad thing. Many women wait until they have reached their second trimester before announcing their pregnancy-- by then, their baby is out of the "danger zone," when the vast majority of miscarriages occur. We recognized that as a wise decision, but decided that it meant more for us to make the announcement immediately.

The reality shift was tangible. You could feel it in every conversation and every situation-- people knew that something amazing was happening. As the-greatest-youth-minister-of-all-time once said, it's like everyone knew that there was an extra guardian angel in the room, even though you couldn't see who the angel belonged to yet.

The thought of miscarriage never entered our wildest nightmares. It seemed inconceivable-- like even the cruel universe wouldn't think to play such a terrible joke on us. Mark and I-- the newlyweds, the "adults" of the friend group, the whoapro-lifepleasecalmdown couple, were parents! But, in late April, I began spotting. I let it go for a couple of days because that can happen early in pregnancy. After three days, I began to bleed in earnest. Even I, Maria It's-Just-A Flesh-Wound Harris, had to admit that it was time to go to the doctor.

We spent 6 hours in the emergency room the first night. I cried for an hour after my first routine trip to the lady doctor, when nothing was actually wrong. So, after 6 hours of being poked, prodded, probed, pricked, and otherwise felt up by 5 nurses, a doctor, an ultrasound technician, and a radiologist, I would have been a mess anyway. But, the rotten cherry on top of the horrible night was exactly what we were afraid of. The doctor came in and said, "The ultrasound is showing seven weeks of development and no heartbeat. It looks like the beginning of a miscarriage."

I'm not shy about the details of that night, especially when discussing it in person with female friends-- it's how I cope with the misery of what I went through physically. When I share it, it feels less terrible. When I joke about the karaoke mic that they call an ultrasound wand and how I say the inventor of the catheter should go straight to Hell, it makes it a little better. (I'm trying very, very hard not to actually mean that but... oops.)

I can't really talk about the grief that hung over us for the next two days. When we went back on day three, the miscarriage was confirmed. I was prescribed an intense painkiller and told to go home-- it was early enough in the pregnancy that a D&C would probably not be necessary. The bleeding got progressively heavier and it became clear that I couldn't risk leaving the house. I had been planning for weeks to go to Spring Hill's graduation-- nearly all of the friends I started college with would be walking, but I couldn't go. One by one, I called the three friends who would miss my presence in particular to explain why they would not see me the next morning. By now, I was beginning to wonder if this could get any worse.

I went into something similar to labor the next morning and delivered the placenta. Even with a heavy dose of  the doctor's painkillers, an additional dose of Tylenol, and a heating pad, I was in a lot of pain. (+1,000 respect points to women who choose drug-free delivery, by the way.) I don't know if I actually recovered the baby's remains, but it was the only thing I could ask of God-- nothing else mattered but giving the baby a fitting burial. I have great faith that He answered this one, sincere prayer.

The grief was intense. But, since the moment I knew that I was miscarrying, I began to fear the inevitable day that I would deliver my baby. I promised not to include graphic details, so you'll just have to have your own imagination-guided understanding of how miraculous it was to move on from that experience with peace and healing rather than more grief. The only explanation is that God was taking care of me.


More healing came when Mark and I decided to name the baby. Throughout the pregnancy, I was convinced that we were having a girl and he was convinced that we were having a boy. After I miscarried, our opinions switched-- Mark believed we had a daughter, I believed we had a son. Either way, we knew that a gender neutral name was the way to go. 


We both felt that Jordan and Taylor were not what we wanted. The exact moment I thought, "I've always loved the name Lee," Mark said, "What about the name Lee?" It was perfect. We briefly discussed the spelling and decided that Lee, although it is traditionally the masculine spelling, would also serve to honor Mark's grandmother, Tommie Leonore. 


Finding and naming Lee gave me the greatest peace I've ever experienced. But, our minds still lingered on the question of "why?" I had done everything by the book-- the only explanation that the doctors could offer was that the baby was unable to survive due to genetic issues, which is no one's fault. One night, Mark asked me, "What do you talk about when you talk to Lee?" I didn't really have an answer. It was less like talking, more like being. Neither of us was in an enviable position-- while I was dealing with the gory physical experience, Mark was in the middle of the final exams of his first year of law school. The next time you hear someone talk about how hard first year law school exams are, you have my permission to slap them on behalf of my husband.

Finally, we received the most healing experience of all. Mark, unable to properly grieve because of the incredible pressure of his lingering exams, asked me, "Why? Why did this happen?" and, for the first time, I heard a familiar, quiet whisper in my heart, but I felt this time that it wasn't God speaking to me. Lee said, "Don't ask why, Momma. That is not where you'll find your peace. There isn't an answer that will satisfy you because there is no good answer."

This wisdom saved us a lot of anguish. It was the catalyst that allowed us to move on-- there was nothing left to linger over. We had to accept that our future had unexpectedly changed. But, for once in my life, my heart was transformed by love rather than pain and that made it okay.

We got in contact with our pastor, who made a phone call to the Catholic representative at a funeral home. Praise God, without a hesitation, he offered to donate the casket. I was very worried about where the baby would be buried-- we are first generation Mobilians, so we don't have family buried in the city. Would the grave eventually be lost because siblings and extended family would forget that the baby was there? God bless the Catholic community in Mobile forever and ever-- there's a children's plot in the Catholic Cemetery. If that weren't perfect enough, a plot in the children's area was donated to us. We were able to give our baby a real funeral at no cost at all. It didn't even occur to us to pray for this. 


The funeral is also something I struggle to talk about. It's easier to just forget that and visit the grave instead. The final kicker in this story is that, when I got back to my job after a long sick leave, I began experiencing complications. I missed a lot of work and, even while I was there, I couldn't seem to force myself to do anything. We realized much later that I was experiencing postpartum depression but, no matter-- between time lost and one bad decision, I was let go. Most peoples' first reaction is to be horrified and a little pissed off that someone would fire a woman who just experienced a miscarriage and was bringing in the only income for a two-person family. And I'm pretty alright with letting people feel that way. Go right ahead. 


And that's basically it... my baby Lee is a part of our tiny family. I know that if we continue to treat Lee like a member of the family, rather than hide this terrible experience, our other children--God willing-- will grow up knowing that they have a sibling in Heaven. Out of the countless women who comforted (and horrified) me with stories of their multiple miscarriages, one woman explained that her children talk about their missing siblings and keep track of how old they are. They know which milestones their brothers and sister would be reaching this year, 16, 18, 21 years removed from the miscarriage. 


The news about a pregnancy spreads so quickly because that news is joyful. No one talks about miscarriage. Ask anyone who has lost their child after the pregnancy was announced-- you can't seem to get back to normal because, every few days, another acquaintance will congratulate you on your pregnancy and open up the wound again. But, if this has given someone a greater understanding of what miscarriage is like or given a voice to the millions of women who absolutely cannot believe that only 15% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, then I've done a good thing. Thank you for reading.