This was my facebook post the day after I had surgery to remove our dead baby as little blueberry had died in the womb. Written on May 21, 2016 at 4:30am
From God we come and to Him is our return. When we first found out we were in shock. “I’m going to be 42! Isn’t that too old to have a baby?!” Our shock and surprise turned to elation and excitement and we began the process of rearranging our lives for God is the Best of Planners. We chose possible baby names, we made small lists of what we may need, because by the time you get to #3 (#7 including all our Jannah babies) you can hone it down to an art, we told our dearest friends and family so we could get the prayers we needed.
We said inshaAllah a lot. God-willing: a healthy baby. God-willing: a healthy pregnancy. God-willing: a larger family. God-willing: a minivan. God-willing: a big brother AND a big sister.
Our doctor told us there is only a 50% chance of survival. So we banked on the 50% and prayed and took all the meds and changed all my habits in the hope, and prayer of survival. I asked Josh, “How do you feel?” Josh: “I am happy with two, and I am happy with three, inshaAllah. Let’s do what we can.” Bismillah. You need to walk. I walked. You need to drink this much water. I drank gallons. You need to eat more fruits, veggies, proteins, no tea. I ate forests and veggie gardens, and even got decaffeinated tea (ew!) and lots of daal. And I threw it all up all the time. At three months like all the others I stopped. Oh good, inshaAllah, a textbook case.
The Jibbers was excited at the thought of becoming a big brother to our little blueberry. “I know how to be a big brother to a sister. I think I now need to be a big brother to a brother.” ZanyBaby would point to my belly: “Bebe?” (She speaks with a French accent.) And point to herself: “Bebe?” MashaAllah. And we prepared. Week 7 the entire family saw Blueberry’s beautiful heartbeat. Relief. So far so good, Alhamdulillah. Walk. Water. Fruit. Veggies. Prayer. Prayer. Prayer. Tears.
My next appointment came around. I went alone. Me time. The doctor hooked up the monitor to check the heartbeat. Silence. Doctor: “You know sometimes it’s hard to hear with everything going on.” I saw Blueberry on the ultrasound. Silence. Doctor: “I need you to do some blood work, tonight and tomorrow. Go to the hospital so I get the results immediately. It doesn’t look good.” I tried to comfort the doctor: “We knew it was only a 50% chance of survival,” and patted her hand. I watched Blueberry just float. Have you ever seen a baby float? Over 12 weeks in utero. Numbness. We had banked on the 50%. And God is the Best of Planners. I knew. I numbly texted Josh. I could not speak: “Our baby is dead.” I nodded to the doctor as she gave the instructions about a possible emergency surgery the next day. Doctor: “We’ll decide after the bloodwork.” I knew: she was already rearranging her schedule. Numbness.
I drove home. Josh was home with the children. ZanyBaby sleeping in just a diaper. The Jibbers quietly playing a video game. Josh: “How was your appt?” Me: “Check your phone.” Tears. Next steps. Pack the kids. Head to the hospital.
Sleepless night. Hope fading. Should I even take the progesterone pill? Knowing. I’ve been here before. Four times before. I know. Worried about the surgery. Wishing someone could just let me sleep. I just need to sleep. Josh, exhausted sleeping with both kids in his arms.
The Jibbers: “InshaAllah, the baby is not dead.”
Blood work again. Can’t find the vein. Seriously? Bruised arms. Call the doctor: “I called pre-op at the hospital. Go at 2:30pm. Surgery is at 4:30pm. It’s an outpatient procedure.”
I comfort the Jibbers: “Blueberry’s parents till we see him or her again in Jannah will be Prophet Abraham and his wife Sarah. They take care of all the children.” The Jibbers: “Oh man. I’m the big brother of 6. Wow. I can’t wait to meet all of them. We will have to name them all too!” I say, “InshaAllah.”
Register. Anesthesiologist. Nurse. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” “Thank you.” I think in my head: “Which one?” I kiss the children. ZanyBaby wants 100 kisses. The Jibbers makes funny faces to make me laugh. Josh smiles. I smile. He pats my hand and herds the children and their activities and their luggage out the door. I pat Blueberry: “InshaAllah we’ll meet one day.” As I fade into oblivion I try to remember a dua, something. “Oh Allah, please don’t make it hurt…”
I open my eyes in recovery. I can’t lift my head, it is heavy, but I am lighter. Sadly, I am lighter. I think of the Prophet Muhammad when he lost his infant son: “I grieve, I shed tears, but I do not contest the Will of Allah.”
Alhamdulillah. I am home now. ZanyBaby’s feet in my lap. Tears on my cheeks. I know God is the Best of Planners. I wanted to ask the doctor if it was a boy or a girl. Alhamdulillah.
“It seems like an innocent question, “Oh, is this your first?” But inside of me I am not sure how to respond. Do I say, “No, no, it’s my second?” or do I say, “Actually, this is my sixth.” And then watch as they look quizzically for the remainder. Sometimes if I feel a certain kinship with the questioner, I’ll go into it, but then more often than not, I don’t like to hear them say, “Oh, I went through a miscarriage.” It’s not the phrase; it’s just the way it is said; kind of like it dismisses my experiences. And, well, I don’t think those experiences should or can be dismissed. Or maybe that’s just the way that they have come to terms with it.
In a society that recognizes child-loss, but not necessarily the grief that is involved in miscarriages – let alone multiple miscarriages – it’s sometimes hard to be open about something that is common to so many women. Wrapped up in every child, and every child lost, is a hope, a dream, a wish and a dua. For us – yes, for me and my husband, Josh – we hoped and prayed and with each loss it became harder. Funny, though, the fourth child that we accepted to the decree of Allah to be with Him was the one that left us most hopeful. We found out what was wrong and were, Alhamdulillah, paired with an ob/gyn who knew exactly what the problem may be.
Sometimes I think I am being too sensitive or too emotional. I have been told that while I may have lost four, at least I have a son, mashaAllah, Alhamdulillah. Or that well this other sister has lost five and nothing to show for it. I am not sure how to wrap my head and heart around that; losing a child, is just that, losing a child. It is not a number nor can one child replace another; ask any parent of multiple children. I carried them for the time appointed and then they went to Allah. I have been told that well, at least you didn’t have to bury your children or see them or name them. Perhaps, but does it lessen the pain or the knowledge that while my body, my heart and my soul acknowledged a being inside of me, would I have want to bury those children? Maybe, give myself some closure…
As we enter the third trimester, I am apprehensive, yet hopeful. I only begin now to really understand the precariousness of being between hope and fear, and raise my hands in prayer asking Allah to do what is best.
There is no hiding my pregnancy this time. I am as they say, all belly, alhamdulillah. So the questions keep coming and I try to answer as best as I can. I am also determined to enjoy every minute of it even in an underlying state of fear, enveloped in hope.
I am reminded of the beautiful words as excerpted from Sr Yasmin Mogahed:
“One can imagine few calamities more painful than the loss of a child. And yet, even this loss could happen to save us and give us something greater. The Prophet said, “If the child of a servant (of Allah) dies, Allah says to His angels, ‘Have you taken the child of My servant?’ The angels reply, ‘Yes.’ Allah says to them, ‘Have you taken the fruit of his heart?’ They reply, ‘Yes.’ Then Allah says to them, ‘What did My servant say?’ The angels reply, ‘He praised Allah and said ‘To Allah do we return.’ Allah tells them, ‘Build a home for My servant in Paradise and call it Baytul Hamd (the House of Praise).’ ”[Tirmidhi]
“When Allah takes something as beloved from us as a child, it may be that He has taken it in order to give us something greater. It may be because of that loss, that we are admitted into paradise — an eternal life with our child. And unlike our life here, it is an everlasting life where our child will have no pain, fear or sickness.”
May Allah bless all the children and protect them. May they be the comfort and coolness of their parents’ eyes.”
Omaira is an independent education consultant working with schools and communities across the globe. You can find her musings on education on her own blog at blackboardwhitechalk.