Remembering ... Miscarriage ...

This Curtis Wiklund Sketch (please click on the link; it's a powerful sketch) touched a chord in me that's been buried deeply for a long time. 

It's not the loss of my sons that's been buried because that's frequently on my mind - they are the angels on my shoulders, with me all the time - no, it's the actions/reactions of their father that I've tried to keep way down in there somewhere out of sight out of mind.

Unlike the couple in the sketch my husband and I did not grieve as a couple.

No I don't particularly want to talk about it.

But I can at least make the effort to remember.

He it was who, knowing I was supposed to be on bed rest, railed at me for not carrying the 2x4s upstairs where we were working on creating a room for this our third child. He it was who mocked me with scorn in his voice for not getting that sheetrock upstairs for the child I was carrying. He it was who told me that if I wanted a place for this child I'd better get off my fat ass (I weighed in at barely 100 pounds at the time) and get that stuff up there where it was supposed to be.

And so I did.

We didn't need that room for our son after all.

Standing over the bloody bed of the death of his son, this father shouted derisively at the mother of said son, 'Killing your baby! You're killing your own baby - some mother you are!' 

Laughing, he started down the stairs and I listened to his footsteps pause when from out of me came a sound I never knew was in me. I've learned since the sound of keening, but at the time it took me by surprise. And it stopped that father in his tracks for only a moment. He stopped laughing but continued on down the stairs while his oh-so-very-tiny son's body flowed from me in a rush of blood.

The act he must have put on for the hospital staff had to have been admirable; they were shocked and appalled when I, still under the effects of anesthesia, had a sort of panic attack at the sight of him approaching my recovery bed. I was told, 'He needs your support and sympathy right now. Try to understand what he's going through.'

They never did get the body of that son. I myself buried him before I turned the rest of it over to them for analysis.

Whether or not that father ever thinks of his sons I have no idea. I have to kind of doubt they cross his mind very often.

Me, I'm never really without them.

As I say, they are the 'angels' that ride my shoulders.

An Angel Story

I have a number of 'Angel Stories' but for today my focus is on a point that needs to be made about one of them in particular. The whole story will come in another post; for now the abbreviated version will make the point.

A recent topic of conversation was about angels; it reminded me of the reluctant angel I met when my vehicle overheated on I-25 between Pueblo and Colorado Springs, the one who drove a red corvette convertible. 

I needed help and he helped me, confused as all get-out because, as he told me, he just didn’t do stuff like help people because all people are inherently bad, hateful, and generally mean. Nevertheless he helped me in more ways than one and was on the receiving end of a blessing of his own.

He drove into the Springs to get the part my poor little beat-up S10 Blazer needed, leaving me with my vehicle because otherwise it probably wouldn't be there when we got back, and I was to stay IN the vehicle (doors locked and windows up). 

While he was gone, people pulled off of I-25 from both directions to check on me. I’m not even kidding you a little bit here. I started writing down plate numbers on the back of an envelope but stopped when I ran out of room and lost count. More than FORTY vehicles pulled into that little area, some of the folk choosing to stick around until my ‘angel’ got back with the part, which took better than an hour.

The point I want to make here is not so much that there are indeed an abundance of ‘angels among us’ (although that’s most certainly true and I’m here to tell you so) but ... 

Those angels showed up from all socio-economic backgrounds (going by their vehicles and clothes) and from all the ethnic-cultural backgrounds that the Front Range is home to, they were of all ages and both genders – and not a one of them gave any of the others so much as a sideways look, I’ll have you know. 

Each and all of them had pulled off of that highway urged by the exact same impulse, to help someone, and they all knew it. Grins and waves from each to the other and they were back on their own paths for the day. 

Few of them would have known how MANY they were a part of on that day, but I knew and so did a couple of the early stoppers who stayed to ‘stand guard’.

So it wasn’t just me who was blessed on that day, nor just my reluctant angel (who was shocked enough to find a group of folks waiting with me when he got back, let alone when we told him how MANY more had stopped), but also all those folk who took the time out of their days and made the effort to check on the well-being of a total stranger.

Do not ask me to explain because I flat out cannot do it. 

Such a thing may never have happened before and may not have happened since and may never happen again – but on that day it did I tell you true.

In today’s world we could have and would likely have recorded the whole thing and it would have gone viral on line. As it is, the memory makes me smile and having had the experience makes me believe very strongly in just the opposite of what my reluctant angel told me about people on that day.

Score one for the good folk!

From all walks of life, from all ages, from all ethnicities, from all cultures, male and female they stepped up to the plate and offered aid, support, good wishes, protection, and many a smile and/or hug as well. 

That I am still so impacted by that one short time speaks on behalf of everyone who was there on that day. 

I couldn’t tell you the name of a single one of them except that I remember Ric was the name of the reluctant angel. 

But I will never ever in my life forget the message they brought with them, each and all independently of everyone else. 

‘I care,’ they said. ‘I am here.’

*sentimental sigh*

I totally love remembering times like that.