In Memory Of
Tomorrow, March 1st, is the first anniversary of Nicholas and Zachary’s due date. Meaning, of course, that it should have been their first birthday.
But instead of getting to post the required “babies covered with frosting” photo, I will instead be posting nothing, using silence as a way to honor the memory of my sons.
It never ceases to amaze me how much I can miss two people that I never met. I shouldn’t be; every woman I know that has been through something similar feels the same way. I know a couple that, twenty years after adopting and raising their son, still think about the little girl they tried to adopt first (the birth mother chose to parent). We who want to parent desperately open our hearts easily, and grieve over each loss, each delay, each moment we spend without children.
Because I am human, I like things to make sense. The loss of Nicholas and Zachary still confuses me. In a world with a kind and loving God, how can such a thing happen? Since the loss cannot be explained, I have spent a great deal of time wondering what spiritual lesson I was supposed to learn from this grief.
While I imagine that I will only understand this all fully after my death (oh boy, the questions I will have then!), I have come to the conclusion that one thing, one tiny shred of grace, has come out of the darkness of this loss.
Somewhere, in the last year and a half, I have learned how to listen.
My mom is a feminist, and raised me as such. As early as fifth grade, I got into fistfights with boys over women’s issues. I remember knocking down and giving a boy a bloody nose with my cast (I’d broken my arm roller skating) in 7th grade because he said women were terrible drivers. I argued with vehemence and passion, and dismissed all of those that didn’t agree with me.
While a large part of that was youth, I found it impossible to be friends with people that held different opinions than I did. In high school, if you liked Reagan, we weren’t friends. No matter what else we had in common, you were off my radar. Period.
Once I got into recovery, I found a place where opinions about politics were simply absent. This gave me a gift; I learned to like people and trust them before I knew how they voted. Once I found out, however, that they were Republicans or religious, I would find myself drifting away from them (I remember being terribly cruel and unsupportive of a friend who became a devout Catholic while I knew her). Hell, I almost dismissed my dear friend Dave because he hates the Beatles (I still don’t understand how anyone can hate the Beatles, but I’ve learned to love Dave anyway). Dave has taught me more about being an adult and a friend than almost anyone else I know.
By the time I lost the boys, I was primed for further change—and further challenges.
The challenges came suddenly and harshly in the form of Holly, a pro-lifer commenter that declared I had made a mistake in terminating the pregnancy and that my sons could have survived. She argued loud and long. I reacted angrily and forcefully, blocking her ability to post comments, but she’d post from a different computer (I think I ended up blocking her six times). She posted link after link that made me weep, links that said that at least one boy (one had died in-utero, of course) could have lived, that I was cruel and selfish for listening to my doctors.
I knew she was wrong, that she didn’t know the facts of my case. And worse than that, she didn’t care. She wouldn’t listen to me, or to any of the brave commenters that tried to reason with her, and she certainly wouldn’t listen to the commenters that blasted her and condemned her for her cruelty.
Holly’s presence attracted other people who held the same beliefs. And a few of them put up with the abuse from me and others and kept calmly stating their beliefs and offering me sympathy and forgiveness.
At first, I reacted angrily—who are they to forgive me? I did what was required to save my life, after all. It was never me OR the baby; the choice was me AND the baby, or saving me by terminating the pregnancy.
But somehow, somewhere, in those long looping discussions that never really went anywhere (but traversed other blogs), I began to see the grace and generosity in these pro-lifers offering me forgiveness—after all, they were offering to forgive me for committing what they believe (right or wrong, it’s what they believe) a terrible crime. And I found myself able to forgive them as well.
I also realized that I needed to stop yelling. Instead, I made the decision to be willing to answer harsh questions about my decision with kindness and love. I stopped focusing on the anger and accusations and instead listened to the misunderstanding and pain (yes, I believe that those that call themselves pro-life are in pain over the issue of abortion).
When I did this, I noticed several things: first, they stopped yelling at me. My commentors stopped yelling at them as well. We all began to listen to each other.
Then, several of the staunchest pro-lifers realized that there was, in fact, occasionally a need, in a case like mine, for the medical procedure dubbed the “partial-birth abortion.” Not all—in fact, not even most—changed their minds. But a few found that they couldn’t argue against my decision.
The next thing I realized is that we were all able to get past the issue. We began discussing other things. We began to see what we had in common—love of children, faith, a belief in family. Soon, we even began to be able to call each other friend.
What a miracle.
While I will never be able to convince pro-lifers that abortion must, no matter what, remain legal, I have been able to convince them that pro-choicers are not all evil baby killers. And they’ve learned that we are mothers and fathers just like they are. And I’ve come to realize that pro-lifers are not all fire and brimstone and hate, that many of them are loving and kind, and have amazing hearts.
I was reminded of this all when I had a lengthy discussion with a gentleman in the comments section of a recent post at Feministing. When I first began talking about my situation, he was really angry with me. Other commenters began attacking him, but I just quietly answered his questions, and let his anger sputter out. By the end, he didn’t agree with me, but he conceded that my situation was actually life threatening and that maybe the procedure should remain available to those in the same circumstances.
It wasn’t much, but it was more than I ever accomplished by yelling.
It’s not much consolation, of course. Losing two babies just so I could learn how to listen hardly seems fair. But I have to believe that I will now be a better mother because I’ve been granted this gift, this ability to listen. I hope to teach my child to be a listener as well.
Don’t get me wrong—I will never concede to the pro-life movement. I’m still pro-choice through and through and will fight like hell to keep abortion legal. But my heart is bigger because I no longer vilify those that disagree with me.
Love is always stronger than hate, after all.
So, darling Nicholas and Zachary, I hope you can both take heart that in such a short time you taught your mother so, so much. Thank you, and rest in peace my sons. I love you.
