I felt my body stiffen as we pulled into the parking lot of a small Baptist church.
“Do we really want to go through with this?” I asked frantically.
Frank turned to look at me and said, “I can turn around if you want, hon.”
My heart pounding like a jackhammer, I shook my head, so Frank went ahead and parked the car near the front of the church. Then, following Gail’s instructions, we walked around the side of the church until we found the classroom where the Perinatal Support Group meetings were held. As soon as we stepped inside, we were greeted by a pleasant chestnut-haired woman who was passing out name tags to each of the participants.
“Welcome. I’m Jan Carpenter, the group facilitator. Here’s a name tag for each of you.”
Frank thanked her and confided, “This is our first time here.”
Jan smiled at him. “Not to worry. You’ll find a very supportive group of people here.” Then she invited us to join the group and pointed toward the center of the room, where there were two rows of chairs facing a chalkboard.
We found two empty seats in the second row, while Jan walked up front and welcomed the participants to the meeting. With a quick glance at the small notebook she was holding, Jan stated, “In our last meeting, we talked about the grieving process and how important it is to find ways to express the loss of a baby. I asked each of you to express that grief by writing about it in your healing journals. I’m hoping you all did your homework because tonight we’re going to break up into two separate groups to discuss what you found out.”
Jan continued with her instructions as people searched for their journals. “In your groups, I’d like you to share what you each wrote. And I know we have some new people this evening, so please take a moment to introduce yourselves them.”
Frank promptly turned to the couple at his side and introduced himself, while the woman sitting directly in front of me turned her chair around to say, “Hi, my name’s Karla.”
As I held out my hand, introducing Karla to Frank, another couple scooted their chairs to our side of the room and introduced themselves as Alan and Millie. Soon we were gathered together in a small group, just as Jan had instructed.
Once we were finished with the introductions, Karla took the lead. “If you’d like, I can go first,” she suggested, opening her rose-colored journal. “I decided to write a letter to my baby.”
Clearing her throat, she began to read: “Dear Erika, I know we only got to know each other for a few short months, but I wanted you to know how much I loved you all the time you were inside of me. And I want you to know that I won’t ever stop loving you. I won’t ever forget you. I will always remember you, and even though I never really saw you, I know that you look like your older sister, the same beautiful blue eyes and soft angel skin.”
As Karla paused to wipe a tear from her eyes, Millie reached out to pat her on the arm. Smiling faintly, Karla finished her letter, wiping away another stray tear.
“That was beautiful,” I whispered to Karla, who confessed how difficult it had been to write the letter, although she now felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her heart and mind.
Millie nodded. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean. I also wrote a letter to my baby, and I cried the whole time I wrote it.”
By now, Jan had moved over to listen to our group, and she gently urged Millie to share her letter with us. A reluctant Millie opened her journal and began to read her letter, which was addressed to Alan, Jr. By the time she was finished, tears were running down her pale cheeks.
“I didn’t think I’d cry again,” Millie whispered as Alan reached for his wife’s hand and stroked it tenderly until she regained her composure.
Frank cast a glance my way as Jan attempted to console
Millie, reassuring her that it was good to cry. Then Jan turned to Alan and asked, “Would you like to share what you wrote in your journal?”
Sounding embarrassed, Alan replied, “Well, I didn’t quite compose a letter … just some thoughts I had.”
“That’s fine,” Jan said as Alan began to turn the pages of his journal nervously.
After taking a long, deep breath, Alan began to read: “Sometimes I feel so angry that this happened to us. Most of the time, I’m angry with myself. Angry because I should’ve done something. Maybe if I’d taken better care of Millie, this wouldn’t have happened to her. Maybe if I’d been there to hold her hand. If only the doctor had let me be there in that room with her. I feel so helpless, so angry at the world for letting this happen to Millie and me.”
“That’s it,” Alan concluded, abruptly closing his journal.
It took me by complete surprise when Frank told Alan, “I know exactly how you feel. I get angry, too, but I try to keep it to myself. I hide it from Sandy. And I wasn’t allowed in the room either—that made me even angrier.”
“Frank, I never knew you felt that way,” I stammered, recognizing the grief in his eyes.
“Sandy, there’s a lot of things you don’t know,” Frank whispered, and I reached out to tenderly stroke his cheek.
“My husband kept his feelings from me, too,” Karla interjected. “He suffered in silence like I did. And we never talked about losing the baby. We just grew further and further apart. Guess that’s why our marriage ended.”
“I’m very sorry,” I whispered to Karla, aware that if Frank and I didn’t get our feelings out in the open, our marriage would dissolve like it had for Karla and her husband.
We were interrupted by a sudden rapping on the chalkboard as Jan announced it was time for a break. At the refreshment table, Jan introduced us to another couple, Cynthia and Jack, who were also newcomers. We spent the entire fifteen-minute break talking about music since they owned a trendy music store nearby.
As soon as we were reconvened in one large group, Jan asked if anyone wanted to share what he or she had learned from writing in the healing journal. A striking brunette who had been in the other group raised her hand to say, “The letter I wrote helped bring Donald and me closer to each other. Now I think he finally understands my loss, that it wasn’t just a pregnancy, but a real baby I lost.”
Donald, who was sitting next to his wife, added, “I’m glad Ginny wrote this letter to me. I remember how I used to tell her, ‘Get over it. We can still have more children.’ It was my way of avoiding what had happened, not talking about it. Now I understand how that must’ve hurt her.”
The tall, husky-looking woman sitting behind Ginny and Donald spoke up. “It helps to write about it, to describe all those nightmares and dreams I’ve been having since I lost my baby. And I learned that I’m not alone … I was always so embarrassed to talk to other people about losing my baby.”
Jan promptly agreed with her. “Yes, in our culture, we’re conditioned to view a miscarriage as insignificant, so the tendency is to hide our true feelings inside, like a deep dark secret.”
Now the olive-skinned woman directly in front of Jan began to speak. “Maybe my marriage wouldn’t have ended if Mark and I had been able to talk about our loss, express our feelings. Maybe if we’d had a book to read that described the grief we were experiencing … I don’t know …” Her voice drifted off, and there were tears in her eyes.
Karla leaned forward in her chair and said, “Writing this letter to my baby really helped me ‘cause I blamed myself for her death. I remember going over in detail everything I’d done that day. Asking forgiveness from my baby, helped me forgive myself, and it helped me realize I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not to blame, not God, not anyone.”
It took all my inner strength to hold back the tears as I thought of all the times I’d blamed myself for losing the baby, repeating in my head over and over everything I’d done that day, wondering if maybe I’d worked too hard at the office or not eaten the right things.
Jan’s comforting voice soothed my troubled thoughts. “Yes, Karla, it is indeed very common to blame ourselves for the miscarriage, to feel an immense guilt.”
Millie glanced at her husband and added, “It’s a burden that no one understands. My mother-in-law, my friends, none of them understands what I’ve been going through. But writing this letter to my baby has helped me with the guilt. It’s given me closure.”
“I’m very pleased for you,” Jan stated, looking quickly at her wristwatch. “It’s time to end our meeting. But we’ll see you next month, and don’t forget to keep writing in your healing journals.”
Then she began to hand out a bright-yellow leaflet to everyone in the room. “Here is a list of current websites on perinatal losses. They have some excellent chat rooms where you can share your feelings with other couples who have gone through the same experiences.”
As we walked back to the car, I confided to Frank, “I’d really like to attend another meeting. It helps to listen to all those women talk about losing their own babies.”
Frank paused to put his arms around me and whispered, “Yeah, hon, it helped me, too.”