Broken

Shortly after I lost the triplets, I read a book written by a woman who had lost her child right after birth. In it, she shared something that she had done after her loss. She had taken a ceramic pitcher and smashed it on the ground. Then, she spent time trying to glue it back together again. That image has stayed with me for a long time.

I have thought often of what was smashed the day I lost the boys. I lost much of my confidence in my body. It had been shaken a little after I had Gabriel. My labor (which I intended to be natural) had ended in a C-section, and my attempts at breast feeding ended after three short weeks with a baby that still had not regained his birth weight. It was further tested through the years of trying to get pregnant with our second child. I still held on to the idea that once pregnant, I would carry a child well. Gabriel had been overdue, and I really hadn't had any problems before delivery. I counted this in my favor when I first found out I was pregnant with the triplets. Now to be fair to myself, the triplets were really born after I went into labor following an amniotic leak caused by a procedure needed to attempt to save the identicals' lives. Although that is the reality, I still feel like my body failed them. It was my job to carry them, my job to protect them, and I could not stop it from happening.

I lost three sons. The depth of that statement takes my breath away sometimes. I see the echos of what could have been all around me. I see it in the babies that are the same age as the boys would have been. I see it in my son. I see it in my girls. I will never know the color of their hair or eyes. I will never recognize their voices. I will never know how Nathaniel would have felt about being the "different" one. I will never know what it would have been like to have a house overrun with boys.

I lost who I used to be, or at least parts of who I used to be. In those first days, I was scared of that. What was my identity now? Then as time passed, I found that I wasn't as changed as I thought I was originally, but then I was scared of that too. It felt like a dishonor to them if I was only a little different.

One thing I didn't lose that day was my guilt. I am the one who wanted more children. I am the one who ultimately decided to put two embryos in. I was the one who was dehydrated and anemic when I went into the hospital. I was the one that allowed them to do the amnio to draw off Kade's excess fluid. I was the one who agreed to the epidural before Roanin was born. I was the one who had to put Roanin and Kade is the bassinet where they died alone. I am the one who had to tell my husband and my son that the babies were gone. I understand my reasonings for doing much of this, but it doesn't stop my from questioning my decisions.

Thankfully the image is not left with that smashed pitcher. I know that God has begun to put the pieces back together again. I will always bear the scars of the damage that was done. There will always be rough spots and blemishes where fragments were lost.

I don't what use this creation will be. Maybe God will be glorified by working through a damaged vessel, or maybe I had to be broken so I could be refined and fashioned into something new. Maybe I needed to become dependent on God being the glue that holds all the pieces together. Maybe I needed to have a deeper yearning for home. Whatever the reason, I will trust in Him.