Friday, March 12, 2010

A Short Story of a Loving Mother's Miscarriage and Her Fruitful Sorrow

The Truth About Our Unborn Children

The following article from LifeSiteNews should bring tears to your eyes as it did to the witnesses to what unfolded.  I have written previously about a time about 27 years ago, when my then wife, was pregnant with who was our first daughter, Melissa, and of the loss that could not be quenched when the baby died in her womb.

We were not as strong in our faith as this beautiful family, and had no idea how to recover and bury our unborn child, and no one came to our aid.   But, praise and honour to Our Lord, this beautiful family found a way to honour their unborn son, and commit him to the Son of God.  This is a story of heartbreak, and redemption.  This is the story of the meaning of life.

God Bless Adrianne Adderley and her husband Mark for their love of their unborn son Phillip (Pippo), and for the witness of their love for him to nurses, doctors and others who saw their love for the unborn, and thank you to LifeSiteNews for publishing their touching story.
By Adrianne Adderley
Editor's note: This article by Adrienne Adderley tells the powerful story of how her miscarriage and the recovery of the body of her 12-week gestated baby for burial touched the hearts of the hospital staff, including one pro-abortion doctor.

March 11, 2010 (LifeSiteNews.com) - This is a story of the great war that is being fought on a thousand fronts and more, at this dark hour.  I saw action on one front, along with my son Philip, during the Ember Days of Lent, in the Year of Our Lord 2010.

In early January my family and I found that we were expecting a new baby.  Philip would be our fifth son.  As soon as my queasiness had calmed down, I arranged to meet with a midwife.  She came to our house, with compassion and a Doppler stethoscope; but we could hear no heartbeat in the twelfth week of Philip’s life.  I was not yet concerned — babies had been elusive before.  I would wait to worry until after the ultrasound, the next day.

The next day, the ultrasound awoke my fears, and then confirmed them. The silence of the ultrasound technician at the hospital sealed my fears before the doctor on call could do so; Pippo was not alive any more.

I stumbled down the hill, mute and cold.  I waited for the midwife to call, and in the meantime I paid bills.  They had never seemed so unimportant, and I wondered if I would ever care about bills or money again.  In any event I was sure that I would not be free to write them once my numbness was gone.  I was in an ice cavern, emptied by the ebb tide, for the present; but soon the tide would flow and my grief would seep in, rise, and seek to drown me.

She called.  She was so compassionate that I broke down at once. Somehow I conveyed, through pauses like scratching rocks and brief howling sounds, all that now mattered.  I wanted to bury Pippo.  Was it possible; could it be done?  Yes, she thought, perhaps yes.  There was a doctor, a good man, he would call, she would speak to him for me.  He could perhaps help.

He called.  He understood.  There was a procedure, whereby it might be possible to get Pippo’s body.  There was another procedure that would yield nothing recognizable.  He knew I would prefer the former; the hospital would be ready for me next morning.

The morning came, and there was no room at the hospital.  The Women’s Health unit was full up.  Wait till tonight.  I spent half the day in my ice cavern, reading Macbeth, talking Macbeth, watching the seeping tide of grief slink in and lick at my boots and then slip away.  Each time it stayed closer.  By afternoon I could not easily move, I was so sodden. I prayed over and over: Accept this suffering, my God.  Unite my tiny griefs to Your grief on the Cross; give my little sacrifice value by uniting it with Your perfect sacrifice.  Unite my worthless sacrifice to Your perfect one.

People came and went.  I did not see any of them.  Orders were given.  Gifts were received.  Prayers were offered.  Food was eaten.  All these passed by like shadows dancing on a wall behind a fire.  I was under the waves now, and went into the hospital, meek and in the dark.  Too meek to be myself.  The Women’s Health unit was still full; go to the regular ward.  That was good, much better; the nursery was in Women’s Health.
The doctor came; good man.  The nurses came; good women.  The procedure began; not painful.  I went back to my room and did not sleep.  I prayed the Sorrowful Mysteries and remembered again to unite my suffering to the Cross, but I didn't feel too much suffering.  I knew I would soon.  I did sleep, some minutes at a time, then.

Next morning it was light and the procedure would finish.  Today I would take home the basket with the green and white satin baby blanket, and the Jerusalem cross, and Pippo’s body, if all went well.  And how could anything be well.  I could feel myself resting on the waves, moving like a hovercraft, but slowly.  I guessed then it was the prayers of so many.  God had heard them all, and He lifted me up, and I was carried.
The nurses came in.  They were shy—they had not seen a patient like me; not that side of the hospital.  I was an anomaly.  They spoke shyly—what would you have us do?  How can we help?  I answered and they looked like trees, quaking, droplets tipping from their eyes, and grief soughed through us all.  If it is possible, I want to hold the baby.  Would you clean him, if that’s necessary.  He goes here, in this basket.  I’ll put him in.  His name is Pippo—short for Philip.  The blanket is acres too big for him, but that’s all right.  Yes, it’s lovely.  A friend got it for me.  She sewed the cross on too—very lovely.

The tissues flew out of the box—my hands, their hands; my eyes, their eyes.  I said I’ve heard that people will say “tissue;” that’s not right, it’s Pippo, it’s my baby’s body.  Not tissue.  Or “product of conception” said the nurse.  No, how stupid.  We’re all products of conception; we’re all tissue.  They have the laws—why do they want the language too?  We’ll use the right words; we’ll say what we mean.  That’s such a comfort, to say what we mean.  To say the Truth.  Thank you.

Procedure continued.  I waited, through waves of pain that curled as they always did when the baby’s coming.  The echo of a golden sound, hovering, just to the side, just out of reach.  I lay alone with these pains, that always before were busy with people.  But I wanted no one, for the golden sound was hovering, and perhaps I could not hear if people were by.

Then a baby born who is not a baby.  The doctor, whose eyes are clear and full of truth.  Gently showing the nurses: here is the sac.  See the little head?  The sac will just open with scissors; you do it.  There he is.  You were right, he’s a boy.  I thought so, I said.  My ears sang loud and I had to lie back.  Should I put him on your stomach?  Yes, please.  I will hold him when I can, when I’m not dizzy.

His father walks in - Mark is here.  He sees Pippo.  It is as if a mountain had leapt up and pushed him over; he sits down.  He has never looked so sad.  How perfect, he says.  I can see his little eyes and his ears and nose and mouth.  Yes.  How beautiful, he says.

I pick up Pippo and kiss his head.  He is cool.  He is just the size of the first two joints of my right index finger.  I measure him against all ten so I can tell the other kids when we get home.  They will not see him; he is dead, and soon his body will not be good to look upon.  I shift him into the basket, between folds of blanket, under the cross.  I wrap my right arm tight around the basket, and I go to sleep.

Presently I wake up; a nurse is knocking.  Hello!  Her eyes are very clear.  I have to tell you this; you are our first patient with a miscarriage, you know; but down the hall there is another, a girl half your age.  She’s not taking it so well.  Her doctor’s very pro-abortion.  This the nurse says.  The golden sound is here again; something wonderful is happening.  What? Where?

But we went to her and did what we did for you, she wanted to see the baby—she was farther along than you—and the doctor, this pro-abortion doctor, a woman, nearly 40, she said, “I’ll have a look.”  That golden sound is Truth, I know You, or rather You know me.  What is it, Lord?

She said “I’ll have a look,” and she looked, and she saw the baby, and she cried, and she threw up, and she ran out of the room, and she locked herself in her office.  And she’s been there for ages, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing—you can hear her through the door.

O You, Lord! 
Truth--lightning,
Truth--supernova,
Truth to break a stone heart, for You desire not the death of the wicked, but that he repent.

You are the Volcano, melting stone and destroying it utterly
You are the Golden Sound, at the edge of my heart’s reach, resonant in my son,
You have taken my sorrow and Pippo’s sacrifice and--what hast Thou made?
An abortionist shattered?
A stone heart melted and smashed? 
You, Truth, Christ my King, an arrow speeding to heart
The Word, Who today is True words: “baby;” “body;” “dead.”

O Truth, O Lord,
We have watched with You, and hung suspended,
And You have revealed a mote of Your glory;
Blinding my eyes with golden tears and crying with Philip my son,
Laudamus Te,
Benedicimus Te,
Adoramus Te,
Glorificamus Te!
I pray that many will read this story in the sites that have posted it, and that their hearts will be softened to the wonders of each unborn child, and to the Creator of each one of these precious little ones.

Life is so precious.

2 comments:

JOSHUA said...

You were right. This made me cry.

mbrandon8026 said...

I would love to meet this woman and write more of their story.