By Lisa Schilpp Sass, M.A
HAND of the Peninsula

In 1997, I had a miscarriage. I was eight-weeks-pregnant and
my doctor could not find a heartbeat. An “easy” miscarriage he called
it. He gave me the choice between a D & C (dilation and curettage) or
wait until my body “expels” naturally. I chose the D & C. In twenty
minutes, I was no longer pregnant. In four weeks, the same doctor told
me I was “ready” to get pregnant again. Ready? Perhaps physically I
was “ready” but emotionally I hadn’t even begun to deal with the
sadness, grief, depression, loss, and feeling of failure.

I even surprised myself how hard I took the loss. I took as
much time off from work as I could. I sat alone in our apartment all day
while my husband was at work. A few friends called to offer condolences
but I did not pick up the phone. I stood over the answering
machine listening to their messages, thinking “how nice of them to call”
but I couldn’t risk speaking to them for fear I would fall into the abyss
of grief. When one is consumed by grief, others may listen politely for
awhile, but then they distance themselves from you. I could not take
anyone else saying “I know how you feel” or “You’ll get over it” or
“You’ll go on to have another baby” or “It’s God’s will”. . . blablabla.
So I just kept to myself.

One day, I summoned the courage to go to Draeger’s grocery
market in downtown San Mateo. I thought I would buy some fancy
edible treat to comfort myself but instead just walked around with an
empty cart — just how I felt inside, empty. As I left the store, I saw
three women sitting at a table on the sidewalk having coffee and
pastries, chatting and laughing. Several feet away from them were four
beautiful children, probably ages two to five, playing in the gutter on
East 4th Street — in the gutter on East 4th Street, a few feet from cars,
buses and traffic. I stopped in my tracks. It took me a minute to realize
that these children belonged to the coffee women. The next thing I
remember was hearing someone yelling and seeing the startled and
frightened looks on the coffee ladies faces. Why were they looking at
me? Then I realized the yelling was coming from me. I was saying
things like, “You don’t deserve to have children if you are not going to
watch them, protect them . . . What is the matter with all of you?” I then
hurried to my car as I frightened myself. I sat in my Honda repeating,
“Get a grip on yourself.” I knew I needed some help.

The internet was in its infancy then, so I scoured the library for
books, called local hospitals for referrals and support groups, I even
called that miserable OB/GYN for help. I cannot recall how I found
HAND, but when I sat on the couch in Celia Hartnett’s (co-founder of
HAND of the Peninsula) living room, I felt like a lifeline was handed to
me. Grief is, by its very nature, an isolating emotion, yet I was not
alone.

Two years later, I delivered a healthy, beautiful girl. For that
pregnancy I found a different OB/GYN. A year and a half later, my
family of three moved south to San Jose. The only evidence I
had from the earlier pregnancy was a small box. It contained a
used pregnancy stick, several “Congratulations You’re
Pregnant” cards, two sympathy cards, and an empty baby book
my dentist had sent me. When the HAND newsletter would
arrive in my mailbox I would instantly sit down and read it
front to back. I would say to myself, I really should have them
remove me from the mailing list, I live over 50 miles away. But
I couldn’t do it. I did not want to sever that tie.

A few years ago, I went through HAND’s volunteer
training and now co-facilitate the subsequent pregnancy support
meetings. My then 10-year-old daughter wasn’t really that
interested in where I was going or what I was doing on those
Wednesday nights. She just knew it meant Daddy was picking
her up from soccer and making dinner while Mom was driving
to that “San Mateo meeting thing.”

Last week my now 13-year-old came to me and said,
“Mom, listen to this song I just bought on iTunes. You’ll
appreciate it.” I thought it would be the current boy-band group
or pop singer we listen to endlessly in the car. Instead, it was a
voice I have never heard before, a song I have never heard
before. I listened more closely and realized the song was about
infant loss. My daughter watched my face until I recognized
what the song was about, then she nodded at me and wiped a
tear from my cheek. I was left to marvel at how the universe
works sometimes.