I miscarried my second child which was 13 years after my first, so I was considered a ‘geriatric pregnancy’. I had no idea how mentally painful that would feel. It was like a ray of sunshine burned out and everything that ray would have touched would never be touched. I did not know I would feel the sadness of all the descendants that wouldn’t come through her line. My spirit told me she was a girl. I didn’t abort so I needed to have a D&C. I couldn’t stand the thought of her being dumped somewhere so I asked my doctor for the body so that I could give her a proper burial in a Catholic cemetery. She did, and we bought a shoe box size coffin from a center that helps the grieving process of miscarriage. We named her Theresa Rose, and I wrote a poem to her.
Ode to my Miscarried Daughter, June 28, 1990:
“Where did you go, Theresa Rose?
We really wanted to meet you.
We feel so sad, no one quite knows
the void in us that was you.”
“One had said, ‘she’s with Jesus now’
It’s true, but my heart still bleeds.
Someday we’ll meet; my head will bow
in prayer, as you intercede.”
Even after all this time, I still tear up. Father’s grieve, too, just differently…
When someone asks me how many children I have, I tell them four, but one is in Heaven waiting for us when it is time.
