I don't talk about this much but today just seemed right to share my motherache. We lost our 5th and 6th children, both girls, to separate in utero trauma. Both little ladies were ironically the same gestational age when they passed away. But their causes of death were different. And we never found out what exactly happened with either. Here's more on that and a poem I wrote for Mary Therese. I got an infection, I think Strep B, no one ever said, with my Mary Therese. My water broke. She was alive and kicking right up to the end as my fluid leaked out and there wasn't a thing I could do to stop it. The doctor didn't catch it in time and it was mostly gone when he did.
I almost voluntarily checked myself out of life that day. I had a loving husband and darling children. But the pain burned so bad I thought it would devour me. Then Our Lady sent St. Teresa of Avila to talk sense into me.
I know, it sounds insane. But I saw them both, plain as day. Maybe it was the delirium of the fever. Or the pain. It wasn't the drugs because I couldn't keep anything down. They would have let me have it because she was going to die anyway, they said. That could have been more tactfully said but I was past caring.
And she did pass, but only after patiently keeping her mama company all that long, horrible night. The whole family was there, all night to say goodbye to baby sister. Big Sister Molly stayed awake the entire time and only fell asleep when Mary Therese left us to go to heaven.
Maybe I just want to believe that heaven cares, that this is not the end, that I will hold my children again. You're darn right I do. Not much point in anything otherwise.
They put a black rose on my door, in the maternity ward.
Here's a poem I originally wrote for Associated Content for my little Mar. I wasn't ever going to name a baby after me, but somehow that name just seemed to fit her. Daddy wanted her to take part of Mama to heaven. Mary Therese's birthday and death day were January 5, 2001.
Waterlily Rose Maid
her eyes, green-gray, still waters, do not cry
not mirror nor window of soul-dark spaces
guardians hold prisoner, secrets shy
in soft tranquil deep and twilight traces
her skin, like dogwood blossoms translucent
rose petal fair and water-lily pale
heaven-bound as nimbus, storm-cloud spent
fresh as a lamb, nested quiet in vale
no tears descend this tender, pallid cheek
no sorrow escapes this unworldly maid
no companion shares nor solace does seek
perfect in slumber, unmoving and staid
Silent in her grave, somber and death-cold
Never to feel pain, nor warmth of mother's arms enfold.
I wrote this a few years ago, in a darker place. Now I know that you will feel our arms, baby. I think in some way you already do.
Love always, mama.
To Our Daughter, Isobella Raine Sachteleben Born and Died June 28, 2004
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