George and the Lamp

Today a relative of mine lost her baby. She wasn't very far along, and the circumstances for having a child were not perfect ... she isn't married and doesn't have a job. And while there will, no doubt, be people who think it was probably for the best, I'm not one of them.

I've lost three children in my life time, and every single one of them hurt. When I lost the first, I was only eighteen (I was married and I did have a job). The pregnancy had not been confirmed since I didn't have the funds to seek medical attention. But I knew. And when things started going wrong I was heart broke. However, the type of support I received was more of the it's-for-the-best variety.

"You're really to young to be a mom anyway."

"God knows best."

"There was probably something wrong with it."

"You'll have more kids."

I kept my sorrow to myself, as that seemed to be what was expected of me. I was told not to name it, think about it, or talk about it. Supposedly, I would get over the loss faster that way.

I was much older, and wiser when I lost my last child. I was also further along; 13 weeks. The doctor's had been monitoring my numbers twice a week for three weeks and the numbers were doubling the way they were suppose to. Steve and I didn't tell anyone until we passed the 12th week - the first trimester. I went to church every Sunday praying it would be a viable pregnancy. In secret, Steve and I picked out names and I crocheted little hats and booties.

We wouldn't know the sex for another six weeks, but we decided to call our baby George if it was a boy. Besides being Steve's grandfather's name, we both remembered the old cartoon where the little girl says, "I'm gonna love him and hug him, and squeeze him, and call him George."

After we were in the clear we shared out good news with the families.

A week later, George died.

My father-in-law suggested I consider planting a tree in remembrance. The more I thought about the idea, the more it felt right; something to represent the loss of a life. Something that says, "he mattered", "he's missed" - even if it was only by me.

But a tree? A living plant? Both my daughters can tell you my thumb tends to run more to black than green. I knew I wouldn't be able to handle it if a tree I planted for George ended up dying ... and the odds were good it would.

In the days following George's loss, Steve and I walked many malls and stores. I couldn't stand being at home. I couldn't stand being alone. While out, I kept my eye open for something that might represent the life that had been extinguished way to early. Something to commemorate the weeks of hope and love we secretly shared with our child. I had no idea what I was looking for, or even if I would find anything.

During one of our trips I found myself drawn to a floor lamp and we ended up purchasing it. I liked the fact it would provide light and warmth. I could picture myself curled up in a chair beneath it for years to come. I also liked the idea that no one but me would ever know that the floor lamp in my bedroom was all I had left of George.

It's been nearly ten years since we lost George and I still have the lamp. There's not a week that goes by that I don't use or look at the lamp and have a brief memory of the time I spent carrying him. But it no longer hurts and I'm glad that he still lives in my thoughts in a positive way.

If I had one thing to share with other mother's when they loose a child before it's born, it would be this ...

They deserve to be remembered.