Inconceivable

by Carolyn Savage

  “How are you dealing with your feelings of loss?” she asked.

  “Not well. It’s not just the loss of Logan, it’s the loss of our dreams for our family,” I said. “I always thought I would be the ‘mommy’ and that my kids would grow up in my house, under my watchful eye, with my kisses being given to them every day. To know that there is a child out in the world that I gave life to, but he doesn’t know me, is hard. Every grain in my being is saying that he is my baby and it’s my job to protect him. I am his mother. My body gave him life but somehow didn’t earn it. It breaks my heart to think about it. There were times when people referred to me as a surrogate for the Morell family. That sickens me. I wanted a baby for our family. But what I wanted and what I intended are suddenly meaningless.”

  “Do you feel isolated? Do you have friends you can lean on?”

  “Oh, I have plenty of friends, and they are great women. The kind of friends who will be there for you no matter what,” I said, thinking of my go-to friends JoAnn, Tracy, Linda, and Ann, and I also had the Reliable Girls. “But I think most people think it is over. The pregnancy is over, the baby is gone, and we should just get over it. Get our lives back. That will never happen.”

  “Do you dream about Logan?”

  “Yes, I dream about him. I wonder about how he is doing. Does he miss me? Does he know that Shannon is not me?” I said. “You know, some people believe that children choose their parents. Did Logan choose us? What if he did, and we sent him away? What if he would have rather stayed with us in our family? I just don’t know. I’ll never know. So I granted compassion to Shannon and Paul, and at some level I still feel I’ll never know if it was the right thing to do.”

  “So even though you feel connected to your husband and to your friends, you fear that no one can understand what you went through.”

  “Yes, no one can. Even Sean, who was right beside me. What I did is too odd, too unusual, and it’s not even recognized in a court of law,” I said. “I had no rights to the human being that was growing inside of me. He wasn’t mine. I couldn’t keep him. I could kill him, but I couldn’t keep him. There is some serious irony in that. I meant nothing. I’m not sure I could have been made to feel more insignificant. I feel like nothing.

  “I wonder if I will ever get over this? Will I think about this child for the rest of my life?” I pleaded. “I have wondered if when I die and my children are called, will they call him? Will he care? Will he understand what I did for him? Will he understand that I would do it all over again? I hope the sadness of giving him up will lessen someday, but I don’t know how to stop this horrible movie that plays over and over again in my head.”

  “What movie?”

  “The movie of Logan’s birth. Him being taken out of my body, his first cry, his eyes opening and looking into my face, and the way he calmed when I spoke to him. When that part plays, I am so happy. But then comes the nightmare of the nurses taking him away. The terror of that moment cripples me.” I started to cry. “I hope someday I don’t feel so empty. I’m not sure that will happen, though. I think that I will just somehow be able to weave the sadness into the fabric of my life and continue to focus on the positive. That’s what I want to do. That’s what I want help to do. I want to enjoy life as I did before. I don’t want to cheat my family out of my happiness.”

  “Carolyn, I know you came here for postpartum depression,” the counselor said. “But you have post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  Post-traumatic stress disorder? I thought PTSD was a diagnosis reserved for military veterans, survivors of horrific accidents, or victims of heinous crimes. What we had been through in the last eight months was soul-shaking, but did PTSD describe me? I knew that it was a serious diagnosis, one that wouldn’t be cured with a prescription and a few trips to a therapist.

  “Are you sure that is what I have?”

  “I have no doubt,” she said. “This is going to take a long while to heal. You have to be patient with yourself, compassionate, and I think you could use some antidepressants to keep some of your darker feelings at bay.”

  I had never been on antidepressants before, but was aware that it was a treatment that could really help my mood. Still, I had always been confident that I’d never suffer from depression. Linda helped me understand that there was no way that a person gets through life without experiencing at least a mild depression at some point.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You see, Carolyn, you have not only lived through a horrific loss, you have endured eight months in which you were continually tortured,” she said. “I wish I would have seen you sooner. In order to recover, you’re going to need to cut yourself some slack, take this medication, continue in therapy, and work hard toward becoming whole again.”

  I hadn’t really thought of my pregnancy as torture, but I appreciated the comparison. I knew that we had suffered profoundly and that I was continuously replaying in my head the moment of Logan’s birth, followed by the moment when they took him away from me. We had talked about our suffering many times with Kevin Anderson, but we’d always assumed that the suffering would diminish after the delivery. Now I was sure that we were going to suffer for a long time.

  Eight days after Logan was born, Sean’s sister Patti brought me lunch. My mom had left that morning, and I appreciated Patti’s company that afternoon. As we were sitting in the family room chatting, my home phone rang. I checked the caller ID, recognized an out-of-state area code, and decided not to answer, thinking it was more media. The ringing stopped, but a minute later my cell phone rang. When I glanced at that caller ID, I saw the same number.

  It couldn’t be the media. They didn’t have my cell phone number.

  “Hello?” I said quietly, afraid that I shouldn’t have been answering. When there was no reply, I almost hung up, but could hear the cries of a woman through the receiver. It was then that I recognized the area code as Indianapolis.

  “Jennifer?”

  “Carolyn?” was all Jennifer could manage between her sobs.

  “Jennifer? Oh, my God, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Jennifer was struggling to speak.

  “Carolyn, they couldn’t find a heartbeat.”

  “What?”

  “I’m so sorry. We double-checked. They sent me to the hospital, but there was no heartbeat.”

  “Jennifer, are you alone? Are you driving?”

  She could barely talk, and I was scared that she was trying to drive while talking to me on her cell.

  “Pull over. It’s okay. We’ve been through this before. It’s not your fault.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  I could only imagine how scared she was to make this phone call. She knew we had only said good-bye to Logan a week before.

  “It’s not your fault. This has happened to us before. You need to calm down.”

  I could hear her breathing slowing, and I was surprising myself with the calm manner in which I was reacting.

  “You’ll need a D&C. We’ll take care of that. We’ll take care of everything. Please don’t worry. We don’t blame you. This kind of thing happens. We’ll be okay.”

  I could hear the words leaving my mouth.

  We’ll be okay? We would? We only lost Logan last week. Now this? Seriously?

  Patti was sitting on my couch, staring at me with her mouth hanging open. We were waiting until we had safely cleared the first trimester to tell people Jennifer was carrying our baby. By hearing my end of the conversation, Patti had inferred what happened. Having miscarried twice herself, she understood the loss.

  “I’m so sorry. What do you want me to do?” Patti asked.

  What could she do? What could anyone do?

  “I need to call Sean,” I said. I took the phone in the other room and dialed his cell number. He answered immediately.

  “Jennifer miscarried,” I mumbled as I huddled on a chair in the corner of our home office.

  “I am so sorry. I am on my way home,” he said.


  I hung up the phone, numb.

  I couldn’t believe how I couldn’t manage any tears. Were my tears all used up?

  The best way out is through. I remembered Kevin Anderson’s words.

  But I thought I was through. How much more was there?

  I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to that question. I pulled my legs to my chest and dropped my face into the dark hollow between my knees and my chest. I had nothing left. No more tears, no more grief, and no more room for greater loss. I stared out the window and listened to Patti playing with Mary Kate in the family room.

  You have to get up, go back in there, explain what happened, and move on. You have to move on for your kids. For Sean.

  I would trudge onward, with an empty heart, and pray for someone to point me to the best way out.

  SEAN

  I walked through the door and Patti left to give us some time. As I approached Carolyn I broke down as we embraced. I hugged her tight to my chest, trying to give her comfort, but also because I needed comfort.

  I spoke first. “Why, why this now? I feel like a boxer who was knocked down, gathered himself while leaning on the ropes, and then a body blow comes and finishes him off.”

  “Sean, I know. There is nothing left to cry out.”

  This miscarriage hurt more than the others, even though Carolyn wouldn’t suffer the physical effects. We were so tapped out by the loss of Logan that I didn’t think we had room for any more sorrow. This was the one hope we’d held on to for most of the pregnancy with Logan. As we embraced we were holding each other up. I do not believe either of us could have stood alone. Two blows in eight days.

  As with the pregnancy, Carolyn and I worked hard in the days after Jennifer’s miscarriage to keep the boys’ schedules intact. The news of the miscarriage came just a week before the championship that was the culmination of Ryan’s cross-country season. Although it pained me to leave Carolyn, we agreed that I should fulfill my commitment to coach Ryan and the whole team at the meet. Ryan was having a great season and was becoming a real leader for the younger runners to emulate.

  The night before the championship, my sleep was restless. I woke at 5:00 A.M. with a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. I looked at Carolyn sleeping and knew that her emptiness was tremendous. I didn’t want to leave her. I need to get through this day. My son needs me to be there. My team needs me to be there, and I need me to be there.

  I slipped on my clothes for my morning run, which usually wakes me up and helps me focus before the meet. Alone with my thoughts, I reflected on my friend Mike joining me for a long run this past week as a sign of support, and my friend Dan checking in on me yesterday just to see if there was anything he could do. This outside support helped, but my internal sadness was ever present. Three miles of running in the crsip fall air did little to help. I was torn between wanting to embrace the day and wanting to hide. I needed to embrace the day. Carolyn said that she was going to rally enough to come watch Ryan, so I had to do my part too.

  I arrived at the meet about 6:30 and dragged the tents and tarp and table to our regular spot to set up. The sun was just making its way above the horizon, and since no one from our team would arrive for a while, I went for a walk to gather my thoughts. Out of view of anyone, I sat on the ground with my face in my hands. I could not keep from thinking about what we’d been through. My mind then moved to a memory of Carolyn and me holding each other just after we heard about the miscarriage. She was barely functioning. Being alone was not a good idea for either of us right now. Bad images flooded my brain. Why me? Why us? Why now? I was feeling sorry for myself. Just stand up and walk back. This day needs your attention. Everyone has worked so hard to get to this point, and you need to be a leader and not wallow in self-pity.

  I returned to the tent and found that my fellow coach and close friend Steve Baugh had arrived to set up. “Sean, is this the day?” Steve asked when I returned to our table. I knew what he was referring to, but I pretended not to hear him. No team had ever won all eight divisions of the CYO cross-country championships in the thirty-five-year history of the event. Our team of 160 runners had trained hard and put in consistent performances. Steve and I had often talked about wanting to be the first school to finish first in every division.

  “Sean, is this the year?”

  “We’ve got a chance,” I said, worrying about jinxing the day.

  Ryan and his teammates performed tremendously on a brilliant day, scoring success after success. At the end of the meet, we had eight first-place trophies stacked up on our table in the tent next to my cross-country binder. There was incredible excitement around the tent as all the kids celebrated their great success. Twenty-four parent volunteer coaches were also all smiles. Steve and I approached each other and said simultaneously, “We did it!”

  As I was walking toward my car to leave, one of the younger runners yelled, “Coach! Coach!”

  I turned and leaned down to get close to Jimmy.

  “Coach, what the team did today, we did it for you.”

  A chill went down my spine as I smiled, not thinking about the first-place finishes but thinking more about the love. Everyone knew what Carolyn and I had been going through. During all those lonely days, we had never really been abandoned, even though it felt like it sometimes. We had been in everyone’s thoughts and prayers. Logan was born, and that phase of our crisis was complete. Now I could really sense the love of my community.

  That evening we closed the cross-country season with our traditional banquet, attended by about four hundred people. I opened by saying thank you to the team, to the coaches, to the parents, “…and to my wife.”

  I scanned the crowd and caught her eyes.

  “Carolyn, I thank you for allowing me the time and providing me with the support to keep coaching this….” As I looked out at the crowd, I saw a lot of tears. I could not finish my statement. I broke down and despite my efforts could not continue.

  I left that evening thankful for the St. Joe’s community and for Carolyn. She had always been there supporting me with my career, my coaching, and so many other projects I jumped into over the past twenty-one years. As I looked out in the crowd to thank her, I was overcome with a sense of admiration and love for what she had been through. I will never know what it was like to walk in her shoes the past eight months, and all I can do is walk beside her as we move forward together.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ambiguous Loss

  SEAN

  AS WE WALKED INTO Kevin’s office for our first appointment after the delivery, we were struggling with loss. Even with the eight months we’d had to prepare ourselves to hand Logan to the Morells, our brief time with him face to face had left an immeasurable void. Compounding the loss of Logan, we were now dealing with the miscarriage of our own child. Not only was the grief overwhelming, but we also had a kind of yearning that I’d never experienced.

  Sometimes it was a sweet yearning filled with love for the new baby. Other times it was a desperate, almost angry yearning, knowing that we had been so close to him and now he was gone at the same moment when our sliver of a hope for a child with Jennifer vanished too. Of course, we remained resigned to the fact—and even took pride in it—that we had decided not to mount a custody battle. Paul and Shannon were Logan’s rightful parents, and we hoped and believed they would be very good and devoted parents. But the heart does not know logic. Carolyn and I felt like we were his parents the whole time he was nurtured by her womb, and we were also the parents of the baby who died in the miscarriage. Those are primal bonds, a kind of fierce connection to an unborn child that is vital for a man who is sacrificing to protect the family. Those feelings were deep in our blood, and our child was gone, but not gone.

  I kept to my routine. I went to work early, as I always had, and fulfilled my responsibilities to my family, but our loss seemed to be on every surface that I touched, on every street corner I passed. I never knew that the absence of something could become imme
nse. The loss of Logan and the miscarriage muted my senses. I was dulled by these losses, and try as I might, I couldn’t shake the feeling that our lives had become grayer and might be that way for some time.

  As the session started, I decided to share first and to focus on Logan. My images of that day were still so strong in my mind.

  “Kevin, the birth was beautiful, and there was tremendous satisfaction in delivering Logan to Paul and Shannon. Then, after they left the hospital, we were stricken with grief. I have a difficult time describing the loss. Is it grief we are feeling? Or something else?”

  “You are dealing with ambiguous loss,” he said. “A loss of something that is not really gone, like when a child is abducted. The child is physically gone, but the psychological attachment of the parents is still there. They grieve this person even though they hope and pray that he or she is still alive. They can feel the loss constantly. Many children feel ambiguous loss when their parents divorce. Your loss is so much different than that, though. The baby is elsewhere, presumably happy and well. He is alive in your minds and in your hearts, but you can’t see or touch him. Sean and Carolyn, the grief of a loss like this may fade over time, but ambiguous loss never goes away. Your grief seems frozen in place.”

  “Frozen” was a good word for what I was feeling.

  “Every day we deal with the loss of Logan,” I said. “Carolyn has the physical reminders daily of the pregnancy and her body seeking to nourish the child. I have nightmares of someone trying to break into our home to take our other children. This is all-consuming.”

  “There’s no ritual for this loss,” Carolyn said. “It would be wrong to have a funeral or a baby shower. A year from now, we won’t exactly be having a birthday party for him or a one-year anniversary for his passing out of our lives. We have no public way to honor the significance of his passing, so we can’t find a way to shut the door. And we don’t want to walk away. We love him.”

  “Logan did not die on September 24, but he died to us as parents,” I said. “I will not be his father. I will not be able to hold him in my arms or coach him on the cross-country or on the basketball team or play catch with him in the backyard. To him, I will be no different than any other person on the street. As he grows I expect I’ll continue to think about what I would be doing with him at that particular stage of life. Every time I think of Logan like that, I’ll feel this loss.”