I am not Catholic. Much of my extended family is, and the family I married into is, but I am not. I grew up in the Methodist church and that is where I feel I belong. But when my little girl died, it was a Catholic practice that sustained me.
I’ve got to admit that I’m scared. I know in my head that I’m capable, but I’m scared of messing “it” up. Whatever “it” is in my life at the moment. I doubt myself in my heart.
After each miscarriage I experienced serious self-doubt. My body was broken. I was broken. Obviously there must be something wrong with me or I wouldn’t have lost my babies. Right? But, that was all in my head. I knew in my heart that wasn’t true.
Then I lost Kalis.
Tuesday was a rough day. My baby was getting a tooth and needing a lot of mommy-time. Rather than the 10 AM grocery trip I’d planned, we ended up in the grocery line closer to 5 PM. I was there with my baby in the Ergo and my dinner in my basket waiting to check out, when a woman (probably mid-20’s) in the next line sweetly asks, “Don’t you do that at home?”
“What?” I ask, somewhat confused. I was just minding my own business and didn’t expect to be addressed (though I had an idea of what was coming next).
Losing Kalis was a very public experience. She was born at 38 weeks and died shortly after. Along with family and friends, we had the birth and chiropractic communities of San Diego as well as the business community of Rancho Bernardo who all wanted to show us love and support during that time.
One of the things that irritated me the most was when a man would come up to me and, as a way to relate, say “I know it’s not as bad as what you’re going through” and then proceed to tell me about his wife’s miscarriage as if that type of loss was nothing compared to losing Kalis. This happened more times than I can remember.