After my miscarriage last year, the baby whom we named Peter, people said things to me like:
“You’re young. You’ll be able to have another one.”
“God will send you your rainbow, just like He sent the rainbow after the desolation of the flood with Noah. Just wait and see.”
“I lost my baby in a miscarriage and then God sent my rainbow baby. If the other pregnancy had stuck, then I wouldn’t have my beautiful rainbow.”
When we got pregnant with Hannah, they said things like:
“As long as it’s healthy, that’s all that matters.”
“God sent your rainbow baby (Adelaide) after your first miscarriage, and He has been faithful to do it again this time.”
“God always sends a rainbow after a storm.”
And then Hannah died. My beautiful, full-term rainbow baby died from heart and lung complications with no prior indication on sonograms of any trouble. As some of you know, in the child loss community, the term “rainbow baby” refers to a healthy child you give birth to after a loss. The “sunshine child” refers to the child you had before the loss occurred. Even in this community of people who have faced such heart-wrenching child loss, there still exists those painful euphemisms and trite sentences, such as those listed above. Even those who have experienced the cutting words of others to them in their own loss still turn around and say hurtful things like these to other mothers who are hurting. We know that you intend to help, but your words are still hurtful to us who don’t have our rainbows. Just because you have your rainbow in your arms doesn’t mean that we will.
We need to stop doing this to each other. We need to be strong enough women to look upon the pain of another woman and just say, “I’m so sorry for your pain. This is not fair. You did not deserve this.” We need to be strong enough to give a hug instead of advice, or a meal instead of a Scripture verse. When Adelaide was born, I hated that term “rainbow baby” for some reason I couldn’t articulate. I just knew I hated that word. Now I know that I hate it because it’s not realistic. Adelaide is not my rainbow. She exists in her own right, not because of the sibling that died before her, but because God made her to be uniquely beautiful. The beauty of a rainbow is only made possible because of the mixture of darkness, moisture and light. My daughter is a light because she is my daughter, not because she is my subsequent child.
The truth is that sometimes the storm rolls away without a rainbow in its stead. Not every storm leaves a rainbow behind, and we in the loss community need to stop speaking as if it will. Let’s not give false hope to one another, because we are not in charge of what will happen for someone else. Holding onto false hope does not aid the healing process. Part of the process of grieving and moving on from our loss is coming to terms with the fact that we might not ever get our rainbow. We have to learn to be OK with our lives as they are, without the happy ending we all wish there could be. And we have to be OK with silently holding our sister’s hand as she walks forward into that reality. In the end, life has beauty without rainbows, even if it just means facing the sunset as the storm rolls away.
These are all pictures I have taken personally. Please do not copy or reproduce without my written permission.
Transparent Graces 