The Language of Lament: An Expression of Suffering Well

By Jessica Szitta

The Language of Lament is an experience of grief. Written after the loss of a child through a second trimester miscarriage, this book is an authentic expression of suffering well when your soul is unwell.

Offering the reader an inside look at the mental, emotional, and spiritual wrestling of grieving, it gives voice to the varied experiences and questions of the heart and soul that have been devastated by loss.

Does suffering well mean smiling through your grief?

Does crying out in hopelessness mean you are not grieving with hope?

Do moments of joy invalidate your loss?

Can sitting in silence be comforting?

Is there a time limit on sharing your experience?

Does God really care? And can his word really heal?

Whether you are experiencing grief firsthand or walking with someone who is, may The Language of Lament be a comforting companion in your journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888325988

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The Language of Lament

An Expression of Suffering Well

Jessica Szitta

ISBN 979-8-88832-597-1 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88832-598-8 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Jessica Szitta

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prelude

August

September

October

November

December

January

February

March

April

Epilogue

About the Author

Prelude

Tuesday July 27, 2011

I wake, shower, and shave, still undecided about finding out the sex of my baby. Twenty weeks and five days pregnant, today is the big ultrasound. My three sons cannot stop making bets about it being a boy or girl. Hunter, our oldest at eleven years old, states, I hope it's a girl so she can do all of my housework.

After my breakfast of high-fiber cereal and low-sugar orange juice due to gestational diabetes, I begin drinking the first eight ounces of the required thirty-two ounces of water for the ultrasound. Mark and I sit down to plan meals and supplies needed for our upcoming camping trip. In two days, we will be loading up to go to North Mead Lake. Our yearly camping trip with my sister Becci and her friend Jess has expanded to include my brother Jeff and his friend Devon, as well as my mom and stepfather (Dad) and possibly my youngest brother, Bob, along with his girlfriend and son. Our cooking theme this year is shish kabobs. I plan on making bacon wrapped chicken with pineapple and mushrooms. I am hoping this recipe turns out, as I have never made it before. It's a little intimidating cooking at the same gathering as my mom and sister, who are both amazing cooks. We have all the meals decided but one. The first night of camping, we traditionally have taco soup, but both Mark and I are burned out on it. Mark suggests buying some frozen chicken potpies. I agree to think about it.

Thirty-two ounces of water later, we climb into the van. Every bump reminds me of my full bladder. Laughter, dreams, and joy permeate the van as we drive to the hospital. Wouldn't it be wonderful to have a daughter after three boisterous boys? We thought picking girl names after three boys would be easy, but the only name Mark and I can agree on is Judah Xavier. Hunter and our youngest, Asher, pick the name Cortana, a character in a video game. Mason, our middle child, wants Helen if it is a girl. Mark and I are torn between Maris and Karyss, Maris meaning bitter and Karyss meaning grace. The middle name for either would be Elizabeth. But we still aren't even sure if we want to know the sex of the baby, so names could wait. Mason informs me that if it is a boy, I owe him one dollar, and if it's a girl, he will owe me a dollar. I ask when we shook on that bet. He answers with a smile.

We check in at the desk at 11:46 a.m. The directions to ultrasound are to take the elevator to the second floor, turn left down the hallway, then turn right. Of course the walk would be long. My bladder is bursting at this point, and it feels as if the baby is lying right on it. I take a deep breath. Breathing is starting to get harder as the baby is growing in me. It's amazing how much you forget about being pregnant when the last one was five years ago.

I change my clothes for the ultrasound of our fourth child. I lock my clothes and purse in a locker, put the key around my wrist, wait five minutes for the ultrasound tech to call my name, and walk down the hall with her to the room. She asks how much water I drank, and I told her all thirty-two ounces. She told me to go empty my bladder. Thank you! I think, while she calls my husband and three sons in. The boys are polite but excited and curious, filled with questions as she begins. Hunter makes a morbid joke about the bed looking like my deathbed with the white sheet on it. I tell him that's inappropriate, and he apologizes before turning his head to the screen.

I turn my head to the left to watch the screen and notice how still my baby is. The others were so active it was hard to get the pictures they needed. The ultrasound tech did not point out the fluttering heartbeat. Her voice is chipper as she answers the boys many questions. After twenty minutes, she stops, saying, I need to show these to the doctor. I will be right back. I look at Mark and mouth, Did you see the heartbeat? He shakes his head no before taking Mason and Asher back to the waiting room. Hunter has chosen to stay with me. As Mark returns, the doctor comes in and states, Is it okay to talk in front of the children? I nod yes, and he proceeds.

There are some problems.

Mark moves closer.

There is no easy way to say this, the doctor continues, but your baby is dead.

Hunter leaves so quickly I barely see him go. I turn my head to the left, tears pouring out, the now blank black screen staring at me.

The doctor continues, There is no heartbeat, and the baby is measuring small. The head and abdomen are slightly deformed, and the amniotic fluid is low. I am so sorry, but your baby is dead. He leaves, and immediately my husband lays his head on my abdomen and grabs my hand, praying out loud into my stomach. I can feel the words, and though I don't understand what he says, I know he is praying life into my womb.

The ultrasound tech says to take some time, and when I am ready, she will take me back to the changing room. We are to go back down to the nurse's office. Mark and I cry, our hearts broken, dreams dashed, and minds numbed. How quickly things change in thirty minutes.

Our boys are waiting though, so we don't stay long. They meet us at the door as we leave. Is the baby really dead? asks Mason.

Yes is all Mark can say.

I go to the changing room while Mark continues to the waiting room with the boys. I change slowly, sadly, numbly. I walk to the waiting room. Mason and Hunter are standing by the balcony, looking over the railing. Mark grabs my right hand, Hunter the left hand, and we walk back down the long hallway. Alone. Silent.

Well, our baby is in heaven now, Mason breaks the quiet with these words that to him are joyful.

It is so sad, but our baby will never have to sin or see the evil of this world, Hunter adds in his words of comfort as we make our way to the elevator. I wrap my arms around him and mumble, True, very true.

The elevator doors close and Mark wraps his arms around me, embracing me hard. I cry hard and quick. The elevator doors open again.

I need to see Dr. Connolly's nurse, I say to the receptionist. She points us to the waiting area, where we are alone.

Is there anyone who can come and get the children? I ask Mark. Mark calls our friend Lori, who says yes, of course she will come to get the children. The boys walk under a miniature hot-air balloon display to look out the window. I tell them good-bye and to be good listeners, always my final reminder when I leave the boys somewhere. Mark walks them out. Lori gives a hug and leaves with the children. Mark again wraps his arms around me as we walk back to the waiting room.

We wait, sitting in shock, in rawness, in sorrow. My name is called, and we are led to a room, waiting again. The nurse comes in and says how sorry she is, something about fetal demise, how she knows I am a nurse, or something like this. She explains our next step is to go the emergency room entrance to be admitted to the birthing center where the doctor will explain the delivery plan to us.

We drive to the emergency room parking lot. Mark asks if it wrong to think they made a mistake. I nod and say it's not wrong to have faith. He prays again as we walk to the entrance. We ride up another elevator, walk through some secured doors, and enter room 260. We sit together on the couch under the cold air return vent, coldness numbing my skin. The nurse asks if we need anything.

My baby, I think.

Some water, I answer.

Mark and I are alone on the couch, drowning in despair. Not long, and Dr. Yasmin, with a soft face, tender eyes, and dark hair, enters. She asks me to sit on the bed. She holds my hand.

Your baby is measuring at sixteen weeks and one day. It has probably been dead two to three weeks, which means we need the baby to come out in the next day or two. You won't have days to make a decision on when to come back in. We need to dilate your cervix and then start contractions…

My agonizing cry causes her to stop.

We can stop for a while if you need to. I know this is hard. I shake my head no.

You have had three C-sections, correct? Because of that, we need to go slow. We don't want to rupture your uterus, and we want to do what we can to deliver this baby vaginally as a C-section is a big surgery for such a tiny baby. But if things don't progress, that may be an option.

She goes on to explain possible complications and what they could result in, the worst outcome ending in hysterectomy if I should bleed too much. She leaves us after hugging me and gives us time to decide when to start the procedure. Mark asks for one more ultrasound to be done before beginning anything, and she says of course, that's absolutely reasonable.

Well, it's good we are absolutely reasonable at this time. Snide thoughts sneak through the shock and sorrow in my head.

Mark suggests I stay and have them get started and that he will take care of everything. I adamantly refuse. I need to see my boys and know where they will be. I want to go home, to church, to somewhere, to anywhere but here.

Mark calls his mom, who is working for the night. I then call our friends, my first time having to explain our baby is dead, and I rush through. Can my boys stay at your house tonight? Our baby died, and I need to be induced. I hear her voice tremble with shock and sadness as she says yes, and we agree to have the boys go to there at five or six. Mark and I stop the phone calling to cry together. Speaking it to people is so hard. Every phone call makes it more real. Our baby is dead. Speaking shatters the shock and solidifies the sorrow.

Our next phone call is to the church. Our senior pastor is on a sabbatical, so we speak with the associate pastor and agree to meet with him as soon as we leave the hospital. The nurse and doctor explain to come back in at 8:00 p.m., where to check in, and how things will proceed. More hugs. More condolences. More agony.

We walk to the elevator. I breathe deeply. I think how I need to call my mom but know she is at work. I try anyway. No answer. I think how I need prayer from my friend Rebecca as the elevator doors close. My phone rings; it's Rebecca. Does she have ESP? I let it go to voicemail as we are in the elevator. Leaving the elevator, my friend Julie calls. She was at a 4-H meeting with our other friends who agreed to take the boys. She asks if she can please pray for me. I agree with her in prayer and ask if her and her husband, another pastor at our church, would come to the hospital tonight. Of course they will, she answers.

As we drive to the church, Mark and I talk about what we will do with the baby after it is born. We are not yet sure, but we agree the body will not just be disposed of. We arrive at church and sit, together again on a couch. Sorrows and sympathies are shared and expressed by Pastor Greg.

What thoughts are going through your minds? he asks.

Dare I tell him not much?

I do tell him of my guilt. Maybe it was one too many Diet Cokes. Maybe I didn't follow the diet well enough.

Don't do that. You did nothing to cause this. He looks directly at me as he speaks this. I nod. But do I believe?

We converse; he counsels. We speak scripture. We pray. We ask about cremation and a memorial service. We learn that at 7:45 a.m., another woman from church lost her son to suicide. His funeral would be Saturday. We grieve more. He shares he will be preaching from John 9 where Jesus heals with mud. His theme is suffering and our response to suffering.

We leave, and I am finally able to reach my mom, who agrees to call my sister and other family members. I ask her to please tell them no phone calls. I can't handle speaking. We pick our boys up from Lori's house. Hugs support me. Our son invites her sons to our baby's funeral. I look sharply at him and ask him to stop. When we leave, we explain we don't invite people to funerals as if it is a birthday party, and only family will be attending this memorial service. I never thought about having to teach funeral etiquette.

We ask how they are doing with everything. Sad they say, but happy too. Jesus is with our baby. Hunter explains that he was angry and wanted to break something when he found out, but then he sang It Is Well with My Soul all the way to his friend's house from the hospital and felt better. How could that man write that song after losing his entire family? he wonders. Oh, how God comforts.

We go through the drive-through at Taco John's, and I order a large regular soda. No need for diet now. I take a phone call from a woman from church who says she is grieving with us, praying for us, and has a meal for us already. She offers to take the boys some day for us and promises to pray for us again as she hangs up. Silence, sorrow, and shock accompany the rest of the ride home.

At home, I go to the bathroom again. Thirty-two ounces of water flushed away with my dreams. The boys excitedly pack their stuff for an overnight with their friends, something they have wanted to do for months. Mason packs light. I remind him he needs a toothbrush. Asher packs heavy, and for the first time, I don't check what he has. It's only 4:40 p.m. I call Rebecca back, and she prays for me. I e-mail another friend. The waiting is intensifying our shock, so we decide to leave early and hope the hospital will allow us to check in.

We arrive at our friends' house, where hugs squeeze more tears from sore eyes and pain from tender hearts. As I run through the bedtime routine, Lora assures me everything will be fine. Driving down Highway X, Mark and I both express how we still have a small hope of healing. We think it is all a horrible mistake. God can raise the dead. He is healer and stronger than any other. Mark speaks this all out loud. I can't. Am I doubting? We pray again in the parking lot, clinging to each other, to hope, to Jesus. I am still so numb.

We register and ride the elevator again. In the room, the nurse takes vital signs, asks questions, and brings in a blue tote of birthing necessities. I change into my gown, an official patient now. I sit on the bed and stare at Mark. We wait. We pray. We cry. We make jokes only we could laugh at. I check my e-mail, my Facebook, my messages. I am looking for something I can't name. Over the next eighteen hours, I check my e-mail and Facebook every one to two hours. I haven't posted anything, and I don't post anything. But I keep checking for updates anyway.

A lab tech comes in, and we talk about my uncooperative, deep, rolling veins. She draws the blood and leaves. Phone calls start coming and texts as well. We don't answer many. My sister leaves a message. I am so relieved to hear her voice. I call her back. I thank her for not listening to my request to not call, and we cry, talk, say I love yous, and hang up. She will call my brother Jeff whose voicemail is full.

Pastor Jivko and his wife, Julie, arrive at 8:00 p.m. He reads from Isaiah 43, inserting our names for Jacob and Israel. It comforts, knowing the Lord is with us. We pray, and I feel his Spirit descend upon our room. At 8:30, the doctor and nurse arrive. Time for Julie and Jivko to leave.

The ultrasound confirms the earlier results. No heartbeat. They begin the induction. They explain that I will feel cramping and should ask for pain meds as needed. It is now 10:00 p.m. I need my insulin, but only half a dose. I eat a snack of pudding and half of a sandwich. It's more carbs than usual, but again, who's counting now?

Mark and I begin the long wait. We pray my body will cooperate and there will be no complications. Questions continue to flood us as we discuss what we will do with the body. Are we going to see our child? Do we want pictures?

Mark moves the pullout couch closer to my bed so we can maybe hold hands while we sleep. The nurse asks if I need an Ambien. I think about saying yes and splitting it with Mark, but in the end say no, as I fear it will relax me too much and my body won't work as it needs to. We watch no TV but turn on praise and worship. Mark usually has trouble sleeping with background noise but agrees wholeheartedly to have it on this night. I awake around 1:00 a.m. to go to the bathroom. I feel some cramping, but not bad.

As I lie down again, I think about the sex of my baby. Is it a boy or a girl? Is the pain of loss going to hurt more if it is a girl, as this would have been our first daughter? Is that awful of me to think that? Does it matter if it is? All I can pray is Jesus, help. My mind is eerily calm and very numb.

It's 2:30 a.m., and the cramping is steady and strong. I ring for the nurse. She gives me some pain meds through the IV and tells me to ask for help to the bathroom as this medication will make me feel drunk. It Is Well is playing in the background. I listen but sing nothing. The drunkenness of the pain medication kicks in quickly, my head feeling tipsy as I turn to Mark and ask, If it is a boy, can we name him Eli? I have no idea where the name came from. He agrees, but only if the middle name can be John, after his father and my uncle. We turn the music off, as it keeps waking us both. We toss. We wonder. We wait. No further pain outside our hearts and souls comes through the night.

They give me more medicine throughout the morning, increasing the dosage as I increase the intensity of my prayers for my body to cooperate. Lord, don't make me go through a C-section for this.

Lord, don't make me go through this.

By late afternoon, my body is uncomfortably cooperating with the medication. Though the mother of three boys, I have never experienced labor. Even with my first induction, I never suffered through contractions, never experienced the slowly rising intensity of pain that surges through the womb as labor builds to an unbearable constant burn. This can't be right, I think, as I try to breathe, sitting on the edge of the bed. No one would ever go through this and have more children. Something has to be wrong. I can't speak it out loud, but I breathe, breathe, blow out hard, and intake sharp as the pain never really ebbs, just increasingly flows.

And suddenly, it's time. We call for the nurse, the doctor, the and Holy Spirit to strengthen me as I know what will not come next—the cry of new life, the soft skin of a baby, and the joy after the pain. The doctor says something to comfort me, to calm me, as I am panicked now. I squeeze Mark's hand and feel my child slip silently from my womb. A wailing emerges from my husband, and the true meaning of lamenting screams into my silently shattering soul.

It is finished.

They take my baby from the room, explaining they will clean, measure, and weigh him. They gently explain that sometimes babies born in these circumstances are not pretty, but I ask to see him anyway. They push on my stomach, check my blood pressure, and take my child, but none of my pain. A flurry of activity is occurring, and I can't focus on anything. I hear nothing. I think nothing. Truly, for the first time in my life, my mind is blank. The nurse enters the room with a big folded blanket and hands me our son. I unwrap him, looking at all his formed parts. With five toes, five fingers, and a face like his brother Mason's, Eli John was born into eternity on July 27, 2011 at 5:28 p.m., weighing four ounces and measuring eight inches. Mark kisses his face and holds his tiny body. My blood pressure is dropping too quickly, so they push me back into the bed and rewrap my son.

And then, my baby is gone.

At 9:00 p.m.,