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Keepsake of My Heart
By Kelley Crisanti
My husband didn't understand.
"Why now?" he asked, confused. The scrapbook page I was working on wasn't of our infant daughter, precocious toddler or teenage son. It was a page in honor of the baby I'd lost two years earlier to miscarriage.
"I need something tangible to honor my memories," I offered as an explanation. The subject made him uncomfortable - rightfully so. The days following our loss were some of the darkest in my life. My grief was torrential and very private. Sympathy only deepened my wound. I was unable to accept it, especially since I already had two healthy children. Who was I to grieve this way when there are women who will never have a child? I felt ashamed of my grief - afraid that I was ungrateful for the many blessings in my life. The few reminders, like the skirt I'd worn to the fateful ultrasound appointment, had been discarded as I'd tried to gain some control during an uncontrollable event. We were blessed with a healthy pregnancy immediately following the miscarriage, and my tears were replaced with unfounded fears for the new baby's safety. I felt guilty mourning my loss and accepting my new blessing at the same time. The miscarriage was swept under the rug.
One day as I was journaling about my darling baby, Olivia, my thoughts turned to my lost baby instead. I started to write - not the pages I'd wrung out from the bottom of my soul before - but words of tribute. I decided to do a full-fledged layout. Simple papers, pens, ink, words and trinkets became magical devices. Subconsciously, I created a very symbolic layout. I was finally able to use my sister's dramatic photo of the sky - storm clouds and a ray of sunshine - to symbolize hope. The snow-white silk shantung was innocence and purity. The clear beads were my tears. The torn, textured papers were my pain. A shadowy, translucent image of a woman stamped on mica, her arms empty, her gaze forlorn, was a self portrait, I suppose.
On occasion, someone opens this page of my scrapbook, and there is a silent understanding and sometimes tears. My hobby gave an outlet for my lingering grief to escape. I was able to revisit the devastation and explore it from a new perspective. I allowed myself to mourn without guilt. There were fresh tears . . . new sorrow . . . and, finally, peace.
"Why now?" he asked, confused. The scrapbook page I was working on wasn't of our infant daughter, precocious toddler or teenage son. It was a page in honor of the baby I'd lost two years earlier to miscarriage.
"I need something tangible to honor my memories," I offered as an explanation. The subject made him uncomfortable - rightfully so. The days following our loss were some of the darkest in my life. My grief was torrential and very private. Sympathy only deepened my wound. I was unable to accept it, especially since I already had two healthy children. Who was I to grieve this way when there are women who will never have a child? I felt ashamed of my grief - afraid that I was ungrateful for the many blessings in my life. The few reminders, like the skirt I'd worn to the fateful ultrasound appointment, had been discarded as I'd tried to gain some control during an uncontrollable event. We were blessed with a healthy pregnancy immediately following the miscarriage, and my tears were replaced with unfounded fears for the new baby's safety. I felt guilty mourning my loss and accepting my new blessing at the same time. The miscarriage was swept under the rug.
One day as I was journaling about my darling baby, Olivia, my thoughts turned to my lost baby instead. I started to write - not the pages I'd wrung out from the bottom of my soul before - but words of tribute. I decided to do a full-fledged layout. Simple papers, pens, ink, words and trinkets became magical devices. Subconsciously, I created a very symbolic layout. I was finally able to use my sister's dramatic photo of the sky - storm clouds and a ray of sunshine - to symbolize hope. The snow-white silk shantung was innocence and purity. The clear beads were my tears. The torn, textured papers were my pain. A shadowy, translucent image of a woman stamped on mica, her arms empty, her gaze forlorn, was a self portrait, I suppose.
On occasion, someone opens this page of my scrapbook, and there is a silent understanding and sometimes tears. My hobby gave an outlet for my lingering grief to escape. I was able to revisit the devastation and explore it from a new perspective. I allowed myself to mourn without guilt. There were fresh tears . . . new sorrow . . . and, finally, peace.
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