On Rainbows

I had been thinking of rainbows a lot. It was June and companies and merchandisers were taking full advantage of Pride Month by slapping rainbows on everything. On candy, on t-shirts, on make-up, on mail trucks.

These Roy G. Biv images were fresh in mind as I took a shower. I thought of the rainbows that frequently appear in our backyard after storms, of the term rainbow baby, of Noah's Ark, of the movie Thumbelina. 

"After the rain goes / There are rainbows / I'll find my rainbow soon"

Was it true that there were always rainbows after horrible storms? The realist-side of me balked at this idea. As I toweled my swollen belly off I mused that while there is always hope, there's not always a happy ending in the Hollywood-sense. Ladybugs and cardinals and orbs of light aren't going to suddenly start appearing everywhere to soothe your broken heart. Tragedies befall people all the time. It's sad, it sucks, but that's the fallen world we live in. Giving things cutesy labels or sugar-coating tragedy isn't going to make it less tragic. These are the things that coursed through my mind as I unknowingly carried my already-dead child in my womb.

Later that month my family and I took a trip to Disney, the quintessential Happy Ending place. As is typical of Florida in June there were daily thunderstorms and downpours. We tried to not let it damper (ha) our spirits as we zipped around the parks and I unabashedly stuffed my face with Dole Whips and Mickey ice cream sandwiches. 

In the land created by a master of making dreams come true I dreamt of the baby I was carrying. I thought of what he or she would be like, how excited I was to have another child with whom I would share Disney magic. Even a self-proclaimed realist like me is not immune to the charms of the Happiest Place on Earth. 

But reality - the painful, gritty version - loomed and I was blissfully unaware. Not long after we returned I was given the awful news that our unborn child had passed away. Nothing in my life had devastated me that way.

After we buried our child I clung to the idea and hope of conceiving again. I was heartened by statistics that said that pregnancies achieved after loss were far less likely to miscarry. My spirits were raised by the feel-good stories from my friends and from strangers about conceiving soon after miscarrying. I found myself searching desperately for that promised rainbow.

I knew I was never going to be that woman who had the rainbow-themed maternity photoshoot, but I began to view those women who do in a new light. It no longer seemed chintzy. The term, though I never used it myself, no longer irked me. 

This is my second October - Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month - as part of that dreaded club. Since losing that child I have welcomed a beautiful new baby into the world. The relief I felt when she was placed in arms after I gave birth was insurmountable. I thank God for her every day even while I still wonder about the child I lost. 

Grief does funny things to you, I learned. It has the potential to undo even the most stalwart person. It leads some to God and others away from Him. It makes people seek out mediums and medicine. Some become despondent, unable to get out of bed, while others distract themselves to the point of exhaustion. Everyone, I learned, is looking for a rainbow whether they realize it or not. 

A plant we received when my first child was born hadn't bloomed in nearly seven years. It did bloom before our baby was born. My husband said, "It's Annette saying hello from heaven." Normally I would've rolled my eye at such a sentimental proclamation, but I kept a blossom from the plant and pressed it into my new daughter's baby book. 

I never want to make idols out of such things, whether they are rainbows or flowers or uncanny reminders of loved ones we've lost. To do so, I think, is a slippery slope. But I do now see that there is good in it. Just as the sacraments are outward signs of real inward graces, these symbols can be harbingers of hope for those most in need. We look at the Cross and think of Christ and his love for us; I look at a rainbow and am reminded of the promises He has made us and that I will someday meet my child again in heaven. I am reminded of my little saint, and I am also reminded that my new child is, above all, a tremendous gift. 

My mum used to get me these Precious Moments figurines when I was a girl to celebrate different occasions, whether it was a dance recital or my First Communion. I came across a box of them while I was still pregnant and one, of an angel with a watering can, gave me pause. A couple years ago I probably would have not known what to do with it, but now it sits on a shelf in the nursery. 

It's a little reminder to me, less fleeting than a rainbow, of the things I've just said. And it's a small reminder to have hope when things seem hopeless, something we could all use these days, I'd wager.