And The Soul Felt Its Worth

I realized I've never published a link to my short memoir on my blog for easy access, so here it is!

https://amberhanni.wixsite.com/worthofasoul

I also wanted to share my beautiful sculpture that arrived this week; it means so much to me.

Finally Named

Wave of Light 2018-

I had so much to ponder on this year. It’s interesting how different stages of grief continue to change, develop, and show themselves as the years pass by.

For many years, I was told by various women, in support groups or even casual conversation, that it may help me in my grief to name our lost babies. I objected to it initially. I wasn't ever able to do testing to find out the gender of any of our babies. Some women have a strong feeling of what they were carrying and go with it. Some women joke they may have a boy in heaven with a girl's name and that’s fine with them. But it bothered me.

I also had guilt that my gestation wasn't far enough along for a name. That I was trying to "claim more grief" than I had a right to. Even though I have cried for those little lives that I loved from the second they were within me. I have wondered who they are and I prayed for them every moment that they were growing.

It's difficult to find validation when the medical community names your baby “spontaneous abortion.” It's hard when the pro-choice community tells you that your baby was “just a bunch of cells” in the first trimester of development. If a large portion of this country believes that, how can I have claim to the grief I feel? How can my baby be real? How can the condolences be sincere from people who believe that? Just because I wanted the baby to survive? It’s either a life or it isn’t, right? (By the way, these are actual questions, not sarcasm.) How can I have claim to a NAME?

Well, I would like to reclaim the right. As a mother. Because I'm still a mother. As the years go by, our losses are all becoming clumped and grouped together, and it makes me pause.

If they were not “real” or “individual, ” then where does all this love go? What do I call all this sorrow? The twinges of pain with little memories. The candles I light for them. The ornaments I hang for them each year on my Christmas tree. My birthstone necklace. The prayers I still say for them, asking God to keep them in His presence. I have spent so much TIME in my own mind just defending my right to grieve and assuring myself that my babies are real instead of actually allowing myself to grieve and heal. 

Where is the threshold? The invisible one that society has? Clearly, if a mother loses a living child, we expect her to grieve; knowing that it will be a painful lifelong burden. If she delivers a stillborn child, society (we hope) is sensitive and anticipates that she will need time and space (certainly she will never just “get over” that loss either). Both a living child and a stillbirth are different than a miscarriage (I would never think of comparing them) but you are not any LESS pregnant at any point in gestation (as if it were possible to only be “a little pregnant”) You either are, or you are not. So where is the threshold? When does it becomes ACCEPTABLE to mourn your own child?

“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go” ~ Jamie Anderson

Grief is the price of love, and I'm happy to pay.

As the years have gone on, and I have participated in ceremonies of remembrance for babies gone too soon, I have become tired of saying "all 6 Hanni babies" or "my six angels" because I very much think of them as individuals. And after all this time, I am ready to call them as individuals.

Kevin and I already talk about them as individuals but I'm ready to stop referring to them as number 3 or number 5. Out of nowhere, it suddenly felt disrespectful to continue to use numbers as I reference them. Kevin and I had a very long and tearful conversation, and we spent Wave of Light 2018 naming our Lost Babies.

The baby from our first loss, our second pregnancy, was the most interesting to name. Reflecting on the pregnancy, it was the time of “ignorance is bliss.” We had no idea of what was ahead. When I think back to that pregnancy, I feel pure joy. Warm, safe, excitement spilling over. Wrapping up a present to break the news to Kevin. The feeling in our home was tangible. Hugs and dreaming, sharing the news early. We will never have that again. Not in that way. Kevin has mentioned that he feels robbed, because we will never have that again. Life turned a positive pregnancy test into immediate injections, medications, emergent ultrasounds with bleeding, coping mechanisms to get through the anxiety and PTSD. Daily home doppler, midnight calls, panic attacks. Pregnancy will never be the same for us. 

We wanted to give a name to this baby that encapsulated that wonderful moment of innocent joy and unassuming hope and happiness. We originally decided on Caia (rhymes with Maya) because it means “to rejoice.” It’s a beautiful name and we both felt very pleased with it. I even told a few friends about the name.

Now for the interesting part. The morning after choosing the name, ​I woke up, and walked over to the bathroom counter thinking about how I was going to write the babies’ names on the candles later. Suddenly the name Caia didn’t sit right with me. I shook it off because I loved the name. Continued to get ready for the day. Then out of nowhere I heard the name "Elliot" in my mind. I've never even thought of that name. Again I disregarded it, I didn’t want to change Caia. But the experience stopped me- why would this name come to my mind out of nowhere? Especially a random name so different? Very much a boy’s name and I didn’t even know the meaning.

All morning I couldn't shake the thought out of my mind. I laughed, “maybe we have a boy who just didn't want to be named Caia or something.” So I came home and I looked up what Elliot means, and it means "Jehovah is God.” So in a way, it felt like it was about rejoicing. I told Kevin about my experience and he immediately agreed that we needed to change it and he loved the name. It was a blessing to have a spiritual experience like this. If it didn’t matter, this wouldn’t have happened. But it did matter. The name needed to be Elliot. Elliot matters.

Our other names were chosen in similar ways. I could go into great detail, but suffice it to say that each name came to us and felt right for the short experience we had with that baby.

Our third pregnancy- Amil. Meaning “One who hopes.” Losing Amil was like living in a nightmare. Something I thought wouldn’t actually be possible but only a dream resulting from my anxiety. I remember being physical ill from the news. Shocked, terrified for the future.

Our fourth pregnancy- Micah. Meaning “Who is like God.” The sentiment here is meant to express “Thy will Oh God be done.” This was one of my toughest losses. I was across the country from Kevin. I had done daily belly injections and I was sure if I was brave enough to do that, Micah would survive. I had lots of bloating and cravings and I was sure that meant healthy growth. It was at this point that I had to accept what was happening to us. After Micah, I started my blog and my life really started changing.

Our fifth pregnancy- Quinn. Kevin decided he wanted to name this baby after the humility we felt after this loss. Quinn means “wisdom, reason, intelligence.” We lost Quinn very suddenly. We were sitting on a couch in my Dad’s basement, at Christmastime, surrounded by holiday lights when those horrible pains started. I’ll always remember Kevin’s strength holding me through the pain and my screams. I had written lots of little notes to Quinn through the pregnancy that said “dear baby.” I’m glad there can be a name now.

Our sixth pregnancy- My most vivid memory with this baby was begging God to spare their life. On my bathroom floor I cried and pleaded in prayer like a little child. It was October, gorgeous time of year- our favorite time of year. I wanted to carry the life inside of me through the season. When the baby passed, I had to orient for a new job the next day. I absolutely had to take the job and couldn’t miss orientation. I took progesterone to keep the miscarriage from progressing, and carried them inside of me that whole day, like a secret, and tried not to cry. We named the baby Autumn. Our October loss, such a beautiful sentiment and tribute to that time of year. It’s October now and we can think of you.

Our seventh pregnancy- We knew when we saw that second line on the test that it was out of our hands. We did the injections and everything we could, but we knew by that point that it was not likely for you to survive without God intervening with a miracle. We named you Isla. Isn’t that just a gorgeous visual? An island off the coast of Scotland. An escape from all the anxiety and everything impossible in this world. Freedom. That’s what you might have been for us, but we hope that you have that now Isla. Peace and fresh air.




Elliot 2012, Amil 2013, Micah 2013, Quinn 2013, Autumn 2014, Isla 2015

I recognize this post may seem a bit “out there” or hippie-ish or bizarre. That’s ok. If it doesn’t sit well with you, I get it. Honestly I wouldn’t understand it either if I hadn’t experienced what I have. Just know that every mama who is hurting has to heal in her own way. If you are aware of someone’s hurt, all you have to do is support her/him in the way that she/he needs at that time. <3