The Wisdom of the Unborn

THE WISDOM OF THE UNBORN

by Susan Erling Martinez

printed in The Edge in August, 1999

Then. July 7, 1981. I am six months pregnant. Decadently hopeful. Exuberantly expectant. Then with the suddenness and fury of a wild fire, I am un-pregnant. Mother of the dead. Baby-less.

Now. July 7, 1999. He would be 18 years old today. If he had lived.

In a heartbeat, my life changed dramatically and traumatically that steamy July day in 1981. Or should I say in the lack of a heartbeat. When my baby's heart crashed to an unfathomable halt, mine fragmented. Despairing, I sought to join him in the realm of Spirit, unable to see that I had three living children who needed me more than he did.

Incomparable grief! God, why, why, why?

Transforming Grief

Still...birth. Those two words, I decided, just don't go well together. Neither do "dead" and "baby" nor "fetal" and "demise." The beginning and the end, together. Over the past 18 years, out of the sheerest desperation and desire to be healed, I have had to transform these obscenely contradictory terms into something natural, beautiful, and experiential. And I think I finally have.

The attending doctor call him "Stillborn Male." I called him "Jesse."

Jesse came to me like a tiny prophet, whispering into my mind the secrets of the Universe. It seems he wanted my tattered life to matter to the world. Somehow, he moved me to write about my unspeakable pain, and later to help found a non-profit organization for parents who have also had childbearing losses. These accomplishments are his; not mine.

Touching Lives

His short life--only six in utero months long--has apparently touched and comforted the lives of countless people throughout the world, and will continue to do so long after I've left this planet. He, indeed, left his tiny footprints on this old world.

Was he an enlightened being? I don't know. Was he a great teacher? Yes.

These are a few of the lessons I learned from this wise, unborn baby.

* Sometimes you have to get broken open to get to the good stuff. Like an egg or a coconut.

* When you've crumbled to your knees in misery, say a few prayers before you get back up.

* We're all on a mission. Even unborn babies have their own life plan. Understand that this loss experience is vital to the successful completion of your mission and your baby's.

* Know that "this too shall pass." Nothing lasts forever; not even grief.

* Accept that you chose this experience before you incarnated. It's not a punishment or rotten luck. It's your chosen destiny. Simply accept it.

* Try not to dwell on what was lost when your baby left the physical plane. Instead, try to dwell on the love that he or she plunged like St. Michael's sword deep into your heart.

* Allow yourself to be healed. Don't wear your wound like a Purple Heart. Instead, pin a showy flower to your lapel and a smile on your face.

* Have hope. Perhaps some sweet day your little lost baby will return to you disguised in a different body. Be alert to the subtle signs of reincarnation that often come in dreams or soul whispers.

* Treasure and deepen your relationship with your earthly and Heavenly mothers and fathers. For there, in their warm and wondrous arms, you will find comfort and courage.

* Dance, even if your feet feel like they're trapped in the unyielding cement of grief. Laugh, even though it seems that there's nothing to laugh about. (Have you looked in a mirror lately?) Dancing and laughing cure all ills.

The year after Jesse died, two more shining souls crept into my womb and into my once broken heart. Twins! Today, Luke and Rachael are 17. They often speak about Jesse and realize that their big brother paved the way for their entrance into this incarnation. If he hadn't lived and died, they would not have been born to me in this time and place.

Jesse left his hand prints on the walls of my womb, his memory in the sacred chambers of my subconscious, and his wisdom in the soft belly of my soul. So Happy Birthday, son, and thank you! May we soon meet again.

This article may be reprinted in its entirety with

permission from the author. Contact susanm@tjsusan.com