By Lisa Yorkgitis Nahach
Reach me at LisaYorkgitisNahach@gmail.com
My mother, Helen Yorkgitis, suffered from arthritis, diabetes, congestive heart failure, and other conditions. Despite her afflictions, however, she often exhibited an incredible capacity for sympathy.
One day in early 2009, I felt so overwhelmed by a recent sorrow that I had to share it with her. She was my mother, and I needed her. At her hospital bedside, I told her that I had had a miscarriage.
“Oh, Lisa,” she said. “I am so, so sorry.”
I cried then, and I am crying as I write this post. Up until that point, whenever I had told someone I suffered a miscarriage, he or she had brushed it off as if it mattered little. After all, I already had three healthy and beautiful children. Weren’t they enough?!
In spite of my mother’s illness, she showed more compassion than anyone else had, and I will be eternally grateful to her. She expressed her sorrow but did not mention my living children. She knew I was mourning another child — someone I already loved but never had the chance to meet. I didn’t want to hear about Suzie,Tim, or Liz even though I loved them as much as any mother loves her children.
Helen had not known about my pregnancy because I lost the baby very early. At my first doctor’s appointment in early December 2008, my obstetrician could not hear the baby’s heartbeat, and an ultrasound revealed that the baby’s growth did not correspond with the weeks of gestation. My baby, apparently, had died in the womb. I could have had the fetus removed surgically, but I decided to wait until I naturally miscarried. After all, I reasoned, maybe my doctor made a mistake. Maybe, my baby was still alive.
I felt the first cramps indicating the beginning of my miscarriage while walking to visit my mother. The cramps hurt so much that I had to grab onto a cement wall for support. The pain passed, and I saw Mom. At that time, I could not handle talking about what was going on, so I didn’t tell her then.
I miscarried a few days later while I was home alone. My husband had taken the kids shopping to use the gift cards they had received for Christmas. The date: Dec. 28, 2008.
My mother’s empathy stemmed, in part, from the miscarriage she experienced in the mid-1950s, but I like to think she would have been sympathetic even if she had not had a miscarriage, too.
At the time of her miscarriage, she and my father were living in a walk-up apartment in the Pittsburgh area with my oldest sibling, Susan. Like my miscarriage, Mom’s miscarriage happened within the first trimester. She wondered if all of the steps she climbed carrying baby Susan, laundry, and/or groceries hindered her pregnancy. She never found out, of course, just like I never found out what lead to my miscarriage.
As I write this, I am cooking a ham to accompany the turkey my sister-in-law is preparing for Thanksgiving Day dinner. I studded the ham with whole cloves, just like my mother taught me. My daughter Suzie is creating a glaze of orange juice, brown sugar, and mustard, just like my mother used to make.
Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. I miss you. Thank you for the many ways you showed your love.