“It is better to have loved and lost, than never have loved at all,” a priest quoted to me in confession when I told him of how locked I was in despair after my very first pregnancy ended in loss. I wept in a humid chapel, with eyes too blurry to see the folds in the veil of the statue of Mary, cradling her chunky baby Jesus. 

Just a month before then, on April 22, 2012, I was volunteering at a fashion show fundraiser. I knew I had been pregnant for about 10 days, and felt this incredible warmth in my heart for the pregnancy of my first child—the child Stephen and I had dreamed of since we met; the child we never did meet. It had been 3 years of marriage without any pregnancies, and we were concerned, but this little life filled us with hope. I kept the two positive pregnancy tests at home in the drawer of my bedside table, just in case I woke up from a dream and thought I was still dreaming. 

The afternoon of April 22, after running around in heels all day, I went to the restroom and saw some spotting. I immediately reassured myself that spotting is considered normal early in pregnancy, and brushed it off. When I got home, the spotting increased and I panicked. We rushed to nearby Walter Reid medical center, where our military insurance covered our care, and waited in triage. I was clutching those bedside drawer pregnancy tests for dear life. The nurses came in and were gruff, and made comments about how dehydrated I was. They attributed my miscarriage to my lack of hydration after having trouble finding the veins in my arm for a blood test. For a terrified 24 year old, that was pretty heavy feedback. 

We left the hospital and went home to sleep, only to return in the morning for more tests. We walked by soldiers missing limbs doing rehab, veterans in wheelchairs, and dozens of men and women in uniform. I suddenly felt deafening shame for feeling sorry about losing my baby when war heroes were struggling to walk. It was a surreal experience that was difficult to shake. 

After what seemed like waiting for hours, the young doctor took my blood work and did a sonogram. He informed us that it was “completely normal” to miscarry, and that 50% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. He sent me home with pain killers the size of cherry tomatoes and told me to rest. Every step I took through the massive hospital campus made me physically feel the gravity of losing our child. The hot tears were too difficult to restrain, so I hid them behind oversized sunglasses.

Once I got home, the pain began. It was excruciating. I had dealt with difficult periods and cramps my whole adult life up to that point, and this pain was different. It was sharp, and came in and out in waves. What happened in the following days is a complete blur now. I could barely get out of bed, and most of all, I could not shake the shame I felt. I recounted every sip of wine, slice of deli meat, and cup of caffeine I had after conceiving the baby, and became filled with disgust. The shame was so deafening that I couldn’t speak about it. I couldn’t share it with anyone but Stephen for about a month, until my mom knew something was up and said she was coming to visit. Praise God for her maternal instincts. I needed a hug from my mama.

It took me many months to be able to share it with my own sister, and then with a few close friends. It took a few years before I could speak about it without busting into tears. I felt like an undeserving wife, and betrayed by my body which I accused of being too weak.

The only thing that carried me through the grieving was choosing a name for the baby with my husband, and knowing that we had a little saint in Heaven, praying for us.

We named the baby Pasquale Santiago Caruso. Pasquale, because he died during the Easter season, and we felt he was a boy. Santiago, because we know he came into the world after a trip to Santiago, Chile; a beautiful city nestled between the ocean and the Andes Mountains, named after the apostle St. James. I kept a keepsake box for a while with the pregnancy tests, a dried rose, and pictures from our trip to Chile. It helped me to keep his memory alive, and reminded me that I was, in fact, a mother. 

“Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.” —Alfred Lord Tennyson

That phrase from the priest in the confessional was grating at first, but after time went by, I clung to it. It truly was better to have loved that little boy, even if only for a short time, than to have never loved him at all. He made me a mother, and cracked open my stony know-it-all heart so it could be put back together purely by Our Lord’s mercy.

My throat is tight as a I write this, because of how deeply grateful I am for this child. I see the plan God had in giving him to me, because losing him made me a better mother. The loss of Pasquale gave me a tenderness toward children and mothers that I never had before. His life gave me an understanding for women who cannot conceive or struggle to conceive, and a deep compassion for their cross. John Paul II wrote in his Letter to Women about our feminine genius, and that the way in which women nurture other souls is an expression of our womanhood and integral to the role God created us for. Without knowing anything about Pope John Paul’s teachings, I saw my heart expand to have concern for others after losing this child. The once pitiless and poker-faced city slicker now looked upon the homeless and even crying babies in church with tenderness for the first time. I dreamt of having a family, and prayed I would be so blessed, but finally understood that children are a gift not to take for granted. That fertility is a gift not to take for granted.

Pasquale’s loss obliterated my pride and self-reliance so I could love my future children more selflessly. Now that I am a mother of 3, I know how vital it is to raise a family with sacrificial love, something I didn’t have the capacity for before he was here, and truthfully am still working on.

Today I pay tribute to the littlest Caruso who wasn’t meant to fight with his siblings or scrape his knee, but was meant to sit at the feet of Our Lord, praising Him for all eternity. I pray to be reunited with him one day. For now, I thank God for him, and pray in thanksgiving for the way he changed my entire life.

One day I’ll tell the story of how we found out he is a boy! How generous and loving our Father in Heaven is when we surrender our wounds to him. God blessed us with a rainbow baby girl 2 years later, a miracle boy 3 years later, and another lovable boy another 2 years after that. We now have 3 living children, all miracles, who chanted, “Happy feast day Pasquale!” this morning. Let us not lose hope that God desires to bless us in this imperfect world.