I'm at my computer again two years after the last time I stared at this blank blogger page, tapping out letters that made words, words that made sentences, and sentences that didn't make paragraphs that made sense or conveyed how I felt. I typed and back-spaced over and over until I gave up and a blank page stands in draft status reminding me of the futileness I felt in trying to put my heart into words.
I've put off this attempt because the emotional toll it takes is exhausting and time consuming. Silence is easier in some ways but it leaves me feeling misunderstood and to be understood seems to be one of my greatest desires in life.
***If you are pregnant or "planning" to be, or are a loved one of someone who is, you may not want to read this. I wouldn't hurt you for the world, but I can't apologize to you for writing it, if you chose to read it.***
October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. The 15th of that month is considered a remembrance day, wherein candles are lit at 7pm across the world in what is called a "wave of light" in memory of the babies. Many banners mention "breaking the silence". Just like any other awareness project, those of us whom have experienced pregnancy and infant loss don't need any reminder. We are painfully aware. It is for those who haven't dealt with it in some way. We don't think our grief or pain is greater than anyone else's. Some of us have great support systems in which we can share. I am one of them. But outside that system, it is just not "comfortable" for people to talk about.
Therein lies the silence.
"I didn't just lose a baby. My child died."
I remember saying, "Jack is dead. My baby is dead." nine years ago when we found out that he didn't have a heartbeat. No one wants to hear it this way. I still say things like, "the baby we lost" instead of saying that he "died". We didn't lose him. I know exactly where he is. If you could stand with me though and see the reactions on the many faces of people when I mention him, and see them recoil when I speak of him in that way, you would understand the tendency to find a softer way to say it.
Therein lies the silence.
"If you ask me if I have kids, don't be surprised if I tell you about the losses."
I think I need a t-shirt printed with this on it. It isn't "normal" now-a-days, is it though--to hear about baby death? Thankfully, so many are saved because of monitoring, careful lifestyle choices, prenatal care, medical testing and advances. But sadly, statistically, out of 4,058,000 live births, there are 26,000 stillbirths, 64,000 ectopic pregnancies, and 600,000 miscarriages. 50% of the time there is no explanation. In 2014, there were 582 infant deaths for every 100,000 live births. My son was a stillbirth. He was born still, but he is my son. Please let me talk about him without making me feel like I breached propriety in mentioning him.
Therein lies the silence.
"For those who understand, no explanation is needed. For those who do not understand, no explanation is possible."
I know it is different for different people, but for me, I'm glad when someone mentions my son, Jack, and includes him when they speak of my children. It gives me a feeling of relief to know that you are mindful of him. I have a friend who had added children to their brood and was expecting another. I know that he didn't mean to hurt me and was just being friendly when he smiled, teased and said, "Y'all need to have another one so you can have 5 like us." My heart literally squeezed in my chest and there was a pain when he said it. I have 5 children. One just isn't here on earth. I pray neither that friend nor any other ever has to experience what we have gone through losing a child. I get that there is no way to explain it to someone who hasn't had it happen to them. I'm not angry, but it hurts just the same.
Therein lies the silence.
"You were unsure of which pain is worse--the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will."
We drive past a cemetery on our route home every day. Recently, when Dinah (my 6 year old daughter) and I drove past it, she asked, "Is that the place that my brother is buried?" (She has only been to his graveside a few times. I don't find it a place of comfort and don't go there often but when I do, I mostly go alone.) I shook my head.
"He is buried in another cemetery, Dinah."
"What is he wearing, Mama? Is he still wearing his baby clothes? Or is he big? Do we need to get him some new clothes that are bigger?"
I tried to explain a little but I ended up just changing the subject. How do I tell her? How do I explain to her the facts of burial and what happens to an earthly body after death? It is something that I have always avoided thinking about. He's my BABY.
I remember going to the graveside the day before he was buried so that we could see where he would lay. The crew was there digging the hole in the ground. When I saw it, my breath was taken away. I literally couldn't breathe for a moment. Do you remember when you fell out of a tree and had the "wind knocked out of you" as a child? It was like that. Just like so many things I had never thought about, because no one ever plans to have a child die, I hadn't thought about how small the grave would be. I stood for a moment while I waited for the world to stop spinning and I tried not to think about it. The next day, his tiny casket was covered in sprays of tulips. They were removed I saw the box that held him. A box so small that my petite mother could carry her grandson from the funeral car to the place where he would lay.
Dinah asks often of what he is doing and if he gets to talk to her Grannies. She wants to know how old he is and if he runs and plays or if he is a baby still. I don't know and I tell her that I don't know. All I know is that I believe that his soul is in Heaven with God. That is where my mind must rest.
I see other friends children who were born around the time that he was. I smile at their toothy grins and their fun-loving, care-free play. They are at the age where the opposite sex still has cooties and they don't care if their clothes match or are wrinkled. It flashes in my mind that he would be doing the same things those children. He would probably look just like Ty did at that age because he sure did when he was born. Then I stop that train of thought because I don't want to go there--to what might of been. "What might of been" hurts. I try to think of what was and what is--how I loved him, how I still do.
I don't talk about these things.
Therein lies the silence.
"For sale: baby shoes, never worn"
This phrase is credited (and subsequently discredited) to Ernest Hemingway. The story goes that the words came from a ten-dollar bet he made at a lunch with some other writers that he could write a novel in six words. After penning the famous line on a napkin, he passed it around the table and collected his winnings. Whoever wrote them, they are still powerful, aren't they? So much is said with so little.
There seems to be a baby boom around me. It has been such a joy to watch bellies grow, plans made, and little ones arrive. I like to crochet and try really hard to make a blanket for each of those precious infants. As I stitch, I stop counting long enough to pray for them and and their family. I pray that they are born healthy and strong. I pray that their adjustment to life will be as seamless as the Lord can allow. I ask that the Lord would guide their mamas and daddies and grandmas and grandpas in their raising. I mention their siblings and ask that they are accepting and loving to the new invader into their space.
Recently, I excitedly explained the progress of a laboring friend to another mother who has long stood beside me through my walk in grief. I stood beside the expectant mother. I saw the belts across her belly. I heard the swoosh-swoosh of the heart-beat. I watched the rate for steadiness. I pointed out the contractions on the monitor for her and her loved ones. They were impressed. They thought my knowledge came from nursing. My friend made it known that I had labored a "few times" before. They asked as anyone would, "How many children do you have?" I had that split second to decide whether or not to mention a dead child in a birthing room. I took a breath and determined again (as I have had to do on numerous other occasions) not to betray his memory out of fear of what someone might think or say. I relayed that I had delivered 5 children and that 4 were living.
After I had told her this, she asked me, "Aren't you afraid for her?" She explained that deliveries made her anxious for the birthing mother.
I thought for a moment and honestly replied, "No."
I continued to explain that I had thought about the fact that it could go wrong. It became something I was more aware of after I had experienced it. I told her that I prayed that I could help her if she needed me, but that I wasn't nervous or distressed for her.
If you are a mom, you know that the delivery room brings out all the birthing stories of the women present. Mostly, I tell about the "favorable outcomes" but my mind relives them all. I remember when they only put one belt on, instead of two. I remember a room so quiet, only whispers from the staff, muffled sobs and simple prayers of "Please, help me, God." No swoosh, swoosh. No laughter and excitement.
------------------------------------------------
Another friend, had a baby shower and she was telling of how she loved washing and folding the new clothes, putting together new items and decorating the baby's room. I know how she feels. It is a precious time of preparation. But as I smiled with her, my mind was thinking of the time I had all those new things around me and they brought me pain. How I couldn't see them without weeping but couldn't remove them and pack them away either.
I keep my stories to myself.
Therein lies the silence.
"I carried you every second of your life and I will love you every second of mine."
Tomorrow, I will attend another Pregnancy and Infant Loss ceremony, so lovingly and thoughtfully put together by a dear pediatrician and friend in our town. Thousands of ceremonies much like it will be held in other places around the world. In memory of my son, Jack, those cherished babies, their families and loved ones, I have broken my silence. It isn't for pity or for attention. It isn't to make anyone feel guilty or contrite. I share with the desire that others don't feel so alone in their feelings and experiences. It is also with the hope that with newfound awareness, you might be able to make easier the path of the sufferers of these overwhelming sorrows.
"We remember all the babies born sleeping. Those we've carried and never met. Those we've held but could not take home. The ones who came home but could not stay."
I praise God for those who have been my listening ears and strong shoulders, through out my journey of love, loss and mourning. You have wept with me and reminded me of Truth when I was overwhelmed with despair. I am forever grateful for you love and affection that has been literally life-saving.
Anna Becoming
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