I recently got together with some moms who are walking this
same shitty road with me. Most of
them had stillborn babies. That
was always one of my biggest fears during pregnancy. It’s horrifying and scary, especially when there is no
explanation. Now that I think of
it, stillbirth is sort of like the pregnant version of SIDS. Hmm… Even though we all share the same general loss, we are still
having different experiences. For
them, giving birth to a living, breathing, healthy baby only to have it die 37
days later is unimaginable. For
me, giving birth to an otherwise healthy baby boy with no heartbeat is
unimaginable. It’s not like we’re
comparing losses or having a contest to see whose loss is worse; we’re trying
to understand what the other side feels like. It was interesting to hear their perspectives. They just couldn’t imagine losing a
baby who was healthy, active, and thriving. I couldn’t imagine their loss and never getting to
experience the things that I did with Max—his smile, his laugh, his eyes full
of life, his body growing outside of mine, even the smell of his farts (they
were toxic). We’ll never
completely understand the other side. At least, I hope we don’t because the only way to completely
understand it is to experience it.
Even then it’s hard to understand, honestly. Despite that, we know what the pain is like for each
other. Our loss is the same—it’s
the loss of the life that we had planned for not only our dead children, but
for ourselves too. It’s the
complete and utter defeat and surrender to the unfairness and vulnerabilities
of the world. It’s the loss of
hope, innocence, promise, and the naïve idea that good things will happen to
you if you just live your life decently.
We understand each other’s anger, frustration, and annoyance with
everything pretty and innocent in the world. We understand when one mom reveals that she’s been avoiding
a certain co-worker who does nothing but complain about the living baby that she has at home. Doesn’t she realize that our babies are
dead? The truth is that other
people move on; they get over our losses.
Sometimes they might even forget about them. We’re the ones who don’t. And we can’t be expected to. Actually, there would be something seriously wrong with us
if we just “got over” our child dying.
I
got an email from an old friend the other day. He and his wife just had their second baby. This friend is one of the “best” people
I know; he is honest, kind, loyal, and good-natured. Simply put, he is a good person. His email was very sympathetic and articulate. He wrote about reading this website,
and the part that stood out to me is this: “your words encouraged me…and you reminded me to fight
through life’s craziness and my own exhaustion and soak up every minute with my
little ones. What a critical
reminder!” That is what I want people
to take away from my experience.
His message is the greatest gift that anyone could have given me. To know that my pain and loss and Max’s
short life may have caused someone to think twice about complaining when his
baby poops for the 32nd time in a day or vomits right down the front
of his freshly changed shirt is astounding. To know that there are parents out there who have really
tried to understand my loss and have made a conscious effort to apply what
they’ve learned to their own lives is rewarding in a way. Life isn’t guaranteed. We all intuitively know that, but we
don’t do anything about it most of the time. It’s more instinctual to react with annoyance or complaints
when our babies don’t sleep as long as we want them to. It takes conscious effort sometimes to
realize that when your baby wakes up early from a nap, you’re really being
given the gift of more time with him.
It’s hard to fight past the exhaustion and find enjoyment in moments of
inconsolable crying, crankiness, and leaky diapers. I promise that it’s there though. Take it from someone who doesn’t have those moments
anymore—they are precious and every bit as rewarding as the quiet ones.
I
appreciate people trying to understand the way I feel. It is hard, I know. It’s also hard to explain. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to try
though. : ) Here goes. When you have a baby, it’s like an extra chamber is added to
your heart. That chamber is
reserved only for your baby. It
contains all of the feelings that you have for your new child—love, pride,
protectiveness, a need to nurture, anxiety, hope, etc. Your heart tells you how to express
those emotions outwardly with your child; it helps you turn those emotions into
actions. Each time you have a new
baby, your heart grows another chamber and it’s filled with the same
feelings. I swear that you can physically feel this happen the second
your new baby is placed in your arms or you hear its first cry. When Max died, the chamber of my heart
reserved for him didn’t die with him.
It’s still there, and it’s still filled with all of my feelings for
him. I just don’t have him to shower with those feelings. That extra chamber will always be
there, and it will always be full.
When I have another baby, I’ll grow another chamber. It will be right beside Max’s. So, if you care to imagine, I am
walking around in the world with this heart that is made very heavy by the
extra chambers it carries. And
it’s especially heavy now because I can’t just cut that full chamber out and
forget that it was ever there. I
wouldn’t do that even if I could.
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