When You Lose a Baby

I stumbled across this blog the other day, the original post can be found here.

 

When You Lose a Baby

February 5, 2012 By Franchesca

 

You don’t know what to expect.

People surround you. For a couple of weeks. Making sure you are not going to kill yourself, refuse to get out of bed, or start rocking a baby doll like the crazy lady they heard about from a friend.

You get lots of sympathy cards, clearly written and designed to be sent to console a daughter losing her father. Not the other way around.

You get free baby formula in the mail. For months and months and months.

And free baby magazines. And free baby coupons.

You secretly envy every pregnant woman. But not without a tinge of guilt, because you know all too well that she might be one in four- expecting her rainbow child.

It seems like the whole world is expecting a baby.

You have baby stuff around your home. Because you never imagined you wouldn’t need it.

You feel jarred. In the grocery store. At a birthday party. At the dinner table. At Christmas. Driving.

The baby you never knew, but lost changes every part of your life. Every. single. part.

Forever.

You see baby clothes and it brings tears to your eyes.

You get sick and tired of crying. You never knew it was possible to cry this much.

You find yourself angry at God. Angry at yourself. Just angry.

You swear you can feel them kick but they’re gone. They call them phantom kicks. I call them painful, all kinds of painful. But sweet too.

You know, or you have a strong feeling of knowing what your child would have looked like, and been like. You see a child in the store, or on the street. Their hair color, dimples, smile, their personality and suddenly you are reminded of your child. You miss your child even more, if that’s even possible.

Your Babies R’ Us Registry is still active. There is no delete button on their site. The babies r’ us people don’t make a dime on people like us. Why bother right? You have to call them, plead with them to remove your freaking’ registry, because there will be no baby shower. There is an awkward silence. There is sadness. There will be no baby.

You get hospital bills about 3-4 months after you buried your child. You have to pay for the baby you delivered but didn’t bring home.

You find that moment of happiness in life for the first time, but the guilt swallows it up almost immediately.

You remember the size of the casket. The size of the plot. The face of the funeral director. The expression of those that attended the funeral. The feeling of raw pain, like your chest has literally been ripped open.

Somehow you convince yourself that you deserve happiness. Because you really do. But in the happiest, purest moment, there is still that hole that only they were meant to fill.

People compare your pain to their own pain. The loss of their grandmother, husband, their failed marriage, rebellious teenagers. Somehow this comparing leaves you stranded. If they can compare their pain of a situation to the loss of your BABY, they will likely never get it. Babies are not supposed to die. End of story.

You lost a dream. And it almost feels like you imagined their entire existence up. Their name becomes a distant memory on the lips of others.

There is awkwardness when you talk about your child in a crowd. No one knows whether to cry, walk away or pretend you never brought him or her up.

You lose friends. You find new ones.

You can’t believe that women have actually survived this and you never knew about it. Not really, anyway.

You would do anything for another minute with your child.

You cry when others bring up your child, not so much because it hurts but more so because it such a precious and rare gift.

You long for the rewind button, even after many many instances of acceptance.

You want to know what went wrong, and why…

You find a new appreciation for moments in life that make you laugh… you laugh harder and love stronger.

You know that you can die bitter, or die thankful. There is no in between.

You never ever, EVER get over your child. The one you hoped for, prayed for, carried and loved for the weeks and months they were with you.

You learn to live with the pain.

You are better for having known them at all.

Grief

I saw this somewhere recently. It seems lately all I can do is rehash what others have already written, but sadly, others have tread this path before me.

"Don’t tell me it’s for the best,

because the best would be my healthy son alive with me.

Don’t tell me I am strong,

because I have no choice.

Don’t tell me I can have another,

because I want this one.
And because you don’t know if I can.

Don’t tell me time heals all pain,

because time has no meaning.

And you’ve never felt this pain."

Time

    "Time in a very real sense does not exist. It is a human invention, a construct we have made to help us pass through a seemingly endless stream of living. If we can learn to think of time in this philosophical way, rather than in the utilitarian one that breaks time up into minutes, seconds, schedules, and appointments, we find that the difference between a long life and a short life is nonexistent. A butterfly may only fly with its beautiful wings for a few weeks. This fact makes it no less beautiful or less real. When the butterfly is gone, it has still lived. A baby, with us for such a short time, was still alive. He may have been born dead, but he lived. And that life had meaning and humanity.

    Life cannot be measured by years, but by impact. With impact as a yardstick, the life of a baby, even though stillborn is as long, as rich, and as meaningful as any life the world has ever witnessed."

                                                                             
                                                                                                                        - from Stillborn: The Invisible Death by John DeFrain

Nathaniel

I have been writing this in my mind for some time. I was searching for just the right way to tell it, but it seems there is no good way to tell an awful story; no way of sharing it that will make it not true. So. Rip the band-aid off.

On November 2, 2011 we lost our son.

I was 5 months pregnant. I had a healthy pregnancy and there were no known complications. I went into preterm labor that evening and went to the hospital, but the doctors were unable to stop it. I delivered our son at 9:42 p.m.; he died during the delivery.

We saw our baby and held him. We named him Nathaniel John. He weighed 1 lb. 2 oz. and was 12 inches long. He was absolutely beautiful and was perfectly formed. He had long fingers, blond hair, and looked just like his big sister Grace.

We have no answers as to why this happened. The doctors found no problems with the baby, the placenta or with me. Second trimester losses are quite rare.

We had Nathaniel's body cremated and we brought his ashes home.

This is by far the hardest thing we have ever been through. We have lost a future and with it many hopes and dreams. We are forever changed. There is no way to know this despair unless you have endured this loss yourself. I am told that the isolation that comes with it is natural- our baby was only yet real to ourselves. I can, however, assure you he was a real person. He was a part of our lives and our plans even before he was conceived. He was and is a part of our family. He will always be our son.

I realize that it's hard to know what to say at a time like this. If you are worried about saying the wrong thing, the links below might help. They are also a good resource to learn how best to support us right now. Know that you won't upset me by bringing up Nathaniel. You won't be "reminding" me- I can assure you I haven't "forgotten". I can't promise that you won't make me cry, but I can promise that if I do it's not because I'm upset with you.

http://www.griefspeaks.com/id44.html

http://community.babycenter.com/post/a947505/what_we_wish_everyone_knew_about_pregnancy_loss

http://www.momaroo.com/696230629/what-not-to-say-after-someone-experiences-a-stillbirth/

We appreciate all of your thoughts and prayers as we attempt to process our grief. We especially appreciate the cards we have received as they honor our son's memory.

We Wanted a Baby
By Judy M. Smith
We wanted a baby but had an angel. We wanted to nurture, but instead were comforted. We wanted to watch our baby grow, instead our child helped us grow and change. We wanted to teach about life, but were taught how to be more compassionate, understanding and thoughtful toward others. We wanted love; instead we were shown what unconditional love is all about. We wanted to hold our baby in our arms, instead we hold him in our hearts. We wanted to be a normal family; instead we have an angel that has touched our lives in such an incredible way. We wanted intense joy, instead we were taught to look at each beautiful moment in our lives as a treasured gift; the highs are higher – the lows are lower - each day and minute counts. We wanted a baby, but instead have an angel to always guide and love us. We wanted to be parents and we are.