This is an incredibly hard post to write. I've started it a million times in the past and never made it to hitting publish. I may not make it that far tonight, but I finally feel strong enough to share. And I know hearing the stories of other women have helped me in this still ongoing, never ending process.
This week I learned about a woman I've never met. I'd never even hear of her before last Monday when one of my good friends shared one of her blog posts on Facebook. In that post, this mother of a special needs child was sharing her joy over finally finding someone to date who wasn't afraid of her daughter's needs. I couldn't even imagine the kind of joy that would bring to a single mom. That Wednesday, I woke to a very different kind of post from my friend. I learned that this same woman who was so joyful at finally meeting that person, though maybe not the person, who could support her had lost her child. Even typing this now, tears come to my eyes. The line between joy and complete and utter sorrow is so thin in life. Last night I participated in an online candle light vigil for sweet little Eva, only 10 months old and no longer here. It was a healing process for me to participate. I've been taking bigger and bigger steps towards healing for the past year and it's only taken 10 years to get to this point. Every time I hear from a friend or stranger that a child or pregnancy has been lost my heart breaks. I know what that hole feels like. In 2005, I lost an early pregnancy. It is a pain that sits with me everyday. I've wanted to share my story for a long time and never really known why anyone would care. Hearing Tessa and Eva's story showed me why people would care. Other moms have been through the same thing. To be a mom (or an almost mom in my case) and then to suddenly not be. There are not any words big enough to describe that pain, that grief, that utter, all-encompassing, heart wrenching sorrow. The hole that never gets filled. But, hearing the stories of others who have been there has helped me. Not because it makes it feel better but because it helps it not feel so lonely. So I thank Tessa for sharing her story, which you can find here
#theoneinamillionbaby , and now I'll share mine for those who feel like their loss isn't big enough to grieve.
My husband and I got married in August 2004. We were not planning on having children for at least 2 years - if not more. I was on birth control. We had just adopted our second dog, Miller and he was a handful. Then, one Saturday in May, the day before Mother's Day I got the surprise that no woman who takes her birth control like clockwork expects - one small word printed on a stick "Pregnant." That was not the news we expected, but I had never missed my period before so it must be true. It also happened to be our 9 month anniversary and my due date would have been January 9, 2006. We immediately called our families, I think more to make the experience real than anything, and got to the work of being really excited about this crazy, unexpected, unplanned gift.
I knew almost from that instant that I would have a boy. I've had that feeling with each of my pregnancies and been right for my other two children. We decided that if it were a boy his name would be Parker (my mother-in-law's maiden name) Judson (the name of my honorary grandfather who had recently died just 4 weeks prior). I began dreaming of this little boy. I started borrowing maternity clothes from friends. My own pants started getting too tight so I bought new pants. Then one morning, about 4 weeks later, I started bleeding. I knew almost instantly what was happening but refused to believe it. We hadn't even been to our first appointment yet. I went to the doctor, where they drew blood to check my hormone levels and was told they would have the results that afternoon. I sat on my couch for the rest of the day and waited.
Just after lunch I got a call from a nurse who simply stated, "The results are negative." I couldn't process what she was saying. I asked her to explain and she stated, "You're not pregnant. It was probably just a chemical pregnancy." At least I think that was the next sentence because by that point I was sitting on my kitchen floor sobbing. I had never heard that phrase before - chemical pregnancy. And because she prefaced it with "just" I almost immediately started thinking that I shouldn't feel this empty. So, I called my husband and asked him to come home. He knew I had been to the doctor and that I thought I had lost the pregnancy. I couldn't even speak when I called him and could only get out the words, "please come home." I honestly don't remember the next days or even weeks. I know at some point my husband and I decided that I would not start taking birth control again. I know I lost a job that I was supposed to start the day after I learned that our baby was gone. I know I almost got kicked out of a class I was taking that summer for my graduate program because I missed a whole week of classes when I found out that we would not be welcoming our child in the new year. I know I talked with my family and the few friends we had told, but I don't even remember what they said. The world is a very unforgiving place for women who have lost something most people didn't even know they had.
I was a zombie for months. A zombie obsessed with getting pregnant again. But that didn't happen. In fact, in December, my husband and I decided to give up. We would take a break from trying and reassess some time in the future. I cried like I had lost that baby all over again. I cried when I packed away the maternity clothes I hadn't gotten to use. I cried when I bought my first pack of birth control pills. I cried when I took the first pill from that pack. Then, I couldn't take the one the next night. I just couldn't do it. We decided to give it one more month and just see what happens.
On January 9, I came home from a class. My period should have started that morning but it hadn't. I had just one test left over from the obsessive months before and decided, "I'll just use it and get it out of the house." And a tiny pink line appeared, just barely visible.
The tiny pink line. I immediately drove to the store for a test that would use words instead of lines and that one small word appeared "Pregnant." All the grief and heart ache of the past 9 months came flowing out of me. I was so happy and yet so scared, and I realized I might have been feeling just those feelings on that exact day if our first baby hadn't died. My first baby needed his time. To this day I still think of that baby as Parker. When we found out our second child would be a boy, we both immediately returned to that name. But it just never felt right. I realized that the reason for that, for me at least, was because I had already given that name to a child. Parker Judson will always be the name of that first baby who hadn't even made it far enough for us to hear his heartbeat. And every time I hear of another mom who lost a child too soon, I will think of him, and I will mourn with her all over again. No grief is too small. There is no such thing as "just" a chemical pregnancy. From the moment we see that line or read those words we are "Mommy" and it doesn't matter when that child dies, we will always be Mommy. We are part of a sisterhood of pain and joy and sorrow and grief that can never be taken away. Thank you for being willing to sit with me for a few minutes in that pain. No words needed.
