Where Do I Fit?
I find myself in an in-between place on so many things. I don’t fit into any category anymore, even those I did before.
I think about all the times in live when people you don’t really know make conversation… at the hair-dresser, waiting in line, chatting at a party. All those times people ask, “Do you have children?” I think about this and wonder what the hell will I answer now? Either answer I give is unpleasant. I could say simply, “No.” It’s sort of true: we don’t have any living children, it is just me and my husband. I know that is more or less the answer they would expect. But it’s not really true, we did have a child. I carried a child for 8 months; I gave birth to a child. But if I do answer, “Yes,” people will assume I mean a live child and ask how old he is or some other comment appropriate for a mother of a live child. Somehow I don’t think, “Yes, we had a child – he died,” is what people would expect in a lighthearted conversation.
I’m sure in time I will figure out a way to answer that is both appropriate and honest. Someday I’ll be able to say, “Our firstborn died,” without crying. But this is the very question that keeps me away from public places right now. I am fine being around people who know – people who I can talk to honestly, people who don’t mind me crying as I talk about my son. But I am not ready for the hairdresser. I am not ready for the cashier. I am not ready to talk about him without pouring my heart out. And I can only imagine how uncomfortable and caught-off-guard a stranger would feel to stumble across that kind of emotional rats nest unintentionally.
There are other things that I find myself falling between the categories with. Infertility, for one. Am I infertile? Well, technically as far as we know, yes. Having a child doesn’t really change that, I’ll be forever infertile. But what the hell are we dealing with now? Primary infertility or secondary? Do I belong on TTC#1 forums? That seems not quite right. We got pregnant, we had a son. I am a mother. I got to experience all of pregnancy, and I recognize that pretty much all of the women on those forums have not had that chance. But by the same token, I certainly don’t feel right on TTC#2 or more forums where everyone is talking about their child(ren). I am in between. I slip between the cracks.
I am finding a lot of comfort talking to others who have also lost their babies, those who are struggling or have struggled with the same things I find myself dealing with. That doesn’t mean I don’t value everyone else’s support, not at all…. everything counts. But there is some measure of comfort simply in finding a place that you belong, even if it’s a place that you never ever wanted to be. Whether or not I want to be, I am the mother of a stillborn child. It’s who I am now. And somehow it helps me heal to acknowledge that and embrace it.
Even thinking about our next child. The next one will always be just that: our second child.
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I am encouraged when I read the blogs of those who either had a child before their loss, or had a child after the loss… it’s helpful to see how children deal with it. I admit, at first I was really upset with the fact that our future children would have to grow up with the terrible knowledge that their older sibling died. It seems so unfair to them, to be born into such a sad circumstance. I guess that comes partially from me having grown up with such a perfect, happy family. Of course I want that for my children.
But you know… when I became an adult I started hearing more stories of the extended family, things I never knew. Several relatives had children they gave up for adoption at birth. I’m just learning now that some of our relatives and long-time family friends – both Den’s and mine – lost children to miscarriage or stillbirth. We are a little surprized, a little shocked. How come we never knew this part of our family history? Why does no one talk about it? That used to be the way of things: bad things were swept under the rug. No one told the siblings about the child that was given up – no one was even told about the pregnancy. I think about those relatives going through that period of their life and feel so very sad. Not only did they had this huge horrible life event to deal with, but they had to do it alone. They weren’t allowed to talk about it. They weren’t allowed to acknowledge it. They suffered in silence.
I am so thankful that is not how it is for us. That is not how it will be with Devin. He is not ever going to be forgotten, not by us, not by anyone. Den’s mom has a grandmother’s ring that she adds to whenever she gets new grandchildren. She told us that she is still going to add a stone for Devin. I can’t even tell you how much that means to me, to both of us. I just wanted to cry with relief when Den told me.
I’m sure some people will think that it’s easier to gloss over it, pretend it never happened… to get on with life. But that’s not how it is. I hope to gently let people know that it’s okay to talk about him – it’s good to acknowledge his life and death. Through us people will know him – people do know him. This journal lets me share with the world all the joy he brought to us. Now it lets us share our grief and sorrow. We do not walk alone.
One of the things that really affected me after Devin’s death was finding out how often stillbirth happens. Statistics say there are anywhere between 26,000 and 30,000 stillbirths that happen every year in the United States alone. One site states that 1 out of every 115 deliveries is a stillbirth. How did we not know that? How, with all my reading and educating myself, did I not know that this was even possible? No one talks about it. Just like infertility. Society is still learning how to have open discussion about it… still learning how to approach the subject.
I have always been very open about our struggle with infertility (sometimes more than Den would prefer!). I’ve never hid from it, I’ve never glossed over our struggles. I think it helped not only me, but it helped people to understand us, and hopefully to understand others that they encounter who are going through a similar experience. I hope I’ll be able to do the same with the loss of our Devin. It’s not comfortable. It’s not happy. But this is our life, this is how it is.
I never heard the any of the true horror stories until after I went through what I did with Evie. You are right – it is swept under the rug. Even the ones that have a positive outcome. To me sometimes there seem to be more ‘not normal’ stories than the normal ones. And even if you have a wonderful, amazing birth – your little ones can have serious problems after birth. Just shows you how fragile and beautiful life really is. Thank you again for sharing your story. You all will always be in my heart.
I’m sorry you’re in this club, too. It’s ratty awful; there’s a pathetic yet tidy term for “widow” and “orphan” but nothing horribly polite for deadbabymama. Just so you know, 13 months later and I still don’t have a pat answer for the “how many” question — it really depends on the day, my mood, who I’m talking to.
We’re not supposed to know all those stats; those things happen to *other* people. (sigh) It’s nice to know there are so many *others* here in the computer. This has totally kept me sane, too.
Nat,
Once again I just have to say that I admire how you are holding up through all of this and sorting out your thoughts.
You are right when you say people want to gloss over it and they aren’t prepared for the answer to their question if you have kids to be “yes, but s/he is deceased.”
When my friend lost her little girl, we were out with some friends we had not seen in a long time and my friend did not know if they knew about the baby dying shortly after birth. She mentioned to one of them that her daughter had passed away and immediately the atmosphere changed and for a minute they didn’t know what to say. Finally all that was said was “Yeah I know but I didn’t really want to bring it up.” And that was the end of the conversation.
It was kind of heartbreaking to witness that for her. It wasn’t fair for her to be treated with that kind of awkwardness.
Luckily she has me, and other people who 8 years later still talk about Baleigh as she was when she wants to. A baby girl. A much loved and wanted child. We’ve looked at the newest baby and talked about how much she resembles Baleigh. She talks about still how life might have been like with Baleigh. She still has pictures out. She still treasures her pregnancy with her.
I hope that you’ll find your niche again, instead of feeling like you fall between the cracks.
You are so right. No one tells you about the bad things that can happen or have happened to them. They just let you know the joyous news that is associated with pregnancy.
Even though I knew that there was a possibility that our son would die in the second trimester – the same thing happened to two family friends of mine – not once did I think it would happen to me. And when I was pregnant, women around me never told me their stories. Only after I miscarried did I find out about friends who had lost their children in the second and even third trimester. My question was just like yours: why didn’t I know this about them? Perhaps they were trying to protect me, as others were trying to protect you. That is the only answer I can come up with. After all, the last thing they want is for you to be filled with worry.
I hope that you find a place one day where you feel comfortable. You’re still in my prayers.
I have been reading your blog everyday since running upon it. I know how you feel and I have a friend that is in the same misery (can’t even call it a boat because most boats are fun)as we are. I carried my baby to 9 months but in actuallity he passed at 5 months. With insurance back then and doctors being stupid they let me go. I finally gave up and pretended I was in labor so that someone would do something for me because I couldn’t deal with it any more.
My friend delivered her son at 25 weeks, he was doing fine earlier that day at the appointment and the did an amnio and later that evening he wasn’t moving and when they went to the hospital they told her he had passed.
I know how you feel about not knowing where I stand, what do I say without having to tell the story that makes me look like a total idiot because I didn’t make the doctor do something. Technology makes people think this because they forget what things were like in 92.
I have been pregnant one time since with help from a fertility doctor only to lose that baby early on.
You are in my prayers and I hope you too find that place of piece.
lots of love to you, devin, den and your whole family. thinking of you.
Two and a half years later I still have trouble answering the “Do you have children?” question. How I respond is completely dependent on who I am talking to and how much I feel like revealing that day. The days when I do decide to answer “No.” my heart sinks, and my brain says yes.
Another “in between category” horrible experience…we decided to have a funeral for our baby, and I when I was so numb that day, the priest was trying to ask us if the baby had been born alive or not, because it changed the reading he would give. He asked us “Did the child have life?” And I stammered no, but I was so angry that I gave into that. Yes, he did have life. 34 weeks and 6 days of it. He was funny, he would hide and play kicking games with his daddy. He loved bouncing around to big band swing music. Yes he had life. What an insensitive question to ask a grieving mother.
You are right. Life will forever be changed for you, but I promise you this. It does get easier. That doesn’t mean that you forget, or that the hurt will ever go away. I’ve thought about my son Liam so much in the days since I’ve found your blog – your words just echo almost every thought that went through my head during that terrible time – and it brings the heartache back. I don’t mind though, because I do like to talk about it. Talking about stillbirth validates for me that I had a son, a beautiful son and I am a mother, if not in the conventional sense. I hope that hearing these things from others reminds you that you are not alone, in this awful time.
this is such an excellent post natalie. thanks for sharing your thoughts on this. falling through the cracks and feeling like you have no “home” for support is an oddly disorienting feeling. my sense is you’ll find a way to answer those questions some day.
after my baby died at 5 mos I found myself unable to make eye contact with strangers for the same reasons you mention. I felt as if someone could look right through me, deep into my torment, and I just couldn’t open that up in public…
we also heard lots of stories from family, friends and colleagues about losses we never knew of before, as if our loss opened up something in them. it was amazing how many stories there were.
thinking of you and your family. ~luna
You are where you are. And in all things, where you are will not define you. You – and Den – have this horrible loss. But, there is so much more to who you both are as people. Where you are will continually change. The important thing is to not forget or sweep under the rug those steps along the way and each little part that makes up the whole of you.
You can answer how ever you wish to people, what you are up for. A great response to prying people or those trying to make small talk? “Yes, I have a child. But, I don’t want to discuss that right now.”
“But there is some measure of comfort simply in finding a place that you belong, even if it’s a place that you never ever wanted to be.”
I think this statement is profoundly true. After all, that is how we met over a year ago!
My MIL’s firstborn was stillborn at term. She had five more children following – each of them were fully aware they had an older brother and he is often mentioned. I found this a little surprising initially – since she is of the generation where anything to do with pregnancy loss was all too often swept under the rug and women were told to “forget.” FIL on his own went out and found a professional photographer to take pictures.
My children (as much as they are able to understand – which changes as they continue to grow older) know about my miscarriages and that sometimes life doesn’t work out the way you think it will/should. A bit of a sad education really – though, I think one that will be useful. If my kids grow up to face similar problems of their own, or meet people who do – I hope they will be more sympathetic and understanding. Plus – I want them to know that there is nothing they can’t talk about with me.
I understand too well about your feeling like you don’t know where you fit. You brought me to tears with that. With a loss, you become a mom but not a mother – the experience is different for you than others because you worked harder to get there and found more pain along the way. When you do have those living children – you find yourself still in that “other” category. You just don’t ever look at mothering/pregnancy/life, really almost anything, the same way ever again.
If you didn’t care so much – it wouldn’t hurt so much. Sending you continued wishes of peace, comfort, strength and hope.
I don’t know if this will help any, and I’m sorry if it doesn’t, but. My cousin died over 12 years ago, aged 2.5. He was their only child. They now have two more children, and I know that we have always been honest and open about their brother, and have always made them know that we cherish them so much more BECAUSE their brother died, that while we don’t forget A we are grateful to have B and E to focus on, that we are so happy that they are alive and well and that they add so much to our family.
Natalie, I am sorry to be coming to this so late– I basically didn’t read blogs for almost a week.
I wanted to say, though, that what I always answer is “we have one living child” or some version that fits the question (like “she is our only living child” for when they ask if she is an only). I suck in air before I say it because I am preparing for a shitty response, and I did get a number of those. But I figure if people are going to ask a random stranger a personal question they should learn to deal with all sorts of answers. Plus, I feel like it would make me feel worse to deny my son’s existence. So that’s what I do. I don’t volunteer the information, but I never conceal it either.
About why you didn’t know. I don’t have a real good answer about family. But I do know that I don’t volunteer my story to pregnant acquaintances or random strangers. I think it should be discussed much more widely, but I also think it should be medical professionals’ job, not bereaved parents. Because we are much more likely to be perceived as spoil sports for you know, raining on people’s pregnancy parade than anything else. I had a troll recently tell me that there is no way I could get away with saying things I say on the blog to pregnant women or to most people in general. No shit, but not because we have anything to be ashamed of. No– because most people in general are not expecting to hear an honest answer of a bereaved parent. Which brings me back full circle to my answer to the kids question. I answer the way I answer also partially because I figure I am not first or last they will ask. And maybe after hearing my answer they will think before mindlessly asking someone else. Or maybe they will be able to react to an honest answer with a little bit of humanity. Maybe.