Grief is lonely, no matter how wonderful your support system is. You can surround yourself with people and still be lonely because you are so intensely aware of who was supposed to be with you. In stillbirth and miscarriage there is a special loneliness because your heart, womb, and arms feel so empty. The pain is isolating because how can you make people understand that you are mourning not only your child, but the lifetime of love and memories you were supposed to have? I hope sharing our loss helps someone feel a little less lonely, or maybe helps those around them understand what they are going through.
Our blog is not only for people who have experienced loss. If you have a loved one who lost a baby, or simply want a more intimate understanding of loss, we want to provide that education to people. Instead of navigating a world where we feel “other than”, I hope we can live in a world that includes and understands us.
Leaps of Faith - Pregnancy After Loss
I was still struggling with how to separate my pregnancies and accept that this could be a different outcome. I was at a loss on how to stop dissociating and truly connect to the child living inside me. I read articles and read books, and even found a great pregnancy app for those that suffered loss. It all seemed to come back to the idea of “Leaps of Faith.” It’s obvious that Pregnancy After Loss (PAL) moms are not going to be the first to have their nursery decorated, or have an entire wardrobe bought the moment they know the gender. We are too cautious, you may even call us pessimistic but we feel we are just a realist. We understand the reality more than most. I spent the end of my third trimester slowly making my leaps of faith. Even if I couldn’t fully make myself believe we were bringing home a baby, I could start taking actions to show the universe this pregnancy would be different.
One Year
Your baby brother, Nolan, was born at 36 weeks. I lost you at 39 weeks, and when I held him in my arms at what would have been his 39th week, my grief grew. What I lost was no longer this abstract idea of a baby. It had been so long since I held a baby in my arms that I don’t think I fully grasped what I was missing. Nolan had emotions, wants and needs. He could yawn and sneeze and hiccup and make facial expressions. He found ways to communicate with his cries and constantly sought the warmth and love of his mommy holding him. I didn’t just lose a pregnancy, I lost a child. A real living child who never got to take a breath. My child who felt emotions, had dreams, and did life’s monotonous things like yawning had died without me looking into his eyes.
Making Room for Celebration and Grief
This year, holidays were even more complicated to navigate. Losing Calvin left a hole in our hearts that can never be filled. Even with a baby on the way, all the “what should have been”s kept hitting us square in the face. At Halloween we were confronted with all the baby costumes we should have been looking through as we shopped for Char’s costume. Thanksgiving brought forth all the adorable “First Thanksgiving” outfits. Christmas was the toughest of all. My due date for the twins was in December and they would have been a year old. All the things I had saved in our Amazon Wishlist for Calvin went unbought. There was no stocking on the fireplace for him or presents under the tree like there should have been. Everything we should have been experiencing with him for the first time was just ripped away. My heart ached anytime I went shopping because I kept passing the things I would have gotten him. A walker, toys, clothes, maybe an outfit to match Char. I couldn’t help but wonder if he would be crawling or trying to walk along furniture. I wondered what his first words would have been or if he would be saying “Momma.” It made it difficult to fully jump into the celebrations when so much was weighing me down.
Struggling with Those Two Little Lines
I tried to look for neat ways to tell everyone but everything that discussed a rainbow baby made me angry. Again, after my miscarriage, I loved the term rainbow baby. It made sense, after loss and difficult times you get a rainbow. After losing Calvin, my original rainbow, I struggled with it. I think there is a strange protectiveness and need to validate my son’s existence. Whenever I thought about the term, I wanted to retort “My son was not a storm! He is a baby and my child, no matter where he is.” Then suddenly, I changed my way of thinking. Why is a storm a bad thing? Yes, they can cause chaos and destruction, but that shows how powerful they are. The pain and destruction lead to an opportunity to rebuild. When you rebuild, you can provide a stronger foundation. Storms bring communities together and can impact the entire world. My son was not a storm, but stillbirth is. It destroyed everything we thought was true in the world. It tore away our naivety and our false sense of security. Left shaken to our core, we cried enough tears to flood the earth. With our future and our plans broken down, we were able to take stock of our lives. Our marriage and relationships became stronger as well as our purpose for living. We were shown how many people are there for us and even forged new relationships. We became a member of the stillbirth community, which introduced me to so many stories of strong powerful people and their beautiful babies. Our son’s story impacted so many around us and was heard by people around the world.