Our society is obsessed with babies and pregnancy. “When are you due? How are you feeling? Are you finding out the gender? Do you have any names picked out?” It’s exciting and overwhelming. People want to know, they want to be involved and want to know every intimate detail of how the baby is growing and how you’re adjusting. So, what about when the baby dies?
No one wants to talk about baby-loss. They chalk it up to a failed pregnancy and offer a few small words that are supposed to heal the broken heart and then “try again” “you can always have more” “they’re in a better place”. I wanted that baby. It wasn’t just a pregnancy that ceased to be...it was a small person who’s heart stopped beating. It’s a two year old playing with toys in the living room. It’s the kindergartener smiling proudly at their graduation. It’s the little girl who wants to dress as a witch every year for Halloween. The young boy who would have grinned ear to ear when running the bases when he hit the ball down centerfield. The teen learning to drive- the college freshman dragging home putrid smelling laundry from the dorms. The young man who would find love. The young woman you would go on to have children and lead a fulfilling life of love and happiness. The lawyer, the doctor. The teacher, the farmer. Your loss wasn’t just a “lost pregnancy” but a person with hopes and dreams and aspirations. There’s a lifetime to mourn. That grief can’t be hastened to fit into another person’s idea of what’s acceptable. Some days are easier. Some days it hits like a ton of bricks. I am not quiet with my loss of my boys. I speak out, I use my millions of hashtags... why? Because I don’t want others to feel alone. Because loss is not a private matter. It’s not a loss that should be hushed and swept under the rug. Mourn the baby as much as you would celebrate the baby. I welcome conversation. I put hashtags on everything cause that’s how I hope to help the grieving mother to find me. A mother of loss leads a very isolated life. I want to invite them to me. I pray we can change the conversation. That people can stop letting their insecurities and feelings get in the way of another persons healing and grief. That they can leave their comfort at the door. No one wants to hear about dead babies, I get it- Lord knows I do. But, I want to speak of my children. I want to share their pictures just like I would my living children. They are a part of me. They’re not here but that does not mean my heart does not long for them and wish for them. They are not a private matter. They are my children. Don’t let others make you feel shame for wanting to share your grief, love, and photos. Let’s be the generation that helps change the narrative. Let’s be the change. Coming from a big family, I’ve been surrounded by babies for as long as I can remember. I cared for siblings and later babysat for families in my small town. My love for children and people grew as I continued my service to others as I became a caregiver. I had such patience and a calm about me. I always wanted children. (I played with dolls religiously, and house, too). I wanted my own brood. I was keenly aware of children around me and the interactions these children shared with their mothers. I wanted to be that mom that just went with the flow and was relaxed and confident. It’s how I imagined I would be some day. I believe I would’ve been that mom, too.
I was destined to be the mom that cared but didn’t hover. That smiled from a distance while my children embarked on new challenges and experiences. Who would yell across the playground when a step was missed climbing the equipment, “You’re brave. Brush it off”. I know... I just know that’s who I was supposed to be. That’s not who I am. With losing two babies I was robbed of who I was becoming. My mind took a sharp left and now I am struck daily with the fear that it’ll happen again. That once laissez faire approach I would’ve taken has now changed due to this hyper awareness of every possible negative “what if”. The consequence is no longer a scraped knee. It’s now much worse, because I’ve lived through much worse. I’m a catastrophist. A worse case scenario over-thinker. My confidence is gone and my ease is no where to be found. I spent my beginning weeks and months with my rainbow vigorously working myself up to lay her down and walk out of the room only to get downstairs and be doing laundry and think- “What if she’s stopped breathing? I should go check on her. But what if she’s fine? I am worrying about a non-problem. Maybe I should go to the bathroom before I check in case she’s dead? If she’s dead I’m not going to have time to use the bathroom for awhile. But, I shouldn’t waste time finishing the laundry or going to the bathroom because what if she’s already gone? Or what if I went right now and I saved her? I’m wasting time *panic intensifies*” (It’s bizarre. It’s odd to see it even written out. But, these are daily thoughts.) I race upstairs and hold my breath as I see her still in her bassinet. She takes a big dreamy sigh- and I feel as if I could collapse in relief right where I stand. I’ve had to train myself to not let these unprovoked thoughts dictate my actions and my parenting, but some days it’s a losing battle. I wasn’t meant to be this mother. Afraid to leave the room. Afraid to put her down or leave her from my sight. The mom who has to work herself up to hand her to family who wants to snuggle and love her. I’m not who I planned to be but I am the mother I am. I may always seem to helicopter over my baby. I will aways choose to hold her rather than lay her alone to sleep. I’ll try hard to let my children learn even if it means they have a few tumbles. I can’t promise I won’t be tense and holding my breath and calming myself in even the most simplest of moments. I’m going to have to work on my own fears and anxieties as they are my own and I will try and not project them outwards- I will try every day. I will always “play it safe” because there’s enough I can’t control that I will never add risk. I will be fierce with my love and will try so hard to smile and be brave for my children even when I’m crumbling inside. I’m not the mother I was meant to be- I am the mother loss has molded me to be. I pray the mother I am is the mother my children need. My path may have been changed due to my experiences but I will work hard to not let it rule the kind of mother I know I still want to be. "You are absolutely glowing pregnant". "You know if you breastfeed that weight will literally fall off". "There will be plenty of time once the baby's here to 'bounce back'". -Literally everyone on planet Earth But, then you come home from the hospital. Engorged breasts. Sore everything. Eyes perpetually red rimmed. Head pounding from the sobbing and the sudden start of the fall of pregnancy hormones. Your gait is slow. Your body is tired. You eventually take that first shower at home and you can't even enjoy the warm water on your skin cause you feel empty. Your ears feel strained from the absence of the sound of crying. You stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom and gaze at the body you feel so betrayed by. The body that harbored life. That grew and stretched with the promise of a new beginning. Instead, it gave you the beginning and ending all in a single day. Your skin in angry with marks that showed where kicks used to be. Your stomach is jiggly. Yes, jiggly like jello- and so sore. Your face is fuller, your arms are, too. Don't even look at your back end cause Lord knows those mesh panties aren't camouflaging anything. This whole time you were not bothered by this transformation as you reassured yourself it would all be worth it. Yet, here you are. Naked. A physical, emotional, and mental version of someone you don't even recognize. No baby in the other room, waiting on you. No baby to snuggle and smell. You have nothing. But, boobs that throb and a body that isn't your own. This is what it feels like. It's such a small glimpse into what it feels like to have that postpartum body with no baby. To sport that "mom-bod" when strangers don't know you're a mom. The depression makes you want to sleep. To escape. If you were like me and had no "sunshine" children (children born before loss) then you could sleep all day, with no interruptions except to wake and realize that - no, it wasn't all just a dream and that you are laying in soaked sheets full of breast-milk. If you were like so many other loss mothers that went home to their "sunshine" children you were back to the grind, except now you're trying to bandage the broken hearts of siblings and trying not to break down every 5 seconds. You're dealing with the tantrums cause the siblings don't know how else to express themselves. Which is worse? Neither. There is no competition in the loss world. It all.... sucks (yes, that's the most eloquent word in the English language that best describes it all). Days would roll together. I would wake to eat something - fast and easy. Sometimes, overeating- other times starving myself. But, I never did any of this on purpose. The cycle continued. Some weight was lost, not all of it, 9lbs remained. But, I didn't care enough to come out of my fog to change anything. I had no desire or energy to put to task any plan. My second pregnancy meant bed-rest for 92 days. Hospital bed-rest for 57 of those days. Strict bed-rest where I only got up to pee and wore compression boots on my feet. I atrophied any muscles I did have. My muscles shriveled and left me weak. And even after all my hopes and effort and months spent in trendelburg just staring at the ceiling...my time honored tradition of returning home without a baby continued. It played out similar to the first time. I sought a way to help make sense of it all. I never truly found the secret healer but this time I decided to pump and donate. For 3 months I pumped milk from my postpartum body in an attempt to help others. I pumped the equivalent of my boy's weight in grams in ounces of milk. It helped heal my heart, some. Yet, the weight remained. 9 more lb stayed on my once svelte frame. 18lbs total. I didn't want to leave the house cause I didn't feel like myself. Here I was with a postpartum body but no baby to show for my efforts. A body torn apart by the majesty of pregnancy and left shattered and lumpy and heavy. Having a postpartum body with no baby is indescribable. It's all the words; yet, none of them truly depict the truth. Having a postpartum body with a baby is hard, too. I am learning this with my rainbow. Time is mysteriously missing from my day. I'd rather giggle and coo with my 4month old then attend a class at the gym. Breastfeeding has me craving ALLLL the sweets. But, now I have purpose. I have a little girl that is only getting more active. I want to lead by example. I want to exude confidence and happiness in myself so that I can share all the good things with her. Come along with me as I write about my postpartum journey, after my rainbow. I will be writing about it and sharing everything. I want to be a better version of myself, and I hope it will inspire you to join .... P.S. I have a pretty awesome coach, so stick around. #operationmmombod |
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