One of the hard things about losing a baby that no one else felt, or saw, or touched is that everyone wants you to get over it quickly. They don’t have the same emotional investment. Pregnancy, with its sleepiness and dream-like quality, encourages the visions of the baby to come, the moments ahead. It’s how you get through the hard stuff—throwing up, bone-tiredness, caution and fear. So we’re wired to already see and experience this baby well beyond the sensations in our belly.
In her book Virgin Blue (which has lots of miscarriage and pregnancy trauma within it), author Tracy Chavalier’s characters, both midwives, talk about how the pregnant mother is always ”listening” inside her. She’s distracted, taken out of the outside world, and focused on what is happening within.
It really doesn’t matter when the conversation stops, the day after the positive pregnancy test or during the birth, when some tragedy takes the baby during its final journey to the outside. It’s still a cutting off, a silencing of a relationship that had become the focus of your life.
Fourteen years ago today, I didn’t realize my connection had been cut. I suspected—but then every pregnant mother seems to always have some fear—but until the Doppler was silent, until the doctor was rushed in and the sonogram machine powered up, until he moved and moved and moved the paddle, trying to find an elusive heartbeat for a 20-week baby who should have filled the screen with movement and sound, but didn’t. Until I had proof; I hadn’t known.
April 28 taught me how to listen, how to hear, how to know when the conversation ceased. My next two losses were no surprise. I had learned the difference between the hum that reverberates between a mother and an unborn child and the silence that means the child is gone.
And this year, at 42, I am getting married again and, next month, taking that journey one more time. I don’t even know if the conversation will start. I may not be able to get pregnant at all. The chromosomes in my eggs may be too sticky to divide properly and get the baby on its journey. But I will listen, and I will hear. And whatever conversation I might get, however many days or weeks or months I may get to feel that hum, I will take them.
One thing I’ve learned in 14 years—I am not afraid. I hope, for all of you, who may be finding this page for the first time or the fourth, that you find that courage too.
My first baby Casey would have been thirteen years old today, and we’re celebrating his would-have-been birthday with give aways of some great books on loss. Since we can’t give Casey the things he would have liked, instead we’re giving things to YOU!
Head on over to the site of Baby Dust, my novel on pregnancy loss that will be released Oct. 1, and comment on any of the titles that you might find helpful. We’ll give away the books on October 1 to kick off Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Month.
We’re also taking this special day to celebrate the completion of the Baby Dust Book Trailer. Women from Ireland, London, Australia, Mexico, and the US talk about their babies, and the women of Illuminate, a photography class for grieving mothers, took the images that are used. (Double click to view it full size.)
Thirteen years and it could be yesterday. The giddiness we felt going to the doctor’s office to find out the gender of the baby. My students, back at school, placing bets on boy or girl. My coworkers, knowing I would finish the school year and not come back, and so they were planning an early baby shower, waiting to hear if the gifts next week should be pink or blue.
Both our parents, anxiously awaiting the phone call. First grandbaby on both sides. I don’t think anyone could have been happier driving up to a building, parking, and laughing as we walked in.
The bluebonnets had been covering the hills and I, jealous of all the moms taking pictures of their babies in the blooms, had taped a sonogram image to a flower and taken a picture. I was clutching the print to give to my doctor.
The nurse took me into a room and tried to find the baby’s heartbeat with the Doppler. And failed.
We smiled about it, not quite reaching a laugh. She hadn’t been able to find it at the last two visits either, and both times sonograms confirmed the baby was fine, growing right on schedule.
But when the doctor came in only seconds later, skipping the half-hour wait we were used to, I knew. He rolled up the machine and searched, measured, frowned. My baby, at 20 weeks gestation, had died.
I’m remembering now how quickly I was expected to get over the loss. To try again and forget. I didn’t get the comfort of saying his name aloud. I was pushy, insistent on bringing him up, but he wasn’t real to anyone else. And a few weeks later, my job ended, leaving me without anyone who even knew the history.
So today, on Facebook, I’ve started a new page just for our babies. For our sonograms, our pictures. Even if all you have is a pregnancy test. Or a teddy bear you bought. Or a tree you planted. I want to see it. Other moms will want to see it. We care. We want to know.
So GO! Upload those images. Make videos. Write text. And while you’re there, comment on a few other angel babies, coo and admire the things put up there. Know that for a moment someone else is thinking of your baby.
And to keep Casey company, I’ve asked my book designer (yes, my novel is coming out in October!) if we could fit the names and dates of some of the angels I will get to know in the next few days and weeks into my book. I wanted to list them, make their names permanent somewhere. She tells me she can fit about 500 names and dates into the closing pages. So GO! Add your baby’s name to the roster. They’ll be there together–yours and mine. Not forgotten at all. But celebrated. Known. Permanent. We’re thrilled to hear their names. I’m thrilled to know their names.
The big day is almost here! Pregnancy and Infant Loss Loss Remembrance Day is Friday, Oct. 15. Remember to light your candle from 7 p.m. to 8 p.m. your time to participate in the International Wave of Light. Check to see if there is a public candle lighting or walk in your area by visiting the official web site.
Once again I have designed labels for the candles I give to the families who come to the lighting I host here in Austin, Texas (which is Friday, Oct. 15 from 6:45 to 8 p.m. at the pond in Butler Park, which is behind the Long Center on Riverside Drive. Find us by our candles.)
If you are hosting a candle lighting (or just lighting on your own) and would like to use this label for votives, feel free to right-click the single label below and “Save picture as.” It is designed for standard address labels, Avery 8160. It does not have to be printed in color. It looks good in black and white too.
I have also uploaded a Microsoft Word document that is a whole page of these labels, ready to print on Avery 8160 or compatible address labels. Download that HERE.
Here are the final votives and how they turned out. You can get little candles like these for about $5 a dozen.
Blessings to all of you who will mark this day for your lost babies.
Many of you know my younger daughter Elizabeth was once part of a set of twins. I lost one of the babies when my water broke on that sac at 10 weeks. It was a harrowing experience as I was on an airplane, only two hours into a 12-hour flight between Switzerland and the US.
After a tense week, we finally saw Elizabeth’s heart beat, and the other sac collapsed and got out of the way. I had no further complications to her pregnancy, other than the usual stuck position and required c-section.
A few days ago, after taking Elizabeth’s hair out of braids, she said, “I have angel hair!” So we took her picture holding a baby doll, which I later replaced with an image of herself as a baby.
There isn’t a sweeter guardian angel than Emma Hope, Elizabeth’s twin, and no better way to portray them than with a sister who once shared her womb.
This image is available at RedBubble for a keepsake card or a little poster for baby’s room, if you also have a guardian angel who will watch over you or your other children. It includes the very common phrase you will see repeatedly on grief sites, miscarriage tickers, and signatures, “Some people dream of angels…I held one in my arms.”
At this site you will find information and a place to come in your dark and frightened hours. The special features of the site are listed in the next column, as well as topics ranging from causes of miscarriage, to prevention, to when to try again for a new pregnancy.
A Reminder:
The only person who can really tell you what is happening to you is your own doctor, who peers into you with a light and a speculum, who samples your blood or urine, or who presses a sonogram paddle into your belly. If you are in trouble, bleeding, scared, or more depressed than you think you can handle on your own, you must find help. Read and research all you can, but remember that the one-on-one assistance of a real doctor is the only thing that will give you answers that count. If you don't like or trust your doctor, then find one you can.
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Cradle, Broken Heart
