Carried and Loved

"How many children do you have," and "Three boys?" are questions which always catch me off guard.  I know the answer, but is the person really asking  for the honest answer?  Sadly, it is one of those "merely polite" questions, so I seldom go into detail.  But I always feel guilty.  

The answers--Shawn and I have four children; three boys and a little girl.

Sixteen years ago, Shawn and I lost our daughter.  When I don't acknowledge her life, I feel as though I'm denying she existed and the unlimited possibilities life held for her.  I feel as though I'm denying the world around us the joy she's brought us, even in her absence.  I feel like the world's shittiest mom when I don't talk about our daughter.  To be perfectly clear, we did not lose a pregnancy, we did not lose a fetus, we did not lose a clump of cells--we lost a child.  Our child.  We didn't get to meet her and we never held her in our arms.  All the same, I know her inside and out, just as I do our boys.  In complete transparency, I hadn't even told Shawn I was pregnant yet.  I hid the loss for over a year, suffering in silence with shame.  I was absolutely certain I'd somehow caused her death.  I was angry, I was hurting and filled with contempt for myself.

I write about Grace, particularly during October, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, every so often for several reasons.  Even though her life was brief, her legacy is long.  She taught me, and subsequently our family, more in her few short weeks within me than some people are able to teach in long decades on earth.  Grace taught me about being grateful for who we already had in our lives.  She taught me to be a better mom to Noah.  She taught me the true value of life as I was learning to know and experience it.  She deserves to be remembered.

I also write because I want other parents and families to know they aren't alone.  This is a club every parent fears and no one asks to belong to, yet many of us find ourselves here (at least one in four of us).  The parents experiencing loss could look like a big family who have suffered one, or even multiple losses.  They could also look like a childless couple.  Please, if you do know parents who do not have living children, please still honor them as parents.  Never having had a chance to hold your child still makes one a parent.  Be kind.  Loss and infertility are maddeningly heartbreaking, infertility being an inexplicable loss in a league of its own.  Your arms ache and grow weary from the weight of emptiness.  

Everyone's loss and infertility stories are different.  Our experiences vary, as do the reasons and causes. I became very ill after I had Noah, diagnosed with multiple chronic diseases, taking many medications with serious consequences.  My doctors told us we were lucky to have Noah and to not get our hopes up about more children.  After losing Grace, I sunk into a deep(er) depression, resigning myself to the advice of my doctors.

I spent quite a few years white hot with anger.  I absolutely tortured myself, reading news stories about parents unworthy of being parents.  I lashed out at those I deemed unfit, always wondering how it was they could have children so freely, without seemingly a care for them, when I wanted children so badly and could not even force my body to attempt to make a baby.  It felt like a punishment and I couldn't understand who was doling it out or what it was for.  I wrote angry blogs, I became suicidally depressed, I screamed into the abyss and was a generally nasty person to be around.  I blamed God a LOT.  I felt unworthy of life--unworthy of giving life--unworthy of raising Noah, unworthy of being what I considered a good wife.  It took me so long to forgive myself, to realize this was not something being done to me, to relinquish the control I wanted to have over the situation, to come to terms with the entire ordeal.

These days I'm doing much better, but it took an incredibly long time to heal.  I still have a bad moment here and there--a fleeting moment of sadness over milestones we were denied, a song that makes me think of her, family moments that remind me someone is missing.  But I don't dwell on her absence the way I used to.

I hit a remission years after Grace's death and we were given the go ahead to try for another baby.  It took us over two years for Avery (for a total of nine years between him and Noah), and another five for Ezra (a total of six years between him and Avery).  Both were considered high risk pregnancies, but not because of my previous miscarriage years earlier.  Did you know a woman has to have three to four miscarriages in a row, within the same year, before a doctor considers her high risk due to miscarriage?  One miscarriage, two miscarriages, even three or four  miscarriages separated by years and/or 'successful' pregnancies only get you a pat on the head, a smile and "Well, at least you can try again!  There's nothing to worry about!  You're just fine!"  No extra monitoring, no extra tests--nothing.  No matter how scared you are.  Not even to reassure you.  I was utterly unable to relax and enjoy my pregnancies with Avery and Ezra because I was so terrified.  I lost count of the pregnancy tests I took in the beginnings of their pregnancies.  Every twinge, every off feeling, every single thing that didn't feel quite right caused panic.  I'd never been so grateful for HG as I was with Ezra because it meant I was still pregnant with him.  With each trip to the ER and doctor for fluids and anti-nausea meds, I begged for sonograms, anything, for reassurance.  I'm here to tell you, they do not care.  You are simply written off as hysterical.  "If *the fetus is in distress, there isn't anything we can do at this stage anyway."  They use cold, hard medical terminology: fetus, pregnancy.  They will not acknowledge the life you are carrying is a human being, *your baby.  You won't even receive an insincere apology as they leave the room.

I know we are one of the few fortunate families who came out of this on the other end.  For every one of us who make it, there are countless others who don't.  To those of you still fighting this battle, to those of you throwing in the towel, my heart is with you.  Please know you aren't alone.    

Grace--one day we'll see you on the other side of the rainbow.  Until then, when we finally get to hold you, we miss you.  We love you so much-- Mom and Dad