October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. One in four mothers loses her baby through miscarriage, infant loss or stillbirth; I was one of those moms.

 

When asked how many kids I have, I always miss a beat. It’s like a trick question.

 

Before having my second-born, I would answer, “Two. One on earth, one in heaven.” I read that somewhere in the many blogs I sought in my grief, and decided to use that same reply.

 

I know it seems like sympathy-baiting and it can be such a mood-killer to someone who’s probably just attempting small talk. But not acknowledging the child that my husband and I lost is cruel, like we’d forgotten her on purpose. It hurts to remember, yet it pains us even more to edit out her existence, as if she doesn’t count.

 

One day, I missed a period, peed on a stick and confirmed the pregnancy with a hospital ultrasound; the next day I was bleeding profusely. In the hospital, we were told a dilation and curettage was in order as the fetus wasn’t viable. If she ever survived, the baby might have a condition.

 

I couldn’t let go without giving it our best shot. Didn’t we always hear about miracle stories? It could happen to us, why jump the gun? So I decided to be on complete bed rest in the hospital in an effort to save our baby.

 

But the next day, out onto the bedpan came “the specimen,” as the nurse called our child. The bedpan and its contents, which looked like a gingko biloba root, were unceremoniously parked in the restroom, where I could see our would-be child every time I went to the loo for the rest of that day. She seemed to be there for ages.

 

The sudden crash of hormones and the indescribable grief thereafter were all-consuming. The tears would not stop. Worse, I couldn’t really unload it on anyone. My husband had to return to work right after, and perhaps that was how he dealt with our loss. My sister stayed with me at the hospital, but I didn’t want to burden her with my heavy, heavy load. I couldn’t do the same to any of my friends or family. No one talks about these things.

 

Lonely mourning

 

So, it was a lonely mourning with no one to reach out to, except for the blogs of strangers and message boards online that were my only real source of solace and comfort. These mothers had underwent what I was going through, and I voraciously read all I could about how they coped.

 

And when I got pregnant again, four years later, it felt like I couldn’t dare express my joy lest the rug be pulled out from us again.

 

I also seemed so worn out. The self-doubt of being able to “do it all over again,” when we were already a neat little family that was complete in every way, was mixed with guilt for even thinking along those lines, and the fear of our little glimmer of hope being snuffed out once more.

 

Each trip to the loo, I had to emotionally psych myself, just in case I had some spotting.

 

As the weeks rolled by, my husband would come home with the question, “Did she move a lot today?” Though he was well-meaning, my hormones didn’t allow me to see past that, so whenever I didn’t feel the baby move, I got scared.

 

I also had to feign excitement and positivity for my 4-year-old, priming him with “big brother” pep talks. Bringing out his old baby clothes, crib and other baby stuff felt surreal; can I really dare believe it? Our loss took away a bit of the fun of expecting another.

 

The many visits to the doctor meant many hours of anxious waiting and praying for good news. I had to be on bed rest, taking 21 pills a day and pricking my finger to monitor my blood four times a day. It was a mostly uncomfortable pregnancy, but complaining was equated to being an ingrate, because I knew there were always other women who have it much worse, who would trade places with me anytime.

 

Still, I felt envious sometimes when I saw other preggos who had it much easier. Happy for them, of course, but wishing I didn’t have a pregnancy this complicated. I envied not so much their lack of physical difficulty or ability to carry on with pre-pregnancy activities, because I knew I could return to those in time, but more their blissful ignorance of loss, not knowing the bottomless pain that goes with it.

Lindsey Henke, founder and editor of Pregnancy After Loss Support, summed it up best: “One minute you are cautiously optimistic, you just felt the baby move, all is well… umm, wait, no, you feel a cramp. Ugh! You think, ‘Could this be pre-term labor?’ and now you are back to being scared. So naturally, it’s hard for you to feel as if others can relate because, really, our inner emotional turmoil is each our own and sometimes we just might not be on the same page as others, even if they have been down this road before.” Henke is a mother of two; her oldest daughter Nora was stillborn after a healthy, full-term pregnancy.

 

Journal

 

“Bonding with your baby [after a loss] may be challenging, but worth it,” wrote Henke. “It’s scary to create a relationship with the bean growing inside of you because your past experience says, ‘Hey, don’t get too attached, remember what happened last time.”

 

With my pregnancy after a miscarriage, I kept a journal. Writing and addressing it to my would-be child was the bravest, most faithful thing I could do. Just mustering the courage to log in an entry after an ultrasound or another milestone meant that I believed in her reality.

 

It was always bittersweet and tiring, writing in longhand, but I felt better knowing that I trusted her to arrive in due time, alive and well enough to be able to read my paranoid ramblings someday.

 

When you give birth at a hospital, a support system is more or less in place for breastfeeding, but not so much for the baby blues or postpartum depression. The mother is pretty much on her own. The same goes for when she loses her child, at least in my stage, in my experience.

 

It’s as if it’s taboo to discuss such pain in public, or people just don’t know what to say and seem to want to fast-forward your grief so everyone can feel comfortable around you again.

 

I can’t imagine how other parents survive a full-term stillbirth. Carissa Kapcar wrote about being a reluctant expert on perinatal loss: “Just as each of our children is unique, each of our losses is unique. Yet we all share the universal heartbreak of grieving a child we never had the chance to get to know.”

 

In her blog, Kapcar highlighted things to note for anyone who is providing friendship and support to someone grieving the loss of a baby. I echo her sentiments, and wish that those in the medical community handling patients like us can learn from her insights:

 

1) Use the term “child,” not “pregnancy.”

 

2) Review our file first.

 

3) It is excruciating.

 

4) We need reassurance.

 

5) When possible, use our child’s name.

 

6) The best thing you can ask us is, ‘How are you doing today?’ Kapcar wrote, “My husband helped identify this mantra during our subsequent pregnancies: ‘Today we are pregnant, and today it is going well.’ That is all we allowed ourselves to celebrate… today. And frankly, as we had sadly learned in the past, that was all we were guaranteed.

 

Our moods change daily, if not hourly, during this process. Sometimes optimistic and upbeat, sometimes sorrowful and grieving and sometimes nervous and distracted. The best thing you can do is help us focus on that moment, that day and don’t push us into a space, either in the future, or past, that we aren’t prepared to be in right then.”

 

These days, I am no longer as depressed, and I am able to enjoy my now 3-month-old daughter Juno with new, grateful eyes.

 

Henke described the feeling accurately: “Grief doesn’t go away. It’s ever present as you think back on the pregnancy with your last baby. You think about how this baby will be a little brother or sister to the baby or child that you lost and, with that thought, sorrow will flood your soul once again. It’s in the happiest moments that you find the greatest grief now.”