How do I even begin to explain to those around me how it feels to be a Mother whose only baby died? I’m not sure where to start. Sometimes, it’s so hard to put my feelings into writing. To experience them is much different than to communicate them. I’m going to do my best here today, even though there’s no way to fully articulate the feeling.
My only experience with motherhood is death. This is my first and only experience.
Instead of ever hearing my baby cry, I hear silence.
Instead of changing my baby’s diaper, I clean off her grave.
Instead of watching her grow, I watch the time continue to move me further away from her.
Instead of cuddling and holding my baby, I cling to the blanket she was wrapped in and the giraffe that contains her heartbeat.
Instead of connecting with mothers for play dates, I connect with mothers whose babies died.
Instead of cooking for three, I only cook for two and look at the empty place setting where my baby should be.
Instead of looking up to see my baby in the rearview mirror, I look up and see empty seat.
Instead of holding my baby for family photos, I hold a picture of my baby and her heartbeat giraffe.
Instead of feeling joy and love, I feel sorrow and love. But the love I feel for my deceased baby is no less than the love a mother feels for her living baby.
I don’t know what it’s like to be a “traditional” mother. I only know what it’s like to be a bereaved mother; to mother my dead baby. I pray maybe I will someday, but then again there’s no way for me to ever be a “traditional” mother with the death of my first and only baby, Hannah.
What is it like for you?
Heather is the Co-Founder and President of the 501(c)(3) non-profit Hannah’s Heart and Love. Hannah’s Heart and Love was inspired by their daughter Hannah to help others and to help break the silence of baby loss. She is also a contributing author for All That Love Can Do.
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Thank you Heather, your journey is very similar, my daughter name is Hannah too she died on 29 May 2013. My life was at risk as I was diagnosed with servre pre clampsia. I was rushed to hospital as all my organs were shouting down and I was told that I had to abort her at 23 weeks which I couldn’t. Two days later she died.
It been a hard road, as I had lost my first daughter Nia at 34 weeks, she was Still born January 2008. The pass 8 years has felt like a prison sentence and just this week, I have felt like I have been released. I feel free and I want to start living for my children to make them proud. I am in the process of developing various workshops in the UK for Still Mothers and would appreciate some tips, as I’m very good at startup but lose confidence in moving forward.
Many thanks Nia and Hannah mummy.
your story is my story. for me it’s been 16 years and I feel robbed. my identical twin sister had 3 children with no thought to how hard it was to get pregnant.my husband has a son who I helped raise who doesn’t care if either of us is around.to hear my husband called “dad” and me never hearing the words “:mom” still hurt to this day,. I still cry thinking about the what it’s. I called my OB the night before and told her something was wrong, she put me off until the next morning, when it was to late. I was only 23 weeks, ONE MORE WEEK would have improved her odds greatly. ONE FREAKING WEEK, Instead i go to her grave, and I decorate it for holidays, buy new items for her fairy garden that is part of her plot. I tried IUI and never made anything other than a cyst. It sucks. I”m still mad, I still scream, I still cry , I feel robbed. then to be told one day by my ss bio mom
You’re not a mom, you don’t understand”. I am a mom and fwiw I hate mother’s day. it’s a reminder that I don’t get to have lunch with my daughter or watch her go off to school, prom, drive, college. Yes the days get better but you never, ever forget that scream is always just underneath waiting to come out.
Thank you, Heather. This is beautiful. You capture prefecture the sense of time moving in the wrong direction for us and our babies.