What I wish I could tell the non-loss community:
My grief overwhelms me. Some days I sit and cry all day. Some days I’m so angry my skin turns red. Some days I feel numb. Some days I pour my grief into writing. Some days, I’m okay.
I grieve everything I lost and everything that could have been. I grieve that we sold our beautiful house because I couldn’t bear walking by an empty nursery or sleeping in the room where she died.
I grieve that my husband’s family told him to divorce me after River’s death. I grieve that they showed me no compassion. I grieve for my husband and everything he has lost.
I grieve that it hurts my soul every time I see someone pregnant or hear a baby cry. I grieve that I have a box full of baby things, that will sit in the box forever.
I grieve that every time someone asks if I have kids, I must decide whether I honor my daughter or say no, ending the conversation right there. If I honor her, then the conversation ends anyway, and I’m given a look of “I’m sorry I asked”.
I grieve that I have to explain to people why I had a hysterectomy at age thirty-one after two failed surgeries to ease my physical pain.
I grieve that my anxiety is still so high, all these years later. I grieve that I’ll never know what it’s like to be a mother to a living child. I grieve so hard.
The years don’t make my grief any less. Lately, it’s been worse. Lately, I cry all the time, even with antidepressants. I grieve that I need antidepressants.
Logically, I know a lot of it is the volatility of the world at the moment. I grieve that part of me is grateful River will never experience any pain.
I grieve that I don’t get to be apart of the mom club, watching their children grow. I grieve that I am so lonely. I grieve that people think I’m strong when it’s all I’ve ever known how to be.
I grieve that I’m forgetting little things like the sound of River’s heartbeat or how her kicks felt. I grieve that I hate Christmas and all the holidays.
I just wish it wasn’t so hard all the time. I wish I didn’t feel like a big part of me was missing, never to be returned. I wish I didn’t have to explain to people why my arms are empty. However, this is the life I have been given. Empty arms, tear-stained pillows, and a hole in my heart. This is the life of a Still Mother.
What I wish to say is, give us compassion. Allow us to openly grieve. Stop asking women if they have children. Be kind to others, you don’t know the torment some of us endure.
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Jenny and her husband, Robert, live by a river with their two dogs. Their daughter River was still born on December 22nd, 2016. After River, died they decided that life is too short to put off doing what you love. Jenny became a certified fitness professional and Robert joined the Air Force. They both embrace life for their daughter and take each day as a blessing.
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- What I Wish I Could Tell the Non-Loss Community - November 17, 2020
I had a gynae appointment recently and the letter I received from the Consultant afterwards said “You had three pregnancies in the past but you have not had any deliveries.”
Facts – I had four pregnancies and four losses, one of which was a full labour & delivery (of a beautiful boy who we spent four days with) and another a spontaneous delivery (of a very tiny but real baby).
Feelings – grief, devastation and anguish which is not “in the past”; upset & disappointment that she maybe didn’t listen carefully enough and that she expressed it so bluntly.
And, even as I sense this simple statement (& all that it reignites) pulling my mood & spirit down, I find myself thinking of the lines of a poem “Tread carefully for you tread on my dreams” and realising that I really want to say to others “Speak carefully for you speak of my heart”.
Sorry, I guess part of what I was trying to say, Jenny, was that what you say really resonates with me. Thank you. Take care of you.