what not to say when someone loses a baby

Even though I have had an overwhelming outpouring of love and support from friends and family, I can't help but latch onto the hurtful things people have said.  I think it's hard for most people to see someone we care about in pain. Therefore, the urge is to ease their pain. But it doesn't work. For one, I, as a mother who has just lost a child and the future I imagined for her, want to grieve. I don't want to stuff anything away and then years later, discover the hidden grief and have to deal with it then. Secondly, these words of "comfort" will almost certainly be misconstrued because a grieving person is one big raw emotion and things like:
"Miscarriage is very common. If your baby had been born, it would have had defects, so this is nature's way of taking care of it.  And you can always have another baby"
come across to the griever as:
"Get over it already. You're grieving over something that was barely alive and would have been a burden to society had it been born.  You'll have another kid. Stop raining in my parade. We don't want to hear about your sadness."
Even if the person who said this had the best of intentions, it will more than likely not come across that way.  It will not help them one bit.


Most importantly, if we take these types of comments and apply them to other types of losses, they comes across as completely insensitive and ridiculous.  If someone lost a spouse, child or sibling to cancer, we would not say:
"Cancer is very common. If your _____ (husband, wife, child, brother, or sister) had lived, they would have been in a lot of pain and wouldn't have had a good life.  You can always get another ______ (husband, wife, child, brother or sister)."  
I would hope that looking at it this way would make someone realize how ridiculous that is. You can't replace a loved one. You can't just go out and "get another husband" or "have another baby" in the way they imply. We loved the person that died. They can never be replaced.  What if a person who loses a spouse doesn't or doesn't want to get married? What if the parent who lost the child cannot have another child due to infertility or their age or a myriad of other reasons? They can't just get over it.

But, I'm guessing some people would argue that I was only 12 weeks pregnant. How could I be so upset? I never even met my baby. How could I love her that much?  I recently read somewhere, that women start dreaming of their children when they are children themselves. They play with their baby dolls, they dream up names for their future babies, decide how many and what sex of children they would like to have. That is how most women/girls are. I see my daughter playing this out day after day. She is practicing to be a mother, dreaming of her own children.  So, the love has started long before cells started dividing in our uterus.

Speaking of dividing cells, I think science is the reason some people think mothers should not be upset over a miscarriage.  "It was just a group of cells, a blighted ovum, an ectopic pregnancy." Science tries to make it rational and logical.  But that does not take away the pain or the dream a mother had for her child. Love has no logic. It is a feeling, not a "rational" thought.  My own children already loved this baby. They made her toys, thought of names, decided where she'd sleep, folded and sorted her diapers, and longed for fall because then she would be here.  They had imagined being a big brother and a big sister. They kissed my belly. They loved  her. I loved her.

The amount of time we loved someone, whether we held them in our arms or not, does not matter.

Love is love.

Think of your first love, especially if you lost them.  Maybe you only dated a short time, but the intensity of emotion was there.  People might have said, "Oh, you're young. You'll find someone else." This implies you are too young to feel so much pain. You'll get over it. But if you've been there, you remember the pain. And, then, maybe you can understand that:

Pain is pain.

Grief is grief.

And death is death.

No one should attempt to quantify or question just how much a person should grieve or how long they should be sad. And, really, who has the right to say which kind of death is better, other than the one who died? Sure, when I die, I would rather go quickly than suffer for months or years. But, for the survivors, none of those things matter. The person they love is gone. If they went quickly, it's hard because nobody got to say goodbye. If they suffered long, then everyone suffered. If a baby died in his/her mother's womb, then the family never got to meet or hold the baby. If the baby was stillborn or died shortly after birth, then yes, they got to see the baby, but their baby is still dead.

It's not easy no matter how the death happened.

The thing to say when someone has lost a loved one is "I'm sorry."

No need to say more...

rosie, are you there?

Just after I added a section explaining the candle that's part of the blog logo, my phone rang.
"Rosie?"An old woman inquired.
My heart stopped.
"Uh... no... this is Amy."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I have the wrong number."
I sat there stunned. Was that purely a coincidence? Or did this have some meaning for me?  What are the odds of my phone ringing just as I publish the blurb about the candle that burned so brightly for Rosie and then the person on the other end asking for "Rosie?"

In dreams, the soul speaks to us in symbols. The same is true in waking life. Often in our dreams, our spirit guides will use things like phones and answering machines to convey very important messages to us.

What was the message here?  Does this mean I still feel like Rosie is a part of me?  Am I not letting her go?

I hope I figure it out soon.  I have been thinking about it all day.

what I meant to say

The post entitled "it sucks" is an excerpt from an email I sent to a friend a couple of days after the first ultrasound that confirmed what I already knew--that baby Rosie was dead. Rereading it. I see what I left out--my thoughts and feelings and the things I repeated over and over that fateful morning on February 23, 2010. So I will share them with you now in pieces:

No!!!! Not me! Not my baby!

Please baby, stay with me.

Mommy loves you.

I love you and I want you to stay

but if you must go,

I release you.

Que sera, sera

whatever will be will be...

I release you.

I release you.

I love you baby.

If you must go, I will 

let you go.  

But you must know, I love you 

and I want you to stay.  

Stay, stay, stay.

Please stay.

I release you.

I will not hold you back.

I will understand if you must go.

But I will be sad.

*   *   *    *   *

More blood,

bright red blood,

right as my hubby and

daughter pulled out of

the driveway.

All alone with the reality

that my baby really is dead.

I am now one of those people

I read about.

Like so many friends who have lost

babies before me.

Death is not going to spare me.

Something is wrong with me.

That's why my baby died.

What was I exposed to?

Is this because I had pneumonia

in the beginning?

Because I took the antibiotics?

Because I didn't take them soon enough?

Because I took goldenseal and licorice root

and other herbs when I didn't know I 

was pregnant?

Because I didn't eat much when I was sick?

Did I take too much of one vitamin?

Not enough?

Is this because my dad said those mean

things when he found out I was pregnant?

Did his hatred kill my baby?

I always said I wanted two kids.

Is that why this baby died?

Because I didn't say I wanted 3?

Was it because I wondered how

I would take care of 3 children 

when I only have 2 hands?

NO!!! NO!!! NO!!!

(hitting pillow)

Why? Why? Why?

AHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sobbing, gasping for air,

sinking into my bed

as the world around me

swirls.  The cruel world.

The one that robbed me

of a dream.

Numbness.

This isn't happening.

Maybe I'm just spotting.

Some women bleed in pregnancy and they are just fine.

I will call my doctor and ask her 

what else bleeding could mean.

Oh good, she has some thoughts.

I might be okay.

I'm overreacting. 

I'm being dramatic--like my mom always said when I was little.

I'm going to be okay.

This will not destroy ME.

I will be different.

I will not be crushed.

I am a strong person.

I will not cry,

will not be depressed.

I will not let this ruin me.

I will not fall apart.

I have the power to bleed and not die.

Oh, god, what if I bleed to death?

What if my husband comes home and

finds me in a pool of blood.

Please let me die too.

Who is holding my baby now?

Was there anyone to greet her

as she went into the light?

Who will she recognize?

I will never see my baby.

Will never hold her 

or look into her eyes

or feel her soft skin.

This is so unfair.

she was afraid of death and me

Have a seat.

Yes, right here on this lovely bench

in the rose garden.

I will tell you a story

of a girl who was

afraid of death.

I was warned.  My doctor told me to stay home.  She said I was emotionally vulnerable and being out in public would be more than I could take.  I had finally birthed my dead baby 10 days after the bleeding started. Now it was three days later, and I had to get out of the house.  My husband and I took the kids to a friend's house for a couple of hours. The sun was shining and we thought we would take a walk together in my favorite park.  I grabbed my camera and figured it might be good therapy to take some photos while we were there.

When we got there, we immediately ran into a friend who had recently brought us a meal. We talked to her very briefly. She was very kind and asked how we were doing.  We turned around and right behind us another friend with her child and two of her friends and their two children. I was filled with dread. I did not want to be social, and I thought we wouldn't see people we knew at this park.  "HELLOooooo!!" the friend cried as we walked toward her. "It's so GREAT to see you two!" she said as he hugged us. "How ARE you???" she crooned.  I must have mumbled "fine." I don't remember. My mind was filled with conflicting thoughts. "Oh God! She must not know! How could she? She would never act this way if she did!" "But wait, she signed up to bring us a meal, so she must know." "Maybe she didn't know why she was bringing us a meal? Maybe she thinks she's just helping us out because I'm pregnant."  "Maybe she doesn't want to bring up the miscarriage because she has friends with her that we do not know?"

She continued on, smiling and introducing us to her friends and their kids, telling them how she knew us, etc.  I wanted to run away. I couldn't believe this was happening. Eventually, we parted ways, but not without her saying, "You guys have a GREAT day!!!" Yes, we will. Life is fantastic. We just buried our baby yesterday, but we will ENJOY our day. 

I was angry the rest of the walk, but really tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. She was a busy working mom. Maybe she only read the email very quickly when she agreed to bring us food. Surely, someone would not act like this on purpose. It was so hurtful that she would not even acknowledge that our baby had died and that we were mourning.

A few hours after we got home, she had emailed me asking for directions to our house so she could drop the food by the next day. In my reply, I was sure to say, "Thank you so much for bringing us the food. We are all exhausted from the miscarriage and are so grateful for the help.  We buried our baby yesterday."  No response to the miscarriage info.  Just something like "Great, we will see you then!"  I could not imagine opening my door to her smiling face the next day. I could not be ignored again. I wanted to scream to her, "My baby died! How can you smile and pretend like everything is okay??"

The next day was fairly pleasant, if I recall correctly. The weather was nice, and my son came home with an award from school, so my husband said we could build a fire in the backyard that night. My son was ecstatic, as he had been asking for several days in a row to build a fire and kept getting turned down.  We had two friends lined up to bring us food that day. One friend was very respectful and told me she'd be happy to leave the food outside for us.  I left an empty pot on the table out front and when I opened the door later, it was filled with a wonderful soup.  

This was also the night the happy friend would be bringing us a late supper.  I knew we would probably be in the backyard enjoying the fire by the time she came, and I didn't think I could deal with her again.  I left a note on the door, "Please leave the food on the table behind you. Thanks!"  I have not heard from her since.

I think she got the message. Some part of her must feel bad. I understand her fear, her desire for everything to always be okay, to make sure that everyone is happy. But that's not reality.  I also know her heart and soul went into making that meal. I could see how her hands had shaped it. And even though she could not speak to me with her words, her soul was communicating with me through that food, and it was saying, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

I am not mad at her. I was. But I know she doesn't understand. That she is afraid. And maybe afraid that talking to me will curse her. 

Someday, she may be sitting next to me on my bench of emptiness. And maybe I will offer her some comforting words and a cup of tea. Maybe I will share my story of loss with her. I fear her facade cannot last forever.  Sometimes, life is really hard and and there will be tears that need to fall. Fake smiles just won't cut it. Sometimes we are a bleeding wound, exposed for all the world to see.

Sorrow and hope swim in the same sea. We have to accept and welcome both.

it sucks

After I woke up and saw the blood, I knew it was bad. I called my midwife and she told me to drink a quart of water, eat some protein and go back to bed. Of course, I couldn't sleep.  She called me at 9 am when she got to the office and sent in the orders for an ultrasound. I wanted to know if the baby was alive or not. I had to wait until 2 pm for that to happen.  The bleeding had stopped right after I talked to my midwife at 5 am but came back at 10am and this time the blood was reddish brown, not brown like it had started. I sobbed so hard and hit the bed with my fist. I knew in my heart it was over.

It made it worse I didn't feel much of a connection with my midwife, although I know she is a wonderful midwife and person. We had only met for one appointment when I was about 8 weeks along.  I called my doctor (from my daughter's birth 3 years earlier) and told her what was happening, and she was very kind and tried to play devil's advocate about the ultrasound. I thanked her and told her I had a few hours to decide. I knew I had to do it.  I couldn't go on another month or two months thinking I was pregnant and making my friends and family and especially my children think I was.  

We took my daughter to preschool, ate a solemn lunch at Chipotle and went to the Radiology clinic.  I asked the technician if she would be able to tell  me if the baby was alive and she said, "yes." And then I asked if it wasn't alive what would she do, and she said she would have to get the doctor. The external part of the ultrasound I could see a little bit (I could have asked her to push the screen toward me but I didn't really want to see). I watched Jevon's face and knew it wasn't good.  When I peeked over one time I saw a misshapen blob. The internal ultrasound I could not see at all. Later, my husband told me there was a point where it seemed she was looking for a heartbeat and he saw a flatline across the screen. He was nearly in tears the whole time. I still had this crazy hope that she just wasn't reading it right.

Well, she had to go get the doctor.  He was very nice, asked us about ourselves--where we lived, what we did for jobs, how many kids we had. He looked at the screen and told me there were two possibilities: that I was only six weeks along and the baby didn't have a heartbeat yet, or that my baby had died a few weeks ago. I knew it was impossible I was only six weeks along. I was 12 weeks along.  The images on the screen were awful. It was a black hole in my womb.  And that's how I felt at that moment--empty and robbed of a dream.

My husband lost it and just started bawling. I sat there in disbelief. I think I had been crying all day and couldn't do it again at that moment.  We had a moment to ourselves and the doc came back in. He was very kind and told us his wife had 4 miscarriages and "it sucks."

I asked my husband if he thought he could drive us to pick up the kids and he said he thought he would be okay as long as he didn't hear me telling anyone the news. He knew I would cry and then he wouldn't be able to stop crying.

We stopped at the store for some comfort food: a bag of chocolate cookies, and when we came outside, I saw one of my best friends in her car. She also had a miscarriage at 12 weeks. I walked up to her and told her, and we both embraced and sobbed so hard our bodies were shaking. She said, "I'm so sorry this happened to you."

Then I had to go get my son from school (early). He kept asking why I got him early, and I finally had to say "because the baby died." Oh, he sobbed. At first his mouth was open and no sound came out and then this wail came out of him that was heartbreaking. "I wanted a baby!" he cried.  

My daughter was next. When she got in the car, I was in the back hugging my son and she said, "Mommy, why are you in the backseat." I said, "I'm hugging K because we're sad. The baby died today." Loud wails came from her mouth and I scooped her into my arms and held her like a baby. She cried and cried and cried.  

We came home and she just kept crying, saying things like "I want the baby to be alive" or "I wish you had twins and one was still alive in there" and "I really wanted a baby." And everytime, I would just sob.

I told them that the baby was so lucky to be so loved and that those two had given him/her so much love. And she said, "I hope the baby still has that love in its body."

The next day husband left with my daughter for a birthday party and she kissed me and then kissed the baby, as she had done every day. I just lost it.  I heard her saying to my husband as they walked out the door, "I didn't know mom was going to cry about the baby today. I'm still sad too."

A couple of days later, I was lying in my bed and my daughter crawled in bed next to me.

"Mom, you're still the baby's mom, you know."
Such wisdom from such a small person...

Read more about this post here.

this is me, raw and unedited

the words flow from me.
i cannot stop them.
they may not be as
artfully written
and full of imagery
as i want them to be.
it's possible
i'm telling
and not showing.

these words flow like blood
that will not stop.
they are me
right now.

if you want something pretty,
go look at a flower.

these words will be sad
but also beautiful
and probably need to be
more carefully crafted
and edited
and shaped.

but just like the baby
inside me
that died.
they are what
they are.
unfinished,
flowing,
escaping.

encompassing
birth and death
all at once.

i cannot stop them.
nor do i want to.

empty

My fingers mindlessly type in the same web addresses over and over,
even though nothing has changed.
There are no new messages.
Things are just as they were five minutes ago.
But still, I go through these motions over and over.
I am avoiding something.

It is the void that threatens to creep over me
and swallow me whole.

If I just go sit down, I will be alone with my grief.
Will I be able to handle it?
If I really, really think about what this means,
what will happen to me?

There is one person who I dread seeing, and I feel sorry for her because some part of me hates her, or envies her--I don't know which. She is the person who had the same due date as me. I know her husband and I imagined her and I running into each other in the next few weeks, giggling, comparing stories.

And now, panic creeps in.
Will I see her at an art opening?
A tiny bump poking through her
thin frame.
My body a gaping hole where a baby
should be.
I should look like her.

My husband said to me today that it's time I start exercising. I felt my heart sink.  "I just don't want you to start feeling bad about yourself."

or about this body
that still looks maternal.
This body that took in
nourishment and had to
put it in different places
because the baby inside of me
had already died.
even though I didn't know.
or did I?

I remember the day quite clearly.  The sun was shining for the first time in a long time. I slept in and realized I did not wake up starving or nauseous.  I pushed those feeling aside and tried to rejoice at the fact that I was not some hunger crazed pregnant woman screaming at my husband to make my breakfast before I threw up.

But the feeling would not go away.
My baby has died, I said to myself.
I dialed the number of my doctor
who had attended the homebirth
of my daughter over 3 years ago.

"Please talk me down from my tree," I pleaded.  And she did. But when people asked me how my morning sickness was, I would say, "it's better, but I keep thinking my baby died. I hate what pregnancy hormones do to me!"

Reading through my pregnancy books, my eyes were drawn to the sections about bleeding and miscarriage. "Stop," I told myself, "you're going to cause your own miscarriage with these bad thoughts."

Nearly 5 weeks later, I awoke from a very vivid dream. In the dream, I was in a jet plane, seated behind the pilot as we were about to take off. After taxing on the runway for what seemed an absurd amount of time, we finally were going to take off, or so I thought. The pilot carefully steered us onto the interstate.  My fingers gripped my seat and we nearly avoided disaster as the huge body of the plane drove on a road much to small to accommodate it.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.
"What are you doing?" I asked the pilot.
"I thought this was the way you wanted me to take," he replied matter of factly.
"NO!" I insisted, "I want you to FLY!"

After being jolted awake by my bold expression to the pilot, I went to the bathroom, only to be shocked by the bright red blood stain on my white underwear.

I wanted to pull up my pants, go back to sleep
and pretend that this wasn't happening.
Instead, I walked into my daughter's bedroom
where my husband was sleeping.
"Honey, wake up," I said with a shaky voice
as reality started to carefully creep over me.
The intuition that had tried to communicate
with me for over 5 weeks could not be
quieted.

I knew at that moment
that I could not go back to bed.
That my life was never going to be the same.