Entry 008
When you lose a baby, the doctor will tell you what you can expect your body to do: the number of days or weeks it might take and the options if you don’t want to wait it out—if there’s even time for you to have that choice. But they don’t tell you about any of the non-physical stuff. They don’t tell you about life after losing your baby, the emotions you’ll feel, the torture your mind will put you through, or the way people will treat you. Let me tell you some of the things they don’t.
They don’t tell you that for a little while, people will ask you how you’re doing. They’ll tell you to let them know if you need anything and that they’re here if you want to talk. Then before too long, they’ll stop asking. I mean, two weeks is definitely enough time to get over it, right? (Just to be clear, it’s not.)
They don’t tell you that all of a sudden, it seems like every person you haven’t seen for a while is asking when you’re going to have a baby. Like it’s something you can control.
They don’t tell you that the smallest or most random of things can be triggering. Maybe it’s getting a phone call because that’s how you were given the news that your blood levels didn’t double this time so you’re likely losing the baby. Now every time that screen pops up on your phone, no matter who’s calling, you’re petrified of what they might say.
They don’t tell you that you’ll question everything you did over the past however many weeks while your baby was living. How even though you followed every rule in the book, you’ll beat yourself up trying to figure out what the one thing was that caused your child’s death—even if you know in your heart it wasn’t anything you did. Or was it? Did the barista give me regular coffee instead of decaf? Should I not have slept on my stomach? Did that day at work stress me out too much? Is it because I’m not meant to be a mom? Those are just some of the things you might ask yourself.
They don’t tell you that some days, you’ll be okay. Good, even. Happy. And then the next day you’ll feel like you took ten steps back. But the thing is, grief isn’t lateral. It’s a mountain with peaks and valleys that you really never stop climbing.
They don’t tell you how many people will give you unsolicited advice or tell you they know exactly how you’re feeling. How they lost a baby two decades ago or work with someone whose daughter did and look, now they have a bunch of healthy kids! They don’t realize you can’t “just try again” because the doctor told you to wait three months and that no, you don’t need infertility treatment.
They don’t tell you that you’ll be the last to find out when someone is pregnant. Even when it’s someone so close to you that you should’ve been one of the first to know. People won’t know how to tell you and will maybe even assume you’ll be mad that it’s someone else instead of you. But regardless of how you feel about them being pregnant, it’s worse being treated differently because your baby is dead.
They don’t tell you how guilty you’ll feel enjoying a cold deli meat sandwich or a glass of wine because you shouldn’t be able to have those things for another 6 months.
They don’t tell you how many sleepless nights you’ll have—even months after the loss. How you’ll lay there thinking about how different your life should be. How there should be a bassinet next to your side of the bed or a little baby sleeping down the hall.
They don’t tell you that you might want to punish yourself. You might not want to take care of your health or your body because it failed you. Because it failed your baby and every dream you had of what your life would be like.
They don’t tell you how hard you’ll pray nobody uses the name you had picked out for your baby before you get the chance to.
They don’t tell you how behind you’ll feel. Behind where you should be, where others are, where you want to be—in your pregnancy and just life in general. And how you’ll know you will never be where you should’ve been at any given moment, and that you may never be able to catch up.
They don’t tell you that no trip to Target or the grocery store or out in public in general will be the same again. How you’ll find yourself crying in the baby section or avoiding the maternity clothes isle like your life depends on it. How you’ll feel your heart fall to your stomach when you see a women with a baby bump, or infant, or toddler—hell, even a teenager—because you know that won’t be you and the baby you were expecting just a short time ago.
They don’t tell you that while your pregnancy ends and you have to grieve the loss of your child, you’ll also experience postpartum. Just like someone who gets to keep their live baby, your hormones have to go back to normal too.
They don’t tell you how the comparison game will eat at your soul. But sometimes, there is just no answer. No explanation as to why someone else’s baby lived and yours died. No reason why that pregnant lady can drink caffeine and not eat scrambled eggs and still have a perfectly growing baby while you did every single little thing you were supposed to and never even got to hear the heartbeat.
They don’t tell you that every time you see a pregnancy announcement, you’ll feel that knot in your throat come back. It’s just another reminder that you probably didn’t get to post yours in the way you dreamed you would and that none of those congratulations are for you.
There’s so much more to losing a baby than the physical loss and what your body goes through. When I had my first miscarriage, I had no idea how different everyday life would be. I was on my own to figure it out and wonder if what I was feeling was normal. If you’re a loss mama and have felt these things, know that I’m right here with you. And if you’re not, know that parents of angels lose a whole lot more than just a baby.
Emily Lindquist