Grief is two small hands on a sonogram
A few weeks ago, my daughter came up to me holding a piece of paper and asked me, “Is this a picture of my brother and me?” I took the picture from her hand and saw a sonogram. Before I answered, I looked at the date.
9/2014
“No, baby. That is your sister. She was never born.”
“Like, Baby Kian?” She said sadly.
I felt a pang in my chest. “Yes, like Kian.”
I’ve been pregnant four times and given birth once. This fact always bums me out. I wrestle with shoving my grief aside and unleashing the Comparison Monster to shame my loss into a corner so it will stay there and silent.
Some women go through much more than that! The Comparison Monster would roar. Shut up. Your twins are here! Be grateful.
(I should mention that just because someone specializes in grief doesn’t mean they grieve "good,” if you can tell. I just know when it’s happening and give it space.) Other times, I think about each of my kiddos who don’t walk around here on Earth and imagine what they must think of us as they watch us from Heaven. I like to think that we are this wild, goofy bunch that they live stream and watch us whenever they want. Sometimes they are laughing, watching an adventure, maybe seeing a little drama, but always entertained.
In the midst of our attempts to create a family, infertility came along to let us know that if we wanted this, we were going to have to put up one hell of a fight. And fight we did. After every loss, including the ambiguous loss* of our infertility diagnosis, we shattered… but we collected our broken pieces, assembled the best we could, and went for another round of treatments. At the time, my focus was so heavy on the physical toll that I was paying very little attention to the emotional toll my husband and I were experiencing. We tried to blend our intense appointments with cute date nights so they would feel less sterile and like we were still making something together. Some days it worked, and other days we were exhausted. I was grieving the loss of a particular future and plan that would never happen**. It took us years to recognize just how intense that process was for us, and we still feel it deeply today.
We have twins. Two amazing, healthy, extraordinary kiddos who can also try our patience and debate like no other. I am always mixed with being impressed and anxious for when their wit will finally smash mine. I love them so much.
As the years have gone by, I’ve learned to hold space for the conflicting thoughts and feelings of my both/and grief experience***.
I am a grateful mother, and I grieve for the pregnancies I lost.
My husband and I are both healthy, active people, and our bodies can’t give us any more children.
I am so happy that we found a way to parenthood, and I don’t have the emotional strength to do it again.
I am so grateful God gave us two(TWO!), and I realize we jump out out of phases of life together and I struggle with the idea that I am not soaking it all in because it won’t happen again.
As I put away the picture, I thanked my daughter for finding it, because the sonograms are our only mementos. She hugged me, and we went on with our day.
Later on, I was plopped on the couch, folding the laundry pile that never lessens. I started to think about what my grief has been like since our days of “trying to get pregnant” and all the feelings and changes it brought in us. Sometimes my body knows before I cognitively do. I’ll become cranky, tired, or more tearful, and when I take a moment to purposefully pause and assess where it is coming from, I’ll remember. I spend time with my grief. It lets me know, despite people not recognizing my loss (disenfranchised grief****), that my kiddos were real. And I miss them.
Some moments are harder than others, but I realized that my grief has taught me to love fully and presently with my children. I actively grieve in such a wildly beautiful way every time I hug my son, or sit and have “girl talk’ with my daughter. These moments give me the opportunity to act out all the love I have for all my kids. Despite the normal chaos and flexibility of parenting that is needed for all the unknown variables (like when your son gets a lego stuck in his nose), I recognize how my grief has integrated into my identity as a parent and a person. We talk about where their siblings are and what happened in a way that is age-appropriate for them, and we are aware that one day the questions might change.
October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. And while this is the month where women like me share our stories a little more… it is always there. There are so many layers of loss that are experienced, and to untangle them is done in one’s own time. And if that is you, I see you.
For more information on organization:
Sands - Miscarriage, stillbirth and Newborn Death support
MISS Foundation - Anticipatory Grief and/or death of a child
* Ambiguous Loss - Pauline Boss coined the term to explain define “an unclear loss with document of permanence of loss.” It can be a psychological absence despite physical presence (i.e. Alzheimer, Cognitive decline diagnosis, or active substance use disorder), or it can be the Psychological presence, and physical absence (i.e. infertility, deportation, incarceration, or missing loved ones)
**Nonfinite Loss - when an experience or hope falls outside of our expectations of what it would look and feel like.
*** Dialectical Thinking - the ability to hold two opposing or contradictory perspectives simultaneously
****Disenfranchised grief - grief that is unacknowledged or not validated base don socials norms (i.e. pet loss, miscarriage, loss of homes, health diagnosis, or loss of community)
Dedicated to the memory of our three in Heaven.
