While we feel alone, we are not alone. We are never, ever alone. Shame, grief, and deep sadness may keep us from sharing our stories, from being straight forward and broaching the statement.
I am a mother; yet the most important decision I made for my child was the decision to end his life before it even properly began. This decision was the ultimate act of love, of compassion, of empathy that we could have given to him. We ceased his suffering, and we made the decision to shoulder it on our own. There is no shame in that decision. There may be people who try to vilify C and I for decision; but those people do not understand. You don't understand the position anyone who opts to TFMR until you sit in their shoes. When you're laying on the table, or sitting in an uncomfortable chair, and expert after expert is telling you the same thing; that if they were in your shoes, they would end it all. Do you know how hard it is to stare someone in the eye, and tell them that their 20 week old fetus, an amalgamation of two people so in love that they created a child, that their little one is missing a vital organ, or a piece of their brain, and will never, ever live a day on their own? Or if that they do have the opportunity to breathe a few gulps of air, they will be in infinite pain and will remain that way until they pass ? Do you know how difficult those words are to deliver to a couple whose hands are intertwined beyond belief, with tears running down their cheeks, their hearts in pieces on the floor, and their minds and souls on another world? Until you have had to give or receive this information, you have absolutely no right to judge anyone sitting in those seats. You have no right to judge or condemn the couple whose ultimate act of love and compassion is to opt to shoulder a lifetime of pain.
These women cry in silence; grieve in silence. Walk into the bedroom and shut the door, and sob either guttural sobs or silent tears for the babies that have been taken from them. Babies conceived in love; fetuses only weeks or months old, already cocooned in the love, hopes and dreams of their parents and their grandparents. Millions of tears fall on Mother's Day; millions of fake smiles are worn, nods of understanding exchanged. But, these women push down their feelings, and continue with the day, continue with their lives, because if they do not, if they give into the pain, to the loneliness, than they lose the hope of becoming a mother. And the loss of that hope, is a tragedy far beyond comprehension.
Many of these couples have other children. They continue parenting their other children, despite the pain. They push it aside and continue to be role models and pillars of strength for their other children. But, when someone asks them how many children they have, they pause. They count the number of living children, and this is the answer that the person expects, but some of these women desperately want to include the the children who didn't make it; the ones that live in on their heart, mind and soul. The children who may never run around the living room, but are constantly running around their mind.
Then there are the men. The men who were waiting, ready to become fathers. Whose chests once filled with pride as they told others of their impending new addition. As they shared memories of their childhood, and what they couldn't wait to show and teach their sons. Eagerly awaiting the chance to meet their little boy, to show him the ways of the world, to educate him and to help him become a respectable man of the world. These men were also hoping to feel a tiny hand in theirs; and a little voice saying, "I want to be like you dad.". Words that now are only a distant memory, and a hope for the future.
Some of these men were preparing for daughters. For dresses, for pearls, or for softball, and field hockey; whatever their little girl desired. They were already fiercely protective of their little angel from the moment they heard they would have a daughter. Part of them changed. Their protective, paternal instincts kicked in. They would look at their wives and imagine their daughters as mini-versions of their wives; intensely beautiful, inside and out. And now, that image, is one that will be forever frozen in time; compartmentalized in the recesses of their brain, only to be opened in moments of weakness; perhaps on Father's Day.
I feel for C in a way I don't feel for myself. I know our pain and our paths of grief are different. I carried Olive for 20 weeks; because we had lost before, C was reserved, and it wasn't until we passed the first trimester that he began kissing my stomach good-bye every morning, saying good-bye to his son. He stopped doing that on 8/24, as it was late on 8/23 that we knew that our son was likely not fit for this world. C witnessed my break down, but held my hand through it all. Through every second consultation, through every visit to the ER when we thought it may finally be over. He watched his wife be torn to pieces while in his mind his hopes for his son, his future of fatherhood, shattered. The man even held my hand while the laminaria was inserted, as I sobbed, both from pain/discomfort, and from knowing that this very procedure confirmed the end of our son's life.
C had always imagined I would break his hand during delivery, while his son was entering the world around his estimated arrival date; he never imagined I would be doing it nearly 4 months early, when we both knew the baby would never survive.
The loss of a fetus, or a baby, whichever term you prefer to use, that brings you peace, is a record that doesn't stop; it's a soundtrack that is played on repeat; a symphony whose movements transition from joy and happiness, to sadness and despair in an instant. And this song plays indefinitely in your mind, and it radiates through you, and it influences every decision you make; whether or not you even realize it. Life changes. Life is never the same.
