In plain sight
"And after that, I figured out that any name that comes from Hebrew will indeed be the same in both English and the Old Country language..."
I had just explained how hard it was to find a name for Monkey, what with all the constraints we had imposed-- one of them being that the name sound the same in the two languages that were to be native to her,-- and the after that in the sentence was strategic. Deliberate. And painful. Out to dinner with JD's colleague from two jobs ago and her husband, lovely people, about 23-24 weeks along with their first now. I'd never met her before, and neither of us has ever met the husband. She got back in touch with JD recently, on one of those professional social media networks, and a few messages into the exchange suggested dinner.
I didn't lie. But I did obfuscate. The after that hid the stories of both of my sons' names. The realization came during A's pregnancy, after combing through piles of books and countless online pages. When he died, still nameless, the top two candidate names were from Hebrew. We picked one of them, the one we were leaning towards anyway, before he was born.
When we found out the Cub was also a he, I just wanted to go back to that Hebrew name well. JD wanted to look wider. In the end, we came back to it, and found one that couldn't have been more perfect for the Cub as an individual, but also for remembering and honoring his brother.
The after that covered that whole story. Or maybe it contained it, but it felt more like it was covering. And it was only one of about five times that evening JD and I didn't lie about our middle child, but neither did we invoke him out loud. At one point, the story of JD's best friend from childhood came up, the friend who died tragically young, and in whose honor we were looking for a name that started with an "A" for our son. This last part? We didn't bring it up. I think that was the point in the evening when I stared at the table for a while, missing my son and feeling shitty.
I unloaded, some, on the way home. They are lovely people, and we ended the evening with plans to keep in touch and to meet up again in a bit. And along with the sadness and the missing, the mastery with which the both of us, in perfect concert and without previous agreement, carefully sidestepped any mention of A was bugging me.
"Well, did you think we should've talked about him the first time we see them, and with her being pregnant?" JD asked.
And that's the rub. I like them, see. And they are just starting to form this image of us, the image I know is incomplete because, duh-- they think we have two children. I am not ashamed of my dead son. I love him, and I don't want to hide him. There was a time when I wanted everyone to know that he existed, that he was loved, that he is still loved. Now I have come to a place where when casual acquaintances don't know about him, I don't sweat it. These people though... Did I mention that they are lovely? And that we will likely see them again? So yeah... I want them to know.
I could get on my public policy high horse right now and talk about how health care providers should talk a lot more about dead babies, and about how if that was the case it probably wouldn't feel like talking about my dead son to a pregnant woman I am seeing for the first time is verbotten. But public policy isn't the point here. The point, I think, is that as things stand it didn't feel right to talk about him, but neither did it feel right not to.
And so I will say here what I said that night to JD-- we did the best we could in that particular situation, but I think I get to be sad about it.
If it's been a while for you, what do you want people you meet now to know about you? What do you want them to know about your reproductive history? If you are at the beginning of this journey, looking forward (if you can) what do you think you will want people you meet in a few years to know?
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Reader Comments (15)
I want Lyra as a part of our family story. I just don't know how to do it without being, as Jill mentioned above, the nightmare that new people cringe and shy away from. As friends fall pregnant, they know my story. I don't need to say anything new to them to be their nightmare. My mere presence, and Lyra's tattoo on my foot is a reminder of what is possible.
There needs to be a change...to educate better? Not to cause fear, but just awareness, so there's not so much isolation? Reproductive talk in anyway is tabooo though...infertility, miscarriage, stillbirth. It's only a "woman's issue" and only to be discussed between patient and dr...not at a dinner table.
It's nearly a year out. And Gabriel is still very front and center in our lives. It's not the first thing I blurt on meeting people, as happened once or twice shortly after his loss, but it's an enormous part of who I am and how I identify myself.
The kid question is still an easy one for me. I find I felt best when saying (upon being asked) "No, no living children. We/I have a son, Gabriel, who passed away shortly after his premature birth." Easy for me to say now, with practice, answers a lot of questions, gives them room to ask more if they wish without requiring them to do so.
It's the what happens after that I haven't quite figured out. Naturally, the I'm sorry follows - and then what? From me, a wave of the hand, a smile and thanks (for what exactly?) or what? Depends on mood.
Lately, I've felt a strong urge to try and cultivate new friendships or acquaintances. I am finding it hard some to be around many of my friends all the time because I'm just about the last childless one, and the only childless by circumstance over choice one I think. So as we approach the anniversary, it's hard to handle sometimes. And while relationships with those who have been there are wonderfully supportive and sustaining and normalizing for me, sometimes the sadness is too much.
I've found myself seeking out people whose circumstances are worlds away from my own. And yet, in doing so, I've not gotten away from our loss at all. In fact, it's still one of the first things I talk about. Not to every acquaintance, but to people I want to know better. I still spill it out there.
I'm realizing that it's simply one of the first ways in which I identify myself. It was such a seismic shift in my world - in a lot of ways, it's much like marriage. Not the only thing I am, maybe not the primary thing I am, but a giant part of me. So I definitely get caught in when is the right time and place to put it out there.
And a big hell yes to the pregnancy dilemma. I feel like a bad luck charm, or like a harbinger of doom. At the least, a giant reminder of the multitude of ways in which something can go wrong in pregnancy. And it does feel inappropriate to talk about Gabriel and the problems we had . . . but since I largely tend to avoid pregnant women I'm not already close to or who have lost children previously, I'm neatly side-stepping that for the moment.
I do think that if I'd known (like, known, really know, beyond knowing stats) how common babyloss still is (what 1-2 % of pregnancies lost after first tri meant for instance), I might not have been so shocked by it all. I wonder sometimes if women hundreds of years ago would think me indulgent for the grief I've felt - because it was a much more normal part of life. Now we tend to told and believe that doctors and hospitals can fix most anything, so it's almost a betrayal when they can't or don't.
We, the babylost, are always going on about how people say the wrong things, or don't get it - we're all blogging about it all the time, myself included. And the reason people say the wrong things or don't get it is because not enough people talk about it. Not doctors and nurses and not the women it happens to, us included. Everyone is worried about scaring someone, but honestly if someone had scared me when I was pregnant maybe, just maybe we'd have had a different outcome. At least I'd have been more aware and maybe that would have changed my decision making process. Maybe, just maybe I might have gone back to that hospital. I know my friends changed the way they looked at things after I had Hope and insisted on things that I most certainly should have. Sure, I might have also buried my head in the sand, I will never really know, but I do think we all need to be as vocal as we can about our losses.
An Ob said to me after Hope died that they don't mention stillbirth as a possibility because it would just scare women and make them all demand c-sections at 39 weeks. I don't think that would be the case nor do I think women are that stupid. It just lets us know the risks and lets us make more informed decisions. It is about informing, not alarming. Even if we only save ONE baby by sharing our story, that is still ONE baby. Hope was one baby. My baby. And I just wish she's one of the babies who could have been saved.
For me, I need to talk about her. I don't always come out with her story the second I meet someone new, but she's my daughter, my first born and she's as important to me as the son who followed 15 months later who is such an obvious part of my life. I want to share her and I hope by sharing her and her story, I can be someone who saves the life of one baby, even if I don't know it.
I agree though Julia, tough situation for you. I hope you can bring A up with them in a gentle way soon, whether she is still pregnant or not. Let us all know how it goes.
xo
Please forgive me, if my wording sounds strange sometimes, but I'm living in Germany and this is not my mother tongue.
My daughter died three days after her birth due to prematurity. This happened three years ago. My son was born two years ago, also seven weeks early. But he is doing well.
I have had an elder brother and an elder sister. Both died a few days after their births, also due to prematurity.
After the birth of my son I went to some gymnastic and new mother and baby classes full of mothers with newborn babies. In the first meeting of my first gymnastic class for new mothers I mentioned my daughter, because I felt that everyone should know about her. The result was a lot of crying by the other mothers and me feeling very embarassed, because I did not know how to react to this. Afterwards everybody avoided me right through the next nine weekly meetings.
This was, when I recognized, that I will always be very lonely in this "happy mommy" world. After this experience I stopped talking about my daughter in similar circumstances.
By now I have some new mommy friends and my son has some toddlers to play with. But these relationships always seem a little unreal to me, as I feel that those people do not really know me, because they do not know about my daughter.
Next month my son will start at kindergarten, where I did not mention my daughter either till now. I am not sure what to do about this. On the one hand I think, that my daughter not only deserves her place in our family but also in the public, and that I deserve to be recognized as a mother of two. On the other hand I am afraid, that not only me but also my son will become very lonely again, because parents instinctively tend to turn away from babyloss.
As a daughter of a double babyloss mother myself I can remember that my mother never had a lot of mommy friends. We always stuck to our family a lot. Other parents seemed to treat me as kind of special (child of doom???). Some children avoided me. When I was a child, I did not understand why. With hindsight, everything seems much clearer to me.
So, what shall I do? If I do not tell at kindergarten I cannot tell my son about his sister as well, at least until he is old enough to keep this to himself. What will this do to our family life? Not long and he will ask about the photograph of his baby sister standing in the open till now.
(New aquaintances never ask. I guess they think, it's our son on the photograph.)
I really do not know what to do.
But I'm all about denial.
Them: Do you have kids?
Me: We had twins, a boy and a girl, but they were born prematurely and passed away. It's been rough but we're getting through it and hopeful about the future.
Notes on performance: 1.) I deliver all of this *quickly,* so that the other person can't really react between the first sentence and the second. 2.) I say it--especially the last part--with a warm smile to signal "it's OK." Even when it's not OK, suggesting that it is often diffuses the other person's need to say something, which is where things can run away from you...
What I want to avoid is losing control of the conversation. To me, that is more difficult to bear than acknowledging Zoey and Gus. If I don't want to talk about the loss at length, then my philosophy is, "they're my children, so the conversation will be on my terms."
As I read recently on Ask Sugar, we live on Planet Dead Baby. And as I took that further, those other people who live on Planet Nike or whatever the hell they call that technicolor happy place, need to understand that without all their denial, we would live on the same planet. Anyway, living with a toddler and a dead baby has made me pretty good at discussing death without getting weepy and weird. And especially if that toddler has a dead sister, then we sort of have to speak of Lucy and the dead in general and she has become part of our lives. Things are very matter of fact around here. I just treat other adults like the three-year old. I talk slowly and assure them that some babies die, but not all babies.
The lady ringing up my groceries? She gets, "We are hoping to have children in the future."
My colleagues? They get, "We had a son but he was born prematurely and died shortly after his birth."
People I think I am going to have a friendship with? They get the whole story in all of its sadness and uncomfortableness. Complete with details. I figure if we are going to have more than a superficial relationship then they should hear it because, let's face it, my dead son is as much a part of my new (unexpected) life as he would have been in my old life had he not died. He is simply part of the package now.
Jenna is so central to my thoughts, I want to talk about her. There is a moment where I actually feel nervous, like I am in high school again, insecure, unsure. When I offer an explaination about her life and death and the conversation goes into the ditch, mostly I feel that the person didn't deserve to learn about her anyway and I regret my choice to share.
Other times (most times) I regret my choice to remain quiet.
I agree with Julia, I do my best in every situation, following that, I feel sad about it.
Funny thing, though- I was getting really ticked off for a while when my husband was telling our story to all the new folks he met. I wasn't comfortable with his leading with all that sadness, because I somehow thought it made me (not us- just me) look like someone to be pitied. I asked him about it one day, an he said, "This is part of who I am now. If you want to really know me, you have to know this." And, of course, he's right.
I'm with Niobe, though, about the not telling if no one is asking. Rarely do I just come right out and share. Unless I know the person knows, that is. Then I talk about Olivia much like I do at home. Going through this loss with a 3 year old is one of the best things that happened to me. I never had a choice about whether I'd talk about it or not. We just do. Children are very adaptive little things and I've learned a lot from my living daughter.
When I do broach the subject without knowing what the other person knows, I try to do what Elliza and Eric mentioned. This is what happened followed quickly with a wave of the hand and an okay statement. It was rough but we're okay. Don't leave much room for them to respond. It takes the onus off of them and allows you to control the situation. Yes, very effective technique.
Thanks for asking. Thinking it through helps. It's easy to get caught off guard.