The alternate universe
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The other day I was standing outside my office, talking on the phone. A former coworker walked by and caught my eye. It was a woman who I’d worked with while I was pregnant — let’s call her Jill — but both of us had transferred to new positions before I gave birth.
I was mid-sentence with the person on the other end of the phone, so we wordlessly acknowledged each other. I saw Jill’s eyes light up as she mimed the shape of a pregnant belly.
Oh my god… I thought. No one told her.
As I continued my phone conversation, Jill energetically pantomimed something to the effect of Hi! Last time I saw you, you were pregnant, and you must have had the baby! Congratulations! I signaled back with a grimace and gesture at the phone to indicate that I was on an important call and couldn’t talk right now. Eventually, Jill waved in understanding and continued walking past.
My shoulders dropped in relief as she turned the corner. The news of my daughter’s death had never found its way to Jill. I had run into her, unaware and happy to see me. This had happened before, of course, but those encounters always ended in me breaking the terrible news and watching the recipient’s face crumble. The difference this time was that after our run-in, Jill was still walking around in her version of reality in which my daughter was alive and currently at daycare (probably the daycare I put her on the waitlist for while I was still pregnant). During my wordless interlude with Jill, I’d gotten a glimpse into an alternate universe — the one I wished I lived in, in which I had a phone full of photos of my soon-to-be toddler. The one in which people’s faces light up when they run into me on the street.
That was actually my first clue that she didn’t know: she was happy to see me.
People now greet me with concern, pity, or a slightly-too-long hug and the carefully enunciated “How are you?” But it had been months since someone greeted me with pure excitement. Not that insincere, please-let’s-pretend-everything’s-fine forced cheerfulness, but genuine, unselfconscious pleasure. I wanted to let Jill walk around in that bubble a little longer. I enjoyed watching it, remembering when life was that way. I know I’ll run into her again someday, and I’m tempted to just continue the charade. I’d give her a hug and say It’s great to see you! I can’t talk now because I need to pump breastmilk before my next meeting. She’d commiserate about how hard it is to balance work and being a new mom. I’d say Let’s grab lunch sometime, girl! We need to catch up!
Of course, I can’t do that. Surely my charade has already come crashing to the ground. Jill has probably spoken to another of our former coworkers by now, who would have said, Did you hear about Nori? So sad, isn’t it?
But for a moment, I had a peek into that other universe. I hope, someday, it overlaps with the one I’m living in now. I walk down the street and run into an old acquaintance. They know my first child died, but that was years ago. They’re happy to see me. I show them the photos on my phone.
How has it been to re-enter the world after loss — especially in the shared space of work? In broader social realms, how do you protect — or make vulnerable — the narrative of what happened to you and your child?