[Trigger warning: photo at the end of this post.]
Today was the day that P-SIL became just SIL again: at 2pm in California, my niece, Little K, was born.
When I got the news, she was just under an hour old. I was sitting in an Indian restaurant with a woman, also a K, who I met in my Mindful Self-Compassion class. K knew that today was the day my P-SIL was to be induced. I said that I could probably really use a friend and if she could meet for lunch, I would be grateful. I didn’t expect P-SIL to deliver her baby in the early afternoon, so to have K with me as I got the news was a blessing. In fact, we had just been talking about Reiki when DH called me to say P-SIL had had her baby. No name yet. When I put down the phone, I was close to tears. K took my hand and held it. I began to tremble, my whole body shook like a leaf. After a few minutes, I was still spasming but felt pretty calm. It dawned on me that K was giving me Reiki. We stayed like that, holding hands across the table, me twitching uncontrollably, for 20 minutes. Afterwards, I felt drained but strong. I could go to the hospital.
I drove home to pick up DH, and we set off for the hospital. P-SIL was in the hospital next door to the one where I received all the medical care for my miscarriage, and where I will return tomorrow morning to discuss my endometriosis with a specialist and then have a thyroid ultrasound a few hours later.
We somehow found where we were supposed to go, and entered the lobby. At the information desk were two women ahead of us. I turned to my left and saw two pregnant women sitting in the waiting area, talking and rubbing their bellies. I’m okay… I reminded myself. The woman in front of us asked her question to the person at the information desk whose response was Oh, you’re here for the tour? I sucked in my breath. It was a tour of the labour and delivery facilities — the same kind I’d taken the evening before I found out my Bean had died. The flat-bellied-but-pregnant woman stepped away and DH asked his question. I heard the information person tell him Congratulations! and that’s when I lost it.
A few feet away, by the elevators, I broke down. DH told me we didn’t have to do this, it was okay if I wanted to leave. I slumped against the wall in floods of tears. At that moment, a woman appeared from the gift shop across from where we were standing. She asked if there was anything she could do. DH thanked her and said no. She repeated her question and asked me directly if I would like a glass of water or a soda. I looked up and said A glass of water would be great. She returned a moment later with two bottles of water and a travel-sized pouch of tissues. I asked her how much I owed her and she said Nothing. I hugged her and told her I appreciated her kindness, and explained that I’d had a miscarriage a few months ago but my SIL gave birth today. This woman gave me a huge hug and, as she held me, said You are so loved. She asked if it would be okay to offer a prayer for me and, even though I am not religious, I said yes. It went something like this:
Our Father who art in heaven,
please show this woman how much she is loved.
Give her the strength to carry on.
Fill her with your light.
And please take care of her little baby whom I know is in your loving arms.
Thank you, O Lord, Jesus Christ,
Amen.
She held me tightly as she whispered her most fervent prayer in my ear. I said Amen with the utmost gratitude. When I looked up and into this woman’s eyes, I felt better. I looked over at DH and his eyes were filled with tears. I thanked her and as we moved towards the elevators I told him that this woman gave me exactly what I needed: she saw I was upset, asked what she could do to help, persisted with a specific suggestion, listened to me without judgment, and honoured my feelings. She gave me kindness and validated my pain.
Neither of us is religious, but DH is less so than I. He later said that this woman was truly Christian. I told him that if I were religious, I’d say that God sent me an angel. And he agreed.
Minutes later, we opened the door to P-SIL’s room on the recovery ward. Our BIL greeted us cheerily, and P-SIL, looking high and worn out, outstretched her arms. I was able to hug them both and say Congratulations. We were told that the baby had just been taken away for a bath but would be back in 10-15 minutes. We were told that they had just that moment chosen a name.
I sat in a chair opposite the bed and let DH do all the talking. I thought about my Twitter friends’ messages: Dellaquella said she was holding my hand. FurrowedFox said I don’t have to be OK. Strong, yes. Polite, mostly. But OK? Nope, not required. And ConvertibleLife sent me a hug and a kiss, xo. I thought about these messages that I’d seen before entering the lobby. I thought about checking Twitter again, to give myself something to do. I thought about tuning out. But although I couldn’t participate fully through words and smiles, I paid attention to my surroundings. I noticed the décor. I listened. I nodded. I tried to crack a smile in the appropriate places.
And then there was a knock at the door, and a nurse rolled in a wooden cart with the baby, squeaky clean and bundled up in a hospital-issued hat and blanket. P-SIL asked DH if he wanted to hold her. I saw the worry in his eyes and the relief that he could sit down and be given the baby. BIL passed her over, and I watched my husband gingerly and awkwardly take his 4-hour-old niece in his arms, terrified that he would hurt her, and I felt a deep, deep pang. BIL laughed and told him he could relax. And he did. I saw DH begin to enjoy holding Little K. He crooned over her and said Hi! Hiiii… Welcome to the world.
And then it was my turn. I took the baby from my husband and softly said Hello there… I’m your English auntie. And I’m going to be the most awesome aunt to you, I promise. This little baby had kicked in DH’s arms, but was still in mine. I watched as her eyes swam and tried to focus on my face. I held her, and felt my chest heave and tears prick my eyes. I held her, and studied her face. I held her, and wished, so deeply, that she would help ease my pain. I wished that I would be looking forward to this very moment of my own just 8 weeks from now. I noticed that the room was silent. The conversation had stopped, even BIL had stopped texting. I didn’t look up, didn’t want to spoil this precious, most intimate moment with my niece.
I picture us, twenty years from now. I can hear DH explain how Little K has an extra-special place in Lauren’s heart because she’s the same age as the baby we lost. Little K’s face puckered. Oh, sweetheart, you look like you’re going to cry… that’s okay. Me too.
I handed her to P-SIL, and we began our goodbyes. In the elevator, DH told me how proud he was of me. I felt proud of myself.
The doors opened, and waiting for the elevator was an army of pregnant women, on the hospital tour. And that’s when I lost it for real. I fled past them, past the gift shop, and outside into the sunshine. It’s hard for me to describe how I felt.
I felt like I was going to pass out. I was proud of myself, but also so very, deeply, indescribably sad that I wouldn’t have this experience with my sweet baby in October.
Instead of being overjoyed at the first of two babies being born just two months apart, and asking my P-SIL nervous questions about her experience, I am still grieving hard. Pregnant women are still major triggers for me. I held it together in front of P-SIL, but I was distraught. I cried all the way home. Great, stammering, sobs, punctuated with gasps and shudders, that lasted an hour. And just when my mouth, squared in grief, had returned to its usual shape, the levee broke again and I was flooded with grief anew.
At home, DH asked how I feel when I see a pregnant belly. Square mouth returned. Pregnant bellies of all sizes, in person or in photos — hell, just even thinking about them — bring me so much pain. It’s so hard to see women who conceived their babies around the same time I did. It’s so hard to understand why they are still pregnant and I’m not. If this is all in vain, if it’s random, why me and not them? All I have is a broken heart and a plant to remember my Bean by. And, tomorrow, a meeting with a specialist in endometriosis to figure out how to minimise my risk of miscarrying again, followed by an ultrasound on my thyroid to make sure it’s happy. Why do other women get to have their babies but not me? I wish I knew.
I have lost so much… enough to write another post. But simply it is this: I wish I were pregnant, but I’m not. I wish I had a baby, but I don’t. Will it ever be my turn? I don’t know. And that’s hardest of all.
You are amazing for doing this.
I get by with a little help from my (computer) friends ;)
I’m sorry i’m so late to this, i only returned from holiday yesterday. I thought of you all day Monday, wondered how you were getting on. You are so so brave. I have been in tears looking at that photo, not because its upsetting, but because its beautiful. Wish I could give you a big hug. Thank you for your posts and the turthfulness in them. Everything you write has given me comfort and helped me through the last few months. I know i’m not the only one. I hope and pray that this story has a happy ending…Im sure it will xx
What a lovely comment, Sarah, thank you. I’m glad I can somehow bring you a little comfort. We are none of us alone. I hope all our chapters have happy endings xo
If it is what you want, you WILL be a Mom someday. Every tear, every moment of heartache – it will all be worth it. I HATED when ppl would say that to me when we were deep in ALI hell, but it’s a statement that is so true at the heart of it all that you just have to keep coming back to it. That doesn’t mean it’s fair or right that some people have to struggle SO HARD to get to that point, but somehow, someday, you WILL be a Mom, and you’ll read back over these posts in awe of your strength and so proud of how far you’ve come.
You did amazingly well yesterday – thank God especially for that woman who took the time to be a good Christian and a friend when you needed it most. I pray your time to hold your own take home baby in your arms is on the horizon.
You’re so right, Josey. *I will be a mom someday*… And maybe, like you and others on this bumpy path, we will be better parents for the experience. (By better, I don’t mean “than other people”, rather “than we otherwise would have been!”)
Thanks for cheering me on! Yes, that woman was amazing. Her persistence paid off.
And, as they say in Bulgaria, “From your lips to God’s ears!” xx
I can imagine the pain this brings you. But you were successful– you met your sweet little niece (who will love you like crazy) and you were polite and kind to your SIL. The fact that you’re on the unlucky side of things while your SIL gets to experience the lucky side? Completely unfair and heartbreaking. You handled things as best as can be expected. Hugs.
Thank you soooo much for this. I want to be gracious and kind, even when I feel like throwing a chair across the room… Hugs to you too x
You are so much stronger than I am, my dear. My trigger is women pregnant with second babies. And families of four. That’s all I ever wanted. I still haven’t met a dear friend’s second child, and that child is now over a year old. I have two friends currently pregnant with their second, and I can’t see them. I just can’t. Give yourself some credit- you did an amazing thing going to see SIL and the new baby. It’s very hard to draw strength in the face of such grief, yet you managed to do it. I wish I could say that it will get easier with some kind of certainty, but so far, I can’t. That’s not been my experience. But what I can say is that the time between waves of grief will get longer and longer, and the good days will outnumber the bad ones again. I can promise that much. Stay strong- you are loved! We’re all here for you…
Oh, Catwoman, how I wish all our dreams could come true. I think it must be hard when you already have a child and grieve a loss of a second. I have read that a common response to someone like you is “be grateful for the child you do have” — has that been your experience? I sincerely hope not, and yet, judging by some of the fucking inane things that have been said to me, I wouldn’t be surprised…
I picture grief and good says as valleys and peaks. I think I might be getting to a point where the space between the valleys is larger, but, as you say, we have triggers and they can send us plunging down the mountainside!
Here for you too, friend xx
Oh honey, I’m sorry I missed your tweets earlier today. I would have sent you strength. That lovely lady really was an angel. Sending you lots of love and virtual hugs. Xx
Your sweet message was perfectly timed xo
I’m so sorry that your heart had to break again. Your longing and heartache are palpable and valid. I love you.
I love you too, friend x
How amazing that you were given that angel. And how painful that you were faced with that fleet of pregnancy.
I’m so, so sorry, Lauren. And I hope you know that you truly are loved.
I’m beginning to, thank you. No idea why, but that’s a post for another day :)