Why Are We Talking About This?

Pregnancy And Infant Loss Awareness Month

Their clothes are dusty.

When I pulled them down from where they hang to take the cover photo for this post, I realized they had collected dust. What could possibly speak more clearly to the way I feel right now than dusty, unused baby clothes? Dust collects on untouched surfaces. Unused. Unneeded. And the passage of time can be seen in how much dust there is.

I touch their clothes, periodically. I run my hands over them in passing, or touch little details here and there, staring absently. I hold them and cry. But I haven’t been able to bring myself to touch them in a while. Sometimes grief is just too much.

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. I talk about this subject fairly frequently, and sometimes I think it would just be easier to stop. Don’t worry about writing this, let someone else do it. But that’s when I remember why I write about this — who is the someone else?

There is still quite a stigma surrounding the subjects of miscarriage, and stillbirth, and infant death. It confuses me. On the one hand, I can see how it’s uncomfortable to bring up. It’s a painful subject, and we don’t want to make anyone sad or worried. But on the other hand, I think the silence here has done exactly what silence on most issues tends to do: create shame and cast blame.

Shame to discuss something so personal. Shame at still feeling it whenever you do. Shame at “failing.” There’s the blame: failure. OUR body failed. OUR pregnancy failed. OUR uterus wasn’t compatible. And the questions of “concern” or “advice” don’t really help. “Did you take your vitamins?” “Did you have too much caffeine?” “Have you tried ‘x’ to stop miscarrying?”

Pause.

Your miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant loss was not your fault.

Deep breath.

Again.

Your miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant death was not your fault.

Deep breath.

Again.

My miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant loss was NOT MY FAULT.

Deep breath.

Unpause.

There aren’t as many people talking openly on this subject as you might think, especially when you see the numbers: 1 in 4.

1 in 4 of your friends has lost a child. You may be the one, or another one.

There are way too many of us, and yet… silence. Silence is not the same as quiet. Quiet is time away. Quiet is privacy. Quiet is peaceful and restful. Silence is lethal.

When women miscarry but fear telling anyone, they are immediately at risk on so many levels. There is the physical risk of not seeking medical help. There is the psychological risk of experiencing PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, and more with no support system (which, by the way, can also lead to an increased risk of self-harm and/or suicide).

But let’s take the risk out of it. It’s still just really fucking sad and lonely.

I have a friend who was raised a Christian and had sex as a teenager, got pregnant, and miscarried. She was heartbroken and ashamed and afraid and told NO ONE for YEARS. She held that sorrow inside and suffered alone for YEARS OF HER LIFE before she heard me speak on my miscarriages and told me. I was the first person she told… because I was the first person she had ever heard talk about it.

I have a friend who is married and several years ago suffered a miscarriage right before the holiday season. And she didn’t tell her family, because it would be too painful to talk to them and have them not understand.

I have another friend who miscarried last year, and I’m the only one who knows. She’s afraid to talk about it and get all the awful reactions.

There are more. A LOT more. But you get the idea.

Those of us that talk, talk because we know how hard it is to talk. We know your voice deserves to be heard but that it’s hard and scary, and so we tell the world on your behalf and ours. We talk because people need to continue to be aware and educated on what it’s really like when someone loses a child, at any stage, and they need to stop being assholes about it. We talk because even in the medical community women are often treated coldly in the process because, well… the baby is already dead. There are living babies and mothers to care for now.

We talk because, surprisingly, even though it’s hard, talking is also somewhat of a relief.

We talk so that you know you aren’t alone, and not just in the loss, but ALL the moments after. Examples:

I, too, know the feeling of finally getting rid of that thing you bought for your baby.
I, too, know how suddenly something random can become incredibly significant. For me, it’s things like Finding Nemo, Peter Pan, the ocean, mashed potatoes, red fall leaves, apple cider, and rocket ships, to name a few.
I, too, know what it’s like to have amazing sex and then panic immediately after.

I could go on. You are not alone.

And I talk because my kids deserve to be talked about.

Mason Grey was my first. I was 18 when I was pregnant with him, and my Christmas Eve was chalk full of morning sickness. He would be 11 years old now.

Reed August was my second. Josh and I were newlyweds. He would be 7 1/2 now.

Anabal Serenity was my first baby girl. We had been trying for several years at this point to have a baby, and I still remember my total elation seeing that positive test, even though I was crammed into an RV bathroom. We were visiting Josh’s grandparents in upstate New York in the Fall, and it was gorgeous. Anabal would be 4 now.

Everly Isabel was next. My little enchanted forest fairy. She would be 2 3/4 now… almost 3!

Solar Royal came next. Number 5. We chose his middle name for Josh’s grandfather, who passed away the previous year. Solar would be 1 1/2 years old now.

And Oliver James. My little ocean boy. We lost him last year, and we would be celebrating his first birthday at the end of this month/beginning of next. I like to think he would have been a Halloween baby.

Six children, gone. Six little lives that I carried inside me. Six tiny humans who wreaked havoc on my body and made their presences known. Six sweet chances. Six heartbroken, terrified, gut-wrenching, sickening, plummeting, torturous, earth-shattering moments of loss.

And the world expects us to stay silent.

Fuck that.

I’m here, and I’m with you. I’m here, and I’m talking about it.

I won’t stop.

Why am I talking about this?

Because today I brushed dust off of their clothes, and cried, and no one knew.

And I know I’m not the only one.