The Question

I've been asked twice in the last week if I had kids. This is a really difficult question...to say 'no' is so easy, almost automatic, reflecting the reality of what I feel every day. But at the same time, 'no' is denying that Elise ever existed, denying that I was her mother...am her mother. Yet saying 'yes' requires so much more emotional work and I feel like I then commit myself to the explanation. I know I don't have to explain but that's what I do. I talk when I don't need to and I don't do very well with silences. So, a 'yes' is telling her story which makes me feel excellent because it needs to be told but is not always convenient, does not fit into a short pretty package, does not have a happy ending.

I've been interviewing candidates for residency these past few weeks and Tuesday the question came. I said 'no' well 'yes' and recieved an interesting look from the applicant. I then gestured to the photo of Elise on the wall in my office and said 'we had a daughter who died of a brain hemorrhage in October.' If I must critique the interaction, it went over quite well (as well as something like this could go) and the candidate said she was sorry and I thanked her it and that was that. Today, one of the other attendings at my hospital was talking about her son's grades and, out of nowhere in the middle of her story, asked if I had children. Without thinking I said 'not yet' and immediately felt horrible. Before I could say anything else, she continued with her story. I totally would not have wanted to talk about Elise in that crowded elevator but at the same time, I just felt so sad that it seemed so easy for me to say 'no.' I feel weak for not saying 'yes,' and angry at myself for caring about other people feelings, for worrying about softening the blow for them.

This experience reminded me of a passage from an excellent book my mom sent to me, Life Touches Life: A Mother's Story of Stillbirth and Healing, by Lorraine Ash. Even though her experience is with stillbirth, so much of what she writes about resonates with me and our experience with infant loss.

"Mothers of stillborn children often wind up soothing others...Eventually we parents came to realize that we may be the only firsthand witnesses of life's brutalities that some people ever know. Talking to us may be as close as many people have ever come to real horror. Perhaps stillbirth moms are all that stand between tham and the horror, and they desperately want us to keep silent about what we experienced. No matter how great the need to testify, most people want us to shield them from the blood and pain. They would rather not know. They are afraid to know."

I want to thank you for not allowing us to be silent, for wanting to know, for not being afraid to know, for being willing to embrace our horror with us. I want to thank you for all the amazing things you've said and done...things I would never have known or thought to say or do...things I will always do from now on.

One Month (Father's Edition)

Emptiness.  There's no other word that better describes it.  We had anticipated so much would happen in the month after Elise's birth...sleepless nights, constant diaper changes, feedings, the sounds of crying echoing through the house, and multiple opportunities to hold her in my arms as she dosed off to sleep.  Obviously none of those anticipated moments has come to fruition.  Instead, our house is eerily silent.  There's no crying, no dirty diapers, no daughter to hold in my arms.  

It leaves you feeling empty.  There's a void because we spent so much time and energy preparing "space" for her.  Space in our lives that cannot be filled by anything or anyone else other than her.  We have tried every day to put one foot in front of the other and continue on living our lives, but it's difficult when nothing is as you expected.  Nothing fills the space.

Things weren't supposed to be like this.  I shouldn't be waking up to an alarm clock, my daughter should be waking me up.  I shouldn't be able to sleep through the night, so maybe that's why I wake up at all hours for seemingly no good reason.  I shouldn't be lying on the couch with my arms folded across my chest, I should be holding Elise.  I shouldn't be wondering what to do with myself, I should be looking forward to spending every waking moment with Elise.  

Nothing is as it was supposed to be.  Elise's birth brought us to the top of the mountain, and we expected to stay there for years to come.  Instead, we got pushed off the cliff and began a free fall into a chasm so deep we never imagined it existed.  There's a tremendous void in our lives right now.  No matter how much we try to fill up our lives with other things, there's still a void, a space... a feeling of emptiness.

One Month - A Letter to Elise

Dear Elise,

One month ago tonight you came into our lives and changed us forever.

We fell in love with you again the moment we saw you, just as we had so many months before. You were perfect in every way, from your tiny fingers and toes to your head of dark hair. We loved getting to know you and just looking at your beautiful face. Did you know your eyebrows are just like mine? They end abruptly somewhere in the middle and restart just above where they left off, two brushstrokes of the Creator's hand. Did you know your forehead is just like your father's? Broad and distinctive, a classic family trait.

In the short time we spent with you, you gave us so much joy. We never knew how much our hearts could open, how the rest of the world could fall away when we were with you. We gave you all the love we could, every moment of every day we had together, and we hope you felt it. We want you to know we loved you every minute of your life. Oh, how we wish we had more time with you. There were so many things we wanted to experience with you, so many hopes and dreams for you in this life.

Elise, we still struggle to understand why you were called home to God so soon. We know that He needed you and that He doesn't make mistakes, but that doesn't make us miss you any less. We know we may never have all the answers and that will have to be fine. We do know we are different because of you. We listen more and criticize less, we try to talk with God more, truly experience nature, and value our relationships with people. We are more patient and less petty.

Our lives will never be the same, little girl, and that is a good thing. And even though you are with God, we will always be your parents and we will never forget the precious 4 days that we had together as a family.

Love,

Mom