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When Eve, my first child, died inside of me, I felt lost and afraid.
What would become of me, of my marriage?
Could I survive my daughter’s stillbirth?
Where was God, and why did He let my only child die?
Most importantly, who was I now that this gift of a daughter had been snatched so cruelly and inexplicably from me?
In the end, I did survive Eve’s birth, although it was the most horrible thing I have ever had to do, birthing her dead body into this world on November 20, 2011. My marriage is standing strong, and God has made His presence in the midst of my grief obvious. I am grateful for these things . . . but I still struggle with who I am, with what my identity is now that stillbirth has robbed me of something (and someone) so precious.
Pregnancy and birth, reproduction – these are basic things that it seems any human couple should be able to accomplish. And yet my pregnancy, that blissful time of growing and waiting and expecting the new person growing within me, failed. It did not bring about life. The only thing I birthed was death.
And so I wondered, and still wonder, am I a mother? Am I a woman? Am I even still human?
These are questions that I do not know the answers to. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
If a mother is someone who creates, what do you call a person whose only pregnancy ended with tears and sorrow and pain? With an empty crib and piles of little girl clothes that will never be worn by the baby they were bought for?
Creativity has helped me to survive this feel of exclusion, of non-motherhood, non-humanity.
It began the day after we arrived home from the hospital, with arms empty except for a few precious memory tokens. I felt a pressing urgency to do, to create. So I got out my camera and began photographing the only possessions I owned that held any importance to me at the time – the casts of Eve’s hands and feet. I photographed them, and every single item in the memory boxes our sweet nurses had put together for us, then immediately uploaded them to my computer and edited them before sharing them with the world.
Although it did not take away the confusion or the emptiness that follows in the wake of stillbirth, sudden and unexplained, taking photos did help me feel better in some way. Like I had done what little mothering of Eve that I was able to do.
Not many weeks later, I took our dogs to hike some nearby trails. I had walked these same trails countless time when pregnant with Eve, and my first return to the well-worn paths shocked me with the pain it brought. I had shared this place with Eve, one of the few places I would ever share with her, even if it was in a limited way. And so, feeling again that urgent need to capture the small handful of memories I had with Eve, I photographed nearly every step of those trails. And again I felt comforted.
The mixed media art that I create and the writing I do on my blog have also brought comfort, although of a different kind. I returned to art-making just days after Eve’s death and birth, seeking a way to process my loss and grief, and began blogging regularly after a few weeks. Both helped. I wrote and painted out my confusion, my fear, my sorrow, my anger, and my questions. I did not find any answers in the process, but I did find some measure of the peace that comes from entering in, from feeling the feelings and letting them change you.
So who am I now that the precious daughter who would have been the result of the most profound act of creation that I could ever do has died? Am I a woman? A person? I still don’t know. But I do know that I can create lovely photographs and pieces of artwork that comfort me, honor Eve, and encourage others walking a similarly tragic path.
It is not enough, not enough to make up for losing Eve (as if anything ever could), but it is something. Something important, and something good.
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About Beth
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I am so sorry for the loss of your precious little girl. I too lost my baby Cameryn in November 2011 – to miscarriage @ 10 weeks. Thank you for sharing
Thank you so much for your kind words, Michele, and I’m sorry about the loss of your sweet Cameryn, too. Big hugs.
I am so sorry for the loss of your precious little girl. I too lost my baby Cameryn on November 1 2011 – to miscarriage @ 10 weeks. Thank you for sharing. I hope your art continues to bring peace to you.
I am so sorry for the loss of your precious little girl Eve. I too lost my baby Cameryn on November 1 2011 – to miscarriage @ 10 weeks. Thank you for sharing. I hope your art continues to bring peace to you.
How deeply I empathize with the sentiments you express. After William was born at 23 w, and died after 7 short days, I came home with a similar box of memory tokens and very desperately empty arms. When we walked in the door from the hospital, all of our things went into a scattered pile and I picked up the scattered pieces of a quilt I’d started for William – my first quilt for my first baby. I worked on it for hours a day, finally finishing it a few weeks later. Its sitting on a shelf now, waiting to be donated to the NICU that so lovingly cared for my little man.
Quilting has become a bit of an obsession. I’m close to finishing a baby quilt for my pregnancy buddy, who is only a month away from her due date now. In my heart, I’ve adopted her little guy as my own, and I’m stitching quickly to have it done in time for his arrival. Already I have a pile of fabric for a bed quilt for my husband and I – and I’m waiting to see which of my friends will be receiving my next baby quilt.
I don’t know who I am any more either – my identity has been so marred and changed by the loss of my son. Along with adding “grieving mommy” to the list of roles I play, I’ve added “quilter.” I don’t know what that means for my future, but for my present, it is a reassuring part of this new person I am becoming.
Thank you so much for sharing that, Amanda! I think donating that quilt in William’s memory is such a great thing to do — both for other grieving/NICU mamas, and for yourself, not to mention to keep his memory alive. I can totally identify with your feelings of obsession about quilting — I can get VERY focused on creative tasks now, and I suppose an outsider would call it obsession. But really, there’s healing in there, too. I’m glad you’ve found that outlet. And it is so good to know that I am not alone in grappling with the “who am I now??” question — although I wish none of us had to.
You’re right, Beth. The “who am I” question is so painful; and so many of the answers I keep finding are awful. But there have to be good answers there, too. It will just take some time to find them.
I’m sorry that you’re finding some not-pleasant answers. But I know that there are good ones, too! We’ll find them eventually…
I too turned to, or rather found, creativity after our son Liam was born and died soon after. At first it was writing … pouring out my sadness and despair in blog posts and poems. Then at some point came painting. The photography. The images would fill my head and demand to come out, helping me to release the building despair. I thank Liam for my creativity as it was not present in such a vibrant way before him.
Isn’t it so strange how the deaths of our babies can cultivate GOOD things, like creativity? It’s insane, and seems impossible — but it’s true. I’m so glad that your writing, painting, and photography blossomed from the ashes of Liam’s loss for you. “Vibrant” is exactly the right word to use.
Wow. This really, really spoke to me. I lost my first child too–a daughter. I asked myself more times than I breathed that first year if I was still a mother. Then I lost my fertility and asked if I was still a woman. I can relate to so many of your emotions. I too turned to creativity, though for me it was in the form of writing, as a means of survival. Your artwork is beautiful by the way. I am a bit further down the road of grief than you are (I lost my daughter Peyton in 2008) and have found a lot of healing, but reading this post really spoke to those early days for me. Thank you for sharing–your art and your words.
I love how you put it — that writing was a means of survival. We grasp onto whatever lifeline we can! I didn’t know that about Peyton. Thanks for sharing. Hugs.
Beautiful Beth your ART your WORDS and your HEART!
Thank you so much, Tesha
About a week after my son died I got up in the middle of the night (wasn’t sleeping anyway) and put together a photo book in almost a manic desperation. I can’t explain it fully, but it did ease my mind and heart for a bit. Photography has brought me more comfort than almost any other thing. Thanks for sharing
Thank *you* for sharing, Jamie. I totally understand that desperation. After months of putting it off, that’s how my Eve’s photo album finally got put together.
We lost our sweer Ramsey in November of 2011 due to hydrops. She was 2 days old and our 4th child, only daughter. I am a
Doer and started a non-profit in Montana to pay for baby’s funerals under the age of one. It gives me hope, makes my heart happy and allows Ramsey’s precious name to be heard. Kisses to heaven for babies! Where are you in Montana? I am in Billings!
Wow that is AWESOME, Kori! I’m in Missoula. Going to check out your website now…
We honeymooned in Montana and Wyoming. My husband and I live in northern Colorado.
westerners unite!
I am also someone who survives by doing and have found a willingness to try things that I previously balked at since losing my little boys, identical twins Alan and Bruce at 22 weeks to IUGR. I delivered them on 3/24/12. My writer’s studio is finally functional and soon to be finished (I am a writer by profession). I’ve been painting, knitting, and creating centerpieces. I will be putting together a video from their pictures and completing the pregnancy journal I started as a kind of goodbye. I haven’t been ready to do it yet. I will also be volunteering with foster care so I can honor their memories by doing something positive for the world.
What a beautiful tribute to your boys, Deborah. I’m so sorry that they died, but that you are finding ways to honor them. One day at a time. It took me nearly 6 months to be able to put Eve’s photos in an album.
Hi Beth
I wanted to thank you for your contribution to this magazine. I have been umming and ahring over making an album for my daughter Caitlyn and after reading this I feel I have arrived at my answer. I am so sorry for your loss, to feel life inside of you and then to hold your child as their eyes remain closed and silent is the worst feeling in the world.
I pray that you continue to find comfort in your amazing art and healing through our God x
Thank you so much, Michelle. Big hugs to you.