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The birth story. Told. Re-told. Mythologised and chronicled in baby books. Discussed. In staff rooms and workplaces. Amongst family and friends. Details. Hours. Pain. Interventions. Baby weights. Husbands, fainting or strong. Midwives, calm or anger inducing.
The story. Once told, we are never the same again. Perhaps that is why it is so often revisited amongst new mothers.
But some stories are not created to be told. Their telling is squeezed out of them and their participants are left, silenced.
My first pregnancy ended disastrously early. Two daughters, born too soon and sick. When I finally resurfaced, I discovered that the world did not seem eager to hear about my girls, for the most part it clamped its hands firmly over its ears and walked away as fast as it could. Understandably. Who wants to hear a sad story when there are thousands upon thousands of happy alternatives? The only reason you might seek out a sad story is when your own is a perfect match. Sad to sad. Snap.
This story, my story, was a little more complicated than usual. This wasn’t a story where something nearly went wrong, where a doctor saved the day, where it all worked out ok in the end. This was not the story of a close shave with just enough drama to make it interesting. This was a story where something did go wrong. Very wrong.
So I wrote down my experiences, my twin pregnancy, my excitement, my happiness, my morning sickness, my bulging stomach, the kicks, the pain of childbirth, the overwhelming love I felt for those two tiny children who seemed to light up the entire sky, just for me. I wrote it all down, I folded it up, over and over, and pushed it deep into my pocket. Hidden.
Disappearing myself and my children. Denying my own experiences. So that I didn’t know what it was like to be pregnant, so that I didn’t know what it was like to give birth. I erased it away. And when those discussions arose, the swapping of birth experiences and pregnancy tips, I simply sat, impassive. Because what could I possibly add? Nothing at all.
Sometimes I sat and I burned, biting my tongue. As I listened to another complaint. About pain, waiting too long, unsympathetic medical professionals, about experiences that fell short of some imagined idea of ‘perfect.’ In another world, perhaps I’m joining in, bemoaning how it didn’t quite go the way I wanted? But you and I here, we know what ‘perfect’ truly is, don’t we? When it comes to childbirth? Alive. Other things might be nice but they are the icing on the cake, the dot on the i. If you don’t have alive, you don’t have anything. Nothing else can make up for that lack.
The stories of babies who die before, during or shortly after birth seem to be hidden stories. Our pregnancies, our births, our experiences seem to disappear. Just like our children.
Our stories are poured out in bright words on a screen, or written down in journals, or spoken in front of audiences who know what they are about to hear, who have braced themselves in advance. They are not for coffee mornings or casual get togethers.
My world had been shaken up, rearranged, everything put back in a slightly different position. But when I returned, to friends, to work, it was as though nothing had ever happened, as though I had never left, as though I had been on holiday.
It’s disconcerting. I still find it difficult to know how to talk about my first pregnancy, how to mention ‘my girls.’ When I do, people hear a slip of the tongue, imagine that I misspoke and made two girls from one. I don’t want to make people feel awkward, I don’t want to upset people or to hurt them.
And yet, I would still like to talk about the experience of being pregnant with my twins, just every once in a while. I love them you see. I love that time of my life. My memories of my first pregnancy are some of the happiest that I have. Sometimes I would like to dwell on them. Just because the story doesn’t have a conventional happy ending doesn’t mean that it doesn’t have its own peculiar beauty, that the whole thing should be written off. It doesn’t mean that, just once in a while, I might like to unfold my piece of paper and hold it up to the light. To say, “look, weren’t they beautiful? My little daughters. Forget what happened to them afterwards. Do you see them? Aren’t they amazing? I love them so much.”
How do you feel when you are involved in a ‘birth story’ conversation? As though you can join in? Or as though you should keep your story hidden safely away?
Do you ever wish that you could talk about your experiences with pregnancy and birth more openly? Or would that simply be too painful?
Is there anything you would like to tell here about your own hidden story?
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About Catherine
Beautifully written!!! It was so hard for me to share with others in the very beginning.
A very long time after our son was born with Angel Wings, I was at work. By then, the whispers had made it through my entire, large workplace. Out of the blue, in the cafe at work, a woman I knew and hadn’t seen in awhile, asked me how my son was. She had forgotten that I didn’t have my son. I didn’t have a tally of long nights, no sleep, sore-ness from attempted breastfeeding to share. I didn’t have a pile of moments in my head when I would be holding him and thinking he is the most beautiful boy in the world. All I had was the memory of my 20 week pregnancy, his birth and the 8 hours and 52 minutes that my husband and I got to be with him before being discharged from the hospital. The visit to the funeral home while on the family vacation to get his small body released to my home town. The return home with surgery due to the out-of-state hospitals over-sight. Picking out his burial plot and planning his funeral. Saying good bye to my son leaving me again into the earth the day before Easter.
I took a deep breath and thought to myself: “Even if just for a moment, I am so sorry, but I am about to make you very uncomfortable” and I replied: “He could never be better or safer. God takes care of him, and who could do better than his Mom, but God.” Her face dropped, her apologizes ran over themselves. I smiled. I said it was okay, because it was the truth. Every parent wants to always keep their children safe, parents of Angels know that there is no safer place they can be.
When women start talking about their pregnancy and delivery, I share my story now too. Not to make them uncomfortable, but because he was my son, I birthed him, and his story deserves to be told too. I do feel bad that someone might be a bit uncomfortable, but afterwards, they can bury that story and never think to it again, while I treasure it and nurture it, because it is one of the few memories I get to have of my son. I feel like I owe any acknowledgement to him that I can.
I hope you are able to find a comfortable balance. I hope you are able to share your story of your girls when other Mom’s share their own story. It possibly sounds harsh, but we are not to suffer alone and it is a part of our lives. If people are uncomfortable with our story, it proves even more how much it HAS to be discussed. Loss is terrible. Would we be less likely to share the passing of a close friend or family member? Of course not. Pregnancy loss someday needs to find it’s voice, and it is people like us, sites like this, and projects like the STILL project that will help that voice be heard.
Oh JennRose. I’m sorry that you were confronted with that question at work after the loss of your son. But your response was absolutely beautiful and has brought tears to my eyes.
Such a lovely description of how telling the story of your son’s birth is your way of treasuring and nurturing him. I hope that I will find that comfortable balance you describe.
I love this article, its speaks the truth so beautifully. My son was two days old when he died. And although i have told his story many times to many people, mine remains hidden. A truth that no one wants to hear. A truth that no one dares to ask about. When your baby dies, you lose so much more than what the world perceives you have lost. Thankyou for sharing this beautiful post. X
‘When your baby dies, you lose so much more than what the world perceives you have lost.’ So very, very true. Perhaps that is why our stories, or a portion of them, remain hidden? Because it is such a deep loss and one that is difficult to comprehend if you have not experience it yourself perhaps?
I’m so very sorry for the loss of your son Helen.
I too, lost a twin, my daughter, the sister to her twin brother, at nearly 36 weeks gestation, and so I share many of the same feelings that you do. Almost four months out, I finally got the courage to type our birth story out last week. It was therapeutic, and I am glad I did it, but I still feel those pangs of sadness and longing when the inevitable birth experience conversations come up. Like I am hiding something, or not honoring my sweet baby girl’s memory by choosing not to participate. Maybe someday I will have the strength to share it freely. I hope for that.
Great article, thanks so much for sharing. I think your sweet girls are lucky to have a mama like you. xo
I hope it helped to write down your birth story Katie and I’m so very sorry to read of the loss of your twin daughter. I’m so heartbroken for you, to carry your twins to such an amazing gestation and to lose your little girl. I hope that you will be able to share the birth story of your twins if that is what feels right for you.
Thank you for your story and your courage to tell it. All of these stories are horrifying, and beautiful, all at the same time. We have a special bond as mothers who have lost a dear child.
Yesterday was the 18 month mark for my loss. I was “only” 10 weeks along. I went in for my second US after seeing a little heartbeat 4 weeks earlier. My whole world crashed and the room started spinning as we discovered there was no heartbeat. My doctor was very compassionate about taking me out back so I didn’t have to walk through the waiting area alone. My husband was working out of town, so I had to drive home alone, and I don’t even remember that drive. We picked up my Rx from the pharmacy the next day and hunkered down for a long weekend. I put four cheap pills inside of me and waited. As the pills began their work, I laid there and cried. I progressed into full labor and by the next morning, I delivered my tiny baby, and not long after, a placenta. It was over. My heart was broken, and after a couple of days of “I’m sorries,” the world moved on. I should be over it by now. I should be so happy I got pregnant, I can always have another…things people say in their attempt to say SOMETHING. Eighteen months later, I can’t help but not be over it. I should have a 9 month old sitting on my lap. Instead, we are in the midst of infertility and trying to get an ounce of hope each month after another cycle starts. I think one of the ironically hard parts is that I sometimes feel envious to mothers who have had a stillbirth…it’s irrational and stupid. But, I think to myself how nice it would have been to have a real baby, a body, a funeral, and some acknowledgement that you really lost a member of the family and people could actually see that. Then, I think how “lucky” I was to not have to go through the pain of a stillbirth or infant loss. Then I come back to my senses completely and the tears come and I remember that every one of our stories is drenched in tears and I wish none of us ever knew the pain of missing our babies. But for some reason, we do know the pain. And we all know each other through the pain.
Marcy – I am so very sorry for the loss of your baby, that you didn’t that sweet little heartbeat at your second ultrasound. Those ‘you can always have another’ and other clumsy, well-meaning remarks can really sting, even when we know that they are kindly intentioned. Hoping for you, so very much x
I feel happy that I get to contribute and laugh and share with other women. Then I can’t help but get sorrowful over the end of the story. The pity that comes along with the conversation is the worst part. I never tell the end, just what I got to experience when things were good and happy. But they all know I have no child running around with theirs in the yard so they automatically make the sad face and the head shake and the “It’s gonna be ok” thigh squeeze. I like telling my story. I like remembering Jack and the funny pregnancy stories
I’m glad that you can tell your story of your time with Jack and the funny moments in your pregnancy. It is lovely to be able to share those happy memories but yes, it is always hard when we reach the end of the story. Very hard indeed.
Catherine,
thankyou for sharing, and to all the ladies who have commented thankyou for sharing.
I lost my baby boy during childbirth. As his head crowned he was alive but then there was a severe shoulder dystocia and the midwife couldn’t get him out fast enough. His cord had been pinched during the dystocia and he was too long with out air.
My reaction to women talking about childbirth first is panic. I can’t breath and suddendly I am in that moment begging for God to breathe life into my baby. To me, the story of his birth is the story of his death.
In the early months I wanted to tell and retell his story. For the first year after his death my mind was on instant replay of all those events. I was in shock and I think hearing myself tell it again and again somehow helped my mind to accept that what had happened had really happened.
I had to be careful of who I told though. I learned that some people would always find a way to blame me. Our situation is a little different because we used a midwife and had planned to deliver at home. Many times I have gotten a reaction similar to, “Well that is why your baby died, you had a home birth.” As mothers we pile all the blame and guilt of our lost children onto ourselves and the world has no idea what they do when they try to add to that guilt.
Today I am different I don’t talk about his birth at all, but relive it daily in my mind.
Anyways, this is getting too long!
I can completely identify with this. Our daughter also died during childbirth, and was alive while crowning. Her cord was wrapped twice around her neck and she was just stuck in the birth canal for too long. We also used a midwife but were at a birthing center. Eventually we were transferred to the hospital, where they used a vacuum and she was born within minutes, but it was too late. I, too, to over every minute and wonder when things went wrong; we didn’t know she wouldn’t make it until they’d worked on her for some time. I am pregnant again and so replay her delivery over and over and wonder what I should do this time.
The flip side of the coin is that I LOVED being pregnant, and had an amazingly happy and easy pregnancy. I cherish these memories, and the memories of her birth. It was a long and difficult labor, but I did it without drugs as I had hoped, and I am proud of this. Of course I wish the outcome were different, but my story of my pregnancy and of her birth is all I have of her, so they are precious memories. I wish I could share them with more people.
My daughter would be 9 months old today, and I’ve found that with time some people who initially were very wary of talking about it have come around, which has been wonderful. I don’t tell everyone I meet what happened, but it is always a blessing when someone asks a detail and I get to share my daughter and her story with them.
I’ve found it’s not only the birth story I have been longing to share, but also my pregnancy. I experienced what others commented on: people acted like I’d just been on vacation or something and now that I was back to work it was back to normal, like nothing happened. My life just changed in the biggest possible way and I had to pretend like nothing had happened. It was so, so lonely.
Thank you for bringing up this topic and allowing all of us to share our stories and how keeping those stories to ourselves has been so hard. It’s wonderful to acknowledge all of our babies here and know people will appreciate them.
Laura – I’m glad that you have those precious memories of your pregnancy with your daughter, such a happy time. I just wish that your story had a different ending and that it were just the beginning of lots of cherished memories of your little girl. I’m sorry that you’ve had the experience of people expecting you to carry on as though your entire life had not changed but it is wonderful that people are coming round and that you are able to talk about your daughter to them now.
Megan – I can only imagine the panic that must set in when you are confronted with conversations about childbirth. I certainly also had a deep need to tell anyone who would listen what had happened to my daughters during those first few months. I agree with you, perhaps it is a way for us to start to believe that this has really and truly happened? When it all seems too awful to be real?
I am so deeply sorry for the loss of your son and that some people have blamed you. You would never, ever have intended this outcome. You would have done anything to protect your little boy. I wish I could take the guilt and blame away from you.
I am so lucky in that I have amazing friends who have been willing to hear my birth story, some pieces of it multiple times. I treat it like it’s normal, and they receive it as that. I don’t know what I would do with strangers, or new friends. It would certainly be hard to bring up for those that don’t expect it.
I’m glad that you those amazing friends Beth. I don’t think that those friends who are prepared to listen to us will ever understand how truly special they are to us.
Thank everyone for sharing. My wish is that someday society will accept infant loss as realistic and not something so taboo. I admit before having my miscarriage at 12 wks6 days I knew nothing about infant loss or how common it was. Only thru experience have I learned how lonely it can be but also how it connects you to others like you. I dont often tell my story as I can’t handle the looks from people or the fake pity. My clise friends and my baby loss moms know my story. As they are the only ones who understand why 15months later I’m still grieving. I read a post on here that said’ I am jealous of stillborn moms’ and I can say I know how you feel. Without a body, a funeral a gravesite to visit I believe it is so hard to find any closure. I am not jealous or envious of any parent losing a child no.matter how little or young. It all hurts too much to put into.words. I.have ‘squirt’ tattooed on my wrist in my babies honor. Only when someone asks what I means do.I reply ‘its my angel babys name’
Donna, I was exactly the same. I had no idea about how common infant loss was before it happened to me. It is something that often people tend to keep hidden away. I hope you can find some comfort from connecting with others and I’m sorry for the loss of your little squirt.
Catherine, you say so perfectly what I have thought so often. There are a few people in my life who know my daughter’s story, who will listen openly when I talk about her. They do not hide from her death.
It does feel lonely though, to not be able to talk about her with just anyone. Like she is my biggest secret. Like the one of the best parts of me must at all times be hidden away.
Catherine, I think this is one of my favorite pieces that you have ever written. There is so much truth to it that I want to print it out and fold it into my pocket of stories because you could not have put into words how I feel more eloquently. So much love to you.
Thank you Jessica. That means a great deal to me. Love to you too xo
Wow this was powerful and really touched me. I am so torn when it comes to sharing delivery details with people – and it all depends. On the people, the situation, and how I think they will respond to not just my story, but my child. Because I just don’t want him to be a sad outcome that no one wants to hear about. And when people ask me questions about pregnancy and delivery – it not only makes me feel better, but it validates his short life and I know we all crave that so much as baby loss parents. We crave for them to be included in stories, and discussions – but not for the tragic outcome, but rather the wonderful and perfect little people they were.
The other thing that complicates things for me is that since I now have another living son, I sometimes talk about his birth and his delivery and then feel guilty for not talking about my other son. Oh, it’s all just so tough isn’t it?
Caroline – I think that is exactly it. That validation, acknowledgement and inclusion. Yes, the story has a sad ending but that does negate everything about those wonderful little people that we knew far too briefly.
I have also had a subsequent pregnancy and birth which I do tend to discuss. But I don’t tend to mention the twins’ and, like you, I feel guilty about that. You’re right, it’s tough. I wish you didn’t have to know this situation and I’m so sorry for the loss of your son.