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When Georgina died, I felt like the only person on the planet who had ever lost a daughter of three days old. The only person who had expected twins but was only able to bring one home. The only person who had watched her baby take her last breath and been unable to make her take another.
I remember sitting in that bland hospital waiting room and thinking to myself, ’But surely this sort of thing doesn’t happen these days? Perhaps my grandmother’s generation might have lost babies in infancy or shortly after birth. But not in England. Not in 2008. I did everything that they told me to do. Perhaps it was that cup of coffee, that hair dye? Or perhaps it’s just because I am a rotten person? Perhaps I didn’t deserve her?”
I sat, I thought. I questioned myself, I pleaded. I felt extremely lonely. In that ugly room with its formica floor and scent of disinfectant.
I think that we all grieve the loss of potential here, a child that might have been. And it’s hard to explain to others what we mourn for. A baby, a child, a teenager, a young woman or man, an adult, their children, their old age, their grandchildren. Worlds upon worlds of loss.
Why did it have to be me? Nobody I knew had ever lost a baby. None of my friend’s children had ever died before birth, or shortly after, or at a few weeks old. Just me. Alone.
Or so I thought.
Slowly, slowly, the stories edged out from their hiding places. From under hearts.
My baby died. My baby died. My baby died.
I’ve heard it so many times now. But it still sounds wrong. As though those words should never be forced together.
Others I only have a suspicion of. A certain kindness, a sympathetic leaning towards. That angle means so much when the rest of the world seems determined to tilt away from you as fast as it can. Acute.
I can never bring myself to confirm it, to ask, “How did you know what to say?’ But there is something in their gentleness that makes me wonder who they miss, who they yearn for.
Mourning for a baby can be such a lonely grief.
Grieving for a person that you had such a close connection to. Perhaps you were their mother? Their father? Their grandparent? Their aunt? Their sister? Their brother? A person who you dreamt of. Hoped for. Were so proud of.
But that nobody else ever got to meet.
It is lonely. I can’t deny it. Four years on, I sometimes suspect that hardly anybody grieves for Georgina as I still do. The child who I once held safe inside my body, enclosed and protected.
I think that we all grieve the loss of potential here, a child that might have been. And it’s hard to explain to others what we mourn for. A baby, a child, a teenager, a young woman or man, an adult, their children, their old age, their grandchildren. Worlds upon worlds of loss.
Because if your baby does not survive birth, or infancy, or is never to be at all. That is what vanishes. A world in its entirety.
But, whilst it may be lonely, I’m never alone. I take my place in the shuffling procession of mourning parents, that move through history, red-eyed and bereft. Those of us towards the back anyway. I’m here. Class of 2008 is where you will find me.
I reached out. I reached and a hand grasped mine. A voice said, “I know. I know. I didn’t know her. But I know.”
I looked up. I looked at my companions. And I knew that it wasn’t my fault. Because if it were. It would have been theirs too. And that could never be.
When I can, I put my own hand out. To repeat those same words. Because here we are. I didn’t know your son or your daughter. But I know. As far as I can. Because nobody else can fully know the grief of another. But. Just a little? Perhaps? We are all so alone. Yet we are together.
Those parents up in front. I see their clear eyes, some reddened, some searching for the horizon. I see their limbs, some crumpling, some standing so straight and muscular that I can scarcely believe it. I wonder if those muscles may be mine someday. I see their faces, as they move forward. And I see the love. Sometimes I think that is all this place is about, this magazine, our photographs, our flags, our words. It’s love.
In this procession that nobody wants to be a part of.
But I can’t regret the company.
And I’ll never regret the love.
Do you feel lonely or accompanied? Did you find companionship and understanding where you did not expect any? Have you been lucky enough to have a hand reach out to grasp yours?
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About Catherine
Bittersweet. Thank you.
Thank you Gramma Vicki.
Your writing is so beautiful.
I have been so blessed to find companions. My son is buried near the daughters of two ladies at my church – how often I have found comfort in that: he doesn’t dwell alone in that place where I cannot go. These women, only a few months ahead of me in that line of grieving parents, have understood. Another friend, 15-20 years from four losses, is the one with strong muscles and clearer eyes. She knows, so very deeply, and can testify that sorrows last for a night and then joy comes in the morning.
Thank you for reminding me how blessed I am, even though I walk such a terrible path.
Thank you Amanda Z.
I’m so glad that you have found companions to walk with you. Your description is perfect, ‘a place where I cannot go’ and I think that it helps so very much to find understanding amongst other parents. I’m sorry that you have to walk this path x
This is beautifully written. While I have never dealt with a death during infancy and cannot imagine the pain of that, I recently suffered a 2nd trimester miscarriage – that my body never realized, and found out during a routine visit at my OB’s office. I, too, felt that no one knew my pain – and while many do not, the stories began surfacing from people I know, just as you said. It was endlessly sad for me to hear story after story of women who have been through losses, but at the same time so incredibly comforting to know that there were women who understood my sorrow. It was helpful to see the strength in these women as they have begun to heal and move forward.
I am so deeply sorry for the loss of your sweet Georgina.
Miranda – I am so very sorry to read of your recent loss. My daughter was born just between the second and third trimesters. My body didn’t know that anything was going wrong either.
Those stories that surface bring endless sadness but, you’re right, they also bring comfort x
Thank you for this post. I consider myself very fortunate to have found a couple of support groups that have helped me to work through some of my grief — even when I don’t comment or engage in conversation, it helps to know that other parents are going through the same sadness and loss.
Heather – I’m so glad that you have found support groups that have helped you. And, you’re right, even when I don’t engage or comment, the words of others are very helpful, I know that I’m not as alone as I feel.
Your words and honesty are just beautiful as always. I cannot ever say how grateful I am for the company of others who have lost a baby on this journey although I wish we were joined together for such different reasons. Thank you.
Thank you Abbie. I also find it hard to articulate how grateful I am for those of you who listen and who understand how I feel xo
Just so perfectly written Catherine.
At the moment, 3 years on (and 2 rainbow babies later, so lucky) I am struggling with the full meaning of the loss of our baby boy. Harry.
…..Worlds upon worlds of loss….
Your article has really helped.
Thank you so much.
Thank you Sally. I’m so sorry for the loss of your son, Harry.
And I know that, however many years pass, however many babies I am blessed enough to bear, it is still. Worlds upon worlds of loss. Her loss. Harry’s loss.
Beautifully said.
Thank you Jamie
I am also part of the Class of 2008. A friend carried our rainbow twins, in 2009. Their birth brought so much joy, and much relief to those around me, assuming that the grieving portion of my life was over. They were wrong. I’ve been free falling in my grief. Alone. This magazine, this community with the flags, pictures and Love have been a much needed safety net.
Thank you, for allowing me to grieve, and for standing beside me in the journey.
Oh Lori. I know that the birth of your dear twins must have brought you so much joy and happiness. But I also know that it isn’t quite as simple as that. Because all children bring their own love with them. They don’t detract or add to the love we feel for their brothers and sisters.
Please don’t feel alone. We are here. Standing with you x
Your story is so similar to mine. In 2008, my twins were born at 25 weeks, 2 days. 3 days later, my one son was taken off of life support and died in my arms. My survivor is now 4.5 and not a day goes by that I do not think of my dear baby boy. For the first week, I thought I was alone. I never knew that babies can be born, let alone survive at 25 weeks. I thought I was the only one that had a loss of a twin. It wasn’t until the next week that I found out it wasn’t just me. There were others who were put through the same torture as me. 100 days in the NICU for my survivor and I had to watch as many twins came and went. Always thinking, that will never be me. Thank you for sharing your story. I wish we did not have to be on this journey, but am thankful there are others who understand.
Jodi I’m so sorry for the loss of your son. Such a painful decision to take and the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do that, to watch my little girl die. I also didn’t know that babies could be born so early or survive. I think I imagined that I would be told that I was having a miscarriage and that the babies would, somehow, simply vanish? I never realised that I would have to give birth and that my little girls might be born alive. I also remember watching all those twins come in and out over the months I spent in the NICU with my little girl. And I also thought, ‘that will never be me.’ It still hurts.
Thank you Catherine,
I so understand what it means to grow up with just one twin…
My twins were born 1 September 2011 at almost 35 weeks and I also held my little one, Hope, in my arms as she passed away on day 3 as we took her off life support. They were identical twin girls and often I wonder what Hope would have looked like or how she would have been. Ananda Mae is 14 months today and I’m also very grateful to have her and experience motherhood.
We will always miss Hope…
Thank you for your sharing.
I’m so very sorry that you lost your precious Hope. Always loved and so deeply missed. I also often wonder what Georgina would have looked like, what her personality would have been. And it’s so sad that we will never know the answers to all the questions that we have about our girls.