by Grace Burberry-Martin
It’s okay if the only thing you did this year was survive.
My picture-perfect pregnancy came to a sudden, unexpected end on February 21, 2019. After an uneventful workday, I began to experience discomfort that I soon realized was not normal.
I spoke with the on-call midwife at our hospital who advised us to come in for evaluation; my husband and I were admitted to the labor and delivery ward less than 30 minutes later, but by then, it was too late.
In a shockingly short period, I had inexplicably gone into premature labor, and the on-call doctor could not keep the sorrow from his voice when he told us there was nothing the medical team could do to slow down or stop my progress. I delivered our son that night, and at only 22 weeks, he was unable to survive.
In the immediate aftermath of my son’s death, I felt a desperate need to do something, anything, to bring meaning to our loss.
I felt like I needed to channel my grief into something productive that could reach beyond our family and friends.
Our son wouldn’t have the opportunity to grow up, but maybe he could live on in other ways. During one of many postpartum appointments with our midwife, she and I talked about ways I could contribute to the loss community and make some positive impact in my son’s memory.
I could start a non-profit in his honor and raise funds to help other loss parents pay for hospital or funeral expenses.
Or, I could consider a career change and use my professional skills to support the mission of an existing organization focused on maternal and fetal health, like March of Dimes.
The possibilities (and, therefore, the ability to focus my energy on something other than the crushing sadness I constantly felt) were endless.
I’ve always enjoyed writing, so I decided I wanted to start by writing about our experience to reach others who have gone through something similar.
Especially because we were in somewhat of a medical grey area, I thought that the catharsis of writing about our experience would serve two purposes: honor my son’s memory by telling our story for the world and help others walking the same path feel less alone.
I took two months off from work, so I figured I would have plenty of time to gather my thoughts and turn them into a coherent, impactful narrative.
But as the weeks went on, I couldn’t find the words I was seeking. I felt overwhelming pressure to come up with something profound, significant, and ultimately hopeful, especially for my first writing on the subject.
I started and stopped several times, but nothing I managed to piece together felt authentic.
Frankly, I didn’t feel like my son’s death held any higher meaning, and I didn’t feel particularly hopeful for the future.
Most days, I felt cheated, bitter, and angry with the world.
So who was I to write anything for anyone else to read?
As I continued to struggle to put pen to paper, I felt immensely frustrated with myself.
Not only could I not keep my son alive, I couldn’t come up with something even remotely helpful to say to other people in my same situation.
I felt like the last person who should write an uplifting piece to share with the loss community, so eventually, I just stopped trying and gave it up as something else I had failed at for my little boy.
Grief has taken me through a dark and winding road as I continue to grapple with my son’s absence from my life.
Milestones have passed, holidays have come and gone, and that cold night in February continues to recede further into the past, although it is never far from my mind.
With the holiday season in full swing and with a New Year right around the corner, I paused recently to reflect on the past year and all that’s happened.
At this time last year, my husband and I were in the midst of excitedly sharing the news of the impending arrival of our first child with our family and friends in cute and clever ways through personalized Christmas gifts and holiday-themed announcements on social media.
What do I have to show for myself now, ten months later?
What have I done this year that’s meant something?
The more I wallowed in the thoughts of a wasted year without my son, the worse I felt.
And then, something occurred to me: I survived.
Maybe I didn’t start a non-profit organization or write an award-winning thought piece full of profound revelations for the child loss community.
But I did gingerly pick up the pieces of my shattered world and start to put them back together. I fought through the immeasurable weight of heartbreak every morning to get out of bed and make it through the day.
Perhaps for those who are fortunate to be in different circumstances, merely getting from one day to the next with few (if any) other accomplishments is insufficient to deem a year a success.
But for many of us who have experienced the agony of losing a child, simply going to sleep each night and waking up each morning is enough of an achievement for now.
This year, I bore the unbearable; I continued to live after my son died.
And that’s enough.
To my fellow loss parents, especially those navigating the tumultuous path of early grief, allow yourself a moment of grace.
We have plenty of time to pick up the mantle and make the world a better place as a way to honor the babies we’ve lost.
When we’re ready, no one will shout louder or fight more fiercely, but until then, celebrate the small victories and be kind to yourself.
It’s okay if the only thing you did this year was survive.
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