There are so many things I lost when my baby died. I lost my baby, obviously, but there were a million secondary losses. One of the big losses was the sense of community. I was in the “expecting” community, then all of a sudden, I was not. If you are the type to join the “bump groups” on reddit or Facebook or anywhere, where you find thousands of women looking to have babies around the same time, all of a sudden you are left behind. Personally, I’m not that kind of gal, and those groups always made me a little uncomfortable. However, last year when I was about 20 weeks pregnant with Maliyah, I did join a local moms group, looking to see where people were signing up for daycare wait lists, what the going rates were for nannies in the neighborhood, and who was selling second-hand strollers, etc. When I came home from the hospital empty-handed and empty wombed, I immediately exited all of those groups and it was devastating.
But I’m pregnant now! I’m back in the club! The COOL MOMS CLUB! The regular moms club! Except… I don’t feel part of the club at all. In fact, I feel exactly the same as I did before, like I have a dead baby. Yes, I’m growing a new one, but I feel completely out of the club.
I didn’t realize just how “other” I felt until last month, when I saw an Instagram friend repost from Vogue Weddings the announcement that Sophia Richie Grainge was pregnant. The photo showed her in an unbuttoned, oversized men’s shirt and underwear, belly on full display. It had 1.9 MILLION likes. I saw it, visibly cringed and recoiled, and clicked away. I couldn’t look at it. I had to take a moment and realize my own reaction. Why was I so uncomfortable seeing a woman pregnant, when I myself was pregnant with a little bump of my own? I reflected on how I felt the week prior at my doctor’s appointment. As it happens when you go to a maternal fetal medicine specialist, most of the people in the waiting room, indeed are carrying babies. It’s why they’re there. But to this day, I look around the waiting room and I can’t stand looking at them. I find myself averting my eyes from anyone pregnant, even walking past strangers on the sidewalk.
After Maliyah died, when I had to go to my doctor for follow-up appointments, I was similarly disturbed and triggered seeing pregnant women. I thought this would be temporary because of grief and trauma, and that I would somehow find myself “fixed” and “back in the in-crowd” once I was pregnant again. I’ve been waiting for this moment, but it hasn’t happened and now I’m not sure if it ever will.
Whenever I think I’m in the clear and I’m feeling more part of the club again, I get shoved back into my place by random seemingly-innocuous conversations. Since I’m in my mid-30’s, of course more and more of my friends are expecting (living) babies. Therefore, many conversations revolve around upcoming births. I was feeling so much better about these conversations. After all, I have one coming up, too (hopefully). But recently, I realized my worries and complaints are just SO DIFFERENT from other expectant mothers.
Once you have a kid, if you have living parents or in-laws, you also make them grandparents. What a gift! I know my mom is dying to be a grandma with a new tiny baby to hold. I also know that some people have overbearing parents and grandparents. Recently, some friends were talking about their parents/in-laws and their involvement in their kids and lives, and I again realized how different my guilt and struggles were. Don’t get me wrong, everyone complains about their parents and in-laws, and I don’t want to minimize any of their struggles, but in 2022, I promised my parents they’d become grandparents and then I gave them a dead grandkid. Instead of visiting their new grandkid in the hospital, they came to visit me, babyless, hooked up to an EKG and 4 IVs. That’s not what I promised, and my extreme feelings of guilt for letting their grandparent dreams down by giving them a dead grandkid, they just don’t compare to all of the “regular mom” guilt.
Now, two years later, I am once again promising my parents another grandkid. Hopefully this one will be alive. My friends complain about how involved their parents are, imagine how uninvolved they’d be if your kid was dead? Imagine how hesitant they’d be to show their excitement if they weren’t sure if this one would survive? Or if they weren’t sure how you’d react to the excitement because you were so terrified yourself? My parents are scared to even ask about my pregnancy unless I bring it up. We have been very clear about not accepting gifts yet because of our extreme caution. I wish more than anything that I could be a “regular” mom getting gifts from excited grandparents-to-be, but instead, we just skirt the subject and wait with baited breath.
The subject of me feeling so incredibly “different” came up recently when I was talking with my husband. He asked who I told about the pregnancy, and I told him that all of my close friends and immediate family knew. He asked what they thought about it, and what they said. I said, “well, they said congratulations, but I don’t really talk to them about it. Who wants to know about my hundreds of appointments and blood draws?” He was pretty surprised to hear I don’t discuss my pregnancy with my friends, since I am so open and outgoing and extroverted usually.
For weeks, I thought about why I don’t feel comfortable talking about it, especially now that many of my friends have kids of their own. I think that is actually why. There are two groups of friends, the people who have babies now (many of whom I was SUPPOSED to have a baby before), and the people who don’t have babies. My friends who have never been pregnant don’t really understand, and those who have been pregnant but haven’t gone through an extremely traumatic loss, I feel like they can’t relate. Sure, I could talk about the scans or the tests to my friends with kids, and they would be able to speak knowledgably about them because they had the same ones. But I doubt they had panic attacks in the waiting room every time. I doubt they didn’t sleep for weeks as they waited for their metabolic blood panel to come back. I doubt they broke out in a cold sweat in the Uber on the way to the hospital. I doubt they literally sob EVERY time they have an ultrasound. I doubt their charts say “SIGNIFICANT ANXIETY” in all caps in the notes section.
I could share more with friends, but I don’t feel like anyone would get it. I’m not a regular mom, I’m a loss mom. Some of this could be in my head, and I like to think all of my friends are sympathetic people, so even if they couldn’t have empathy I think they would feel bad. But I don’t want my friends to feel bad, I want them to understand and it feels like no one can. That’s what the internet is for, I guess, to find other PAL moms who similarly have panic attacks in waiting rooms, and can suggest their favorite progressive muscle relaxation techniques when they feel the cold sweats coming.
My regular mom friends with living kids talk about picking baby names. One mentioned how they settled on a name months before the birth, but they wanted to reserve the right to change it if the baby didn’t seem to match the name. For me, I have a list of names, but then a backup list of names for if the baby is dead. I have my top favorite names, and then I think, “if this baby dies too, would I want to save that name for a living baby? Would I ‘waste’ it on another dead one? What is the meaning of the name, and would it be awkward as a memorial name instead of on a breathing kid? Like if it means energetic or ‘full of life’ isn’t that weird for a dead child? Does the name go with Maliyah’s name? How would it look on a memorial necklace next to hers?”
Regular moms don’t think about those things when they’re deciding names. Regular moms think, “Is this a pretty name? Do we like it? Are we naming them after someone? Does it go with the last name?”
Loss moms have a list of names that go with their last name, and a list of names that don’t, because last names don’t really matter when the baby never gets a birth certificate. Every single decision is made differently.
I’ve talked before about how my excitement is different than other moms-to-be because mine is complicated and tinged by 100 other emotions, and I had a perfect example of this a few weeks ago.
I mentioned to a friend when I announced my pregnancy to her, that I think my body looked at 12 weeks the way that it did at 24 weeks with Maliyah. When she heard that, she told me it made her want to see bump pics. I have a complicated relationship with bump photos to begin with, since I’m not 100% comfortable with my body changing outside of my control, so even with Maliyah, I didn’t take many photos of my changing body, and I certainly did not share them publicly.
When my friend asked me for a bump pic, I told her I didn’t have any. But then I remembered, I did. The morning of my doctor’s appointment at 10 weeks, I took photos in the mirror. I had completely convinced myself that I was going to find out that day that my baby was dead. I was sure. I told myself, “I better take a photo of myself so I have something to commemorate this baby.” I took a couple photos before I put on an outfit and headed to the doctor, where I found out that everything was perfectly fine.
I had actually forgotten about those pictures. I didn’t take them to flaunt or show anyone. I took them for future memories when I figured I’d be left with nothing else. Empty womb, empty arms, yet again. I needed something to put in the memory box.
Regular moms don’t do that or have those thought processes. Regular moms take photos for Instagram or to send to friends and family. Regular moms hold up avocadoes to compare their baby to an inanimate object. Loss moms think about putting photos and memories inside an inanimate object since that’s all they are left with.
I will admit, it made me really sad to realize that the only reason I was taking pictures was because I thought they’d be the only ones I’d have. I realized I had been doing that with other things too. For this pregnancy, I saved the pregnancy test (in a ziplock bag because ew), and I saved my wristband from the hospital from my 12-week scan. I worry that these are the only items I’ll have to remember this baby.
I have tried to think differently and get excited about this new baby, but as you read, it’s been difficult. I get very sad when I see happy and naïve people post pregnancy things because I’m jealous. I wish I had that excitement. I wish I could excitedly receive gifts. I wish I could confidently schedule a baby shower. I want to be a regular mom. But I’m not, I’m forever and for always a loss mom.
(Written at: 13 weeks, 0 days)