Grief and Pregnancy Loss

What’s in a Name?

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Naming someone is a huge responsibility. You are deciding what a human will be called for the rest of their life.

When I found out I was pregnant, I knew I would take this responsibility seriously. Part of the reason I was so invested in this process was because I hate my name. It is so common, so typical. Everyone knows an Emily. Actually, everyone knows multiple Emilys. When a person hears my name is Emily, they automatically know what they think I’ll be like. They preconceive my personality, my appearance, and they probably assume I’ll be a white girl in her 20’s or 30s. And they’ll be right.

The first time I realized how much I hated my name was in 9th grade when I went to sleepaway camp and in my bunk of 20 girls, there were 4 Emilys. Someone who did those assignments was surely chuckling at our confusion, but for us it was annoying. I remember each Emily came up with a nickname so we could tell each other apart, but my “nickname” was just “Emily.” Lame. Just last month I was in the airport when some “Emily” was late for her flight that was boarding at the gate next to mine. They kept paging an “Emily” over the intercom and I kept taking out my earbuds to see if it was me. But no, I was not traveling to Minneapolis, it was just another one of the million Emilys.

I have been pretty vocal to my parents about how annoying this is. Sure, every time I go to a souvenir shop I’m guaranteed to find a keychain or magnet with my name on it, but I also constantly answer to strangers who are calling out in the grocery store for another Emily. I go to Orangetheory, where they put your heartrate zones on a tv screen and sort them by first name. I’m constantly squinting across to room to see which Emily I am on the screen because there is ALWAYS more than one Emily in class. This is such a pervasive issue that the New York Times had an article about the extreme amount of Emilys recently. At least 10 people sent the article to me, since my friends know I complain about this all the time. I, of course, forwarded it to my parents to show them that I was not alone in my strife. There are too many of us!

When Chris and I tried to come up with names for our baby, we couldn’t agree. I had 4 things mandatory on my list:

  1. Unique
  2. Easy to pronounce
  3. Gender neutral
  4. Good nicknames

Chris and I had a Baby Names app where we could swipe right or left on names we liked or didn’t like, sort of like Tinder for names. We could do this asynchronously, and we were notified every time we had a match. Chris and I both had so much work and personal travel my first and second trimester, we were often not in the same place and this helped us move the name conversation forward without long, in-person conversations. I swiped and swiped (mostly left) and waited for a match. Matches did not happen often. Even for the names we agreed on, when we talked about them, we usually decided they weren’t top of our list, they were just “maybes.”

That is how we ended up in the hospital at 6 months pregnant, with the unexpected imminent birth of a child and no name.

Of course, we ended up with a dead daughter so there was no birth certificate, and no name was necessary.

I didn’t really think about a name after I gave birth. I didn’t think about anything. I was completely numb and I was on a lot of medications. I hadn’t even known she would be a girl until she was already gone. I went home from the hospital in a daze. Later in the week, I tried to rifle through the packet of papers I had received from the hospital. Some of the things were not helpful, but at the back of the packet there was information about support organizations. A lot of them were specific, either to religion, or type of infant or baby loss, but there was one organization that seemed local enough and broad enough to be helpful. I found their website and saw I could request a free peer counselor via webform. Since I was struggling to speak, this seemed easy enough. I wrote something like “I lost my baby over the weekend, and I wonder if you can help.”

The next day I received a call from one of the volunteers coordinating the program, and she asked me questions, trying to get more information so she could match me with the right peer. I cried silently through the conversation, but I don’t think she could tell. She said, “does your daughter have a name?” I was frozen. I didn’t even think of her as my daughter yet. People had never said that. At the hospital they tip-toed around terms. They were more concerned with my health and getting me in good enough shape to discharge from the hospital. No one wants a bereaved woman on the maternity ward, least of all herself. No one at the hospital called me a mom since the first night in triage when things started going south, no one mentioned my daughter. No one said “death” or “died.” There was vague conversation about “loss.” And here was this woman on the phone talking about my baby in the present tense, acknowledging she was a person, a girl, my actual child.

I said, “no,” because I couldn’t even bring myself to say, “we didn’t name her” and acknowledge “she” was a “she.” The woman on the phone said, “we really encourage moms to name their babies.” I thought, “Moms?? I’m not a mom I have no baby.” What I said was, “why would I name a dead baby?” She had a lot of reasons, and they all seemed equally as dumb to me. I was trying to FORGET that I had been pregnant. I was trying to forget that I had a baby, and now I don’t. I was trying to forget that for the brief moment in time when I did have her, she was killing me from the inside physically, and now she was killing my soul. Eventually, the woman on the phone stopped pressing the name thing because I was clearly not engaging, and she moved on to other topics. At the end of the conversation, she brought it up again. She really urged me to think about it, because in her experience, she had found naming a baby helped people heal and move forward. I agreed to think about it.

But I didn’t think about it. I went through the motions of living. Waking up. Staring at the wall. I went on walks to kill time. I saw doctor after doctor after doctor. None of them asked about my baby. It was all about me. Was my liver still failing? What caused this crazy fluke? Did I maybe have one kidney? Did I have an auto-immune disorder? The conversations of the long-lost baby were forgotten.

Meanwhile, I started following many dead baby accounts on social media. I listened to innumerable podcasts on my endless walks. On every single one of these accounts, people talked about naming their children and the way these moms talked about their children was heart-warming. I started to change my mind. I talked about it on support groups and with my therapist at the time. I decided to talk to Chris about it. He didn’t really see the reason for it. I tried to explain that it all felt made up. I felt like I dreamed up our whole pregnancy. She was inside me and now she wasn’t. No one knew about her. No one even knew she was a girl. How was I supposed to wrap my mind around the fact that “it happened” when “it” was a person, and that person didn’t have a name?

A few weeks before I was admitted to the hospital, I had asked Chris to send me his list of names from the Baby Names app. After our conversation months later, I went back through his list of names. The very first name on the list was Maliyah (muh-LEE-uh), like Malia Obama but with a more beautiful spelling. I absolutely loved the name immediately.

All of the reasons I wanted a gender-neutral name did not apply to a dead child. She would never go through the world. She wouldn’t have to deal with people’s assumptions before they met her because no one would meet her. No one would ever see her resume. I also cared less about having an easy-to-pronounce-by-sight name. No substitute teacher would ever call her name in class. I still wanted a unique name, one that showed everyone how special and different she was to us. I needed a name that made us think of beauty.

I looked up the meaning of Maliyah, and the first website I saw said it meant “beloved and bitter.” I felt the breath leave my lungs. How perfect and apt. I didn’t say anything to Chris, but I started thinking about her as Maliyah in my mind. I wanted to get used to her having a name. I was curious how it would make me feel. Almost immediately I found my perspective start to shift. She felt like a person. She felt more real. My grief made more sense. Of course I was devastated, I had a human inside me and now she was dead. The more I used a name in my mind, the more it felt necessary.

I brought the conversation up again to Chris. I was expecting a bit of a fight, since we had so much trouble agreeing on a name when we thought she’d live. But I think it was more important for me. I needed her to have space in the world and in people’s minds, and no one gives space to a nameless human they’ve never met. I told him about the meaning of Maliyah I found online, and he agreed, it was perfect.

The next day, I went to happy hour with a girl I had met from a support group and I told her we had a name. She asked what it was, and I said Maliyah out loud for the first time outside of our apartment. She said it back to me, and she said it was a beautiful name. I started crying. It was the first time I had heard her name out of someone else’s mouth. It gave Maliyah legitimacy. She existed! Other people knew about her and spoke her name! I immediately felt so happy she had a name. I started telling other people: my family and my therapist and my best friend.

I suppose it’s strange I haven’t said her name yet on this blog, given how happy it makes me feel to hear people say it. I posted her name on social media when we talked about her on her due date (blog coming on that next week), but sometimes I have conflicting thoughts. I want EVERYONE to know about her, but I also want to preserve parts of her for me. It’s a strange dichotomy I can’t explain. There are so few memories and so few mementos. We had so little time with her. Sometimes these things feel sacred and scarce, like a nonrenewable resource I need to keep all to myself. But sometimes, I just wish one person would text me and say her name. As my therapist would remind me, it can be “yes and,” because dialectical thinking exists. I can want people to talk about her, but also feel like I wish I had more of her to share. I can want the world to recognize she existed, but also feel that what little I have, needs to be protected.

But I do want people to talk about her. If we ever have future kids, I’ll want them to know there was a baby before. I want my friends to use her name. I wish I had more to share. I wish I had more memories. I wish I knew her better. I only have assumptions and unrealized hopes and dreams. But she did exist. And she did have a name. Maliyah.

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Grief and Pregnancy Loss

‘Tis the Season

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When you think of the saying “tis the season,” you think of Christmas, or the Thanksgiving-Christmas combo. But in my mind, the “season” starts with Halloween.

If you’ve been around here for a while, you know that Halloween is a National Holiday (caps-intentional) in my household. For as long as I can remember, I have loved Halloween. There are many photos of me as a young kid in various costumes, from a yellow M&M to a clown, to a gypsy (clearly before we cared about being politically correct). Then as a college student I had multiple costumes a year that bordered on ho-tastic. Thigh high stockings were often involved. As an adult, I came into my Halloween new self, and decided that full-body unitard costumes were my new love. I was a treasure troll (nude unitard), Smurfette (blue unitard), a Hershey Kiss (silver unitard), an Oompa Loompa (hand-dyed unitard), etc etc etc. When I moved to New York, we often had big group friend costumes like Wizard of Oz and Care Bears. Eventually when Chris came into the picture, I folded him into the group costume sometimes, like Winnie the Pooh (he was Christopher Robin) or Ninja Turtles (he was a slice of pizza). Some years it was just Chris and me, like when we were a gumball machine and a quarter, and Blue and Steve from Blues Clues.

My costumes often involved some sort of stomach stuffing or camouflage. As I mentioned last week, my body-dysmorphia contributed to my costume choices, and they often involved stuffing the stomach of my unitard. After many years of stomach-stuffing, it was ironic last year when I was actually pregnant on Halloween and I again wore a unitard but did NOT want to draw attention to my stomach. I hadn’t told any of my local friends yet, and in fact, during our annual traditional Halloween Pub Crawl, I told my first friend in NYC, so she could help be a decoy as I ordered gin and tonics, sans gin.

I remember that day so well. I woke up to put finishing touches on Chris’s and my costumes, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. I googled classic poses so we could do a side-by-side picture with the cartoons. I remember being relieved to find one picture where they were sort of leaned over. It was the perfect pose to hide a stomach and not cause any speculation. We headed down to the pub crawl and I somehow got my friend away from the crowd to tell her our news. She was so happy for us. I spent all day drinking tonic water and pretending to be drunk. At one point, another friend asked me why my drink was in a larger cup than hers, and I had the quick thought to tell her I had ordered a double. I was pretty proud of myself for coming up with that answer on the fly and presenting it in a believable way, but my brain was crystal clear, after all, I was sober and she was not.

I was SO tired, and I didn’t know if it was from being pregnant or from traveling back from Australia, and then to Los Angeles and back the previous week. All of my recent travel gave me a perfectly legitimate excuse to leave the pub crawl early. When I got home I was so relieved that our secret was still safe and I had made it through a day without anyone knowing.

Secret Pregnant
The most sober person at the pub crawl

I was already brainstorming costumes for the next year. I figured that I might not be at a pub crawl, but I definitely planned to have a family costume including a 4-month old baby. How exciting to have a new configuration for a group costume! I was researching ideas online of family costumes with babies involved. I had a running list of ideas. How naïve and positive of me to assume at 8 weeks pregnant that I would have a whole alive baby the next year? It seems crazy to think that that same girl now can’t even picture what it would be like to have a child that’s alive.

Thanksgiving brings even worse memories; I was 12 weeks pregnant. As you know, the Macy’s Parade holds a very important space in our family’s traditions. I’ve been attending since I was a baby. Last year, I went to watch with my sister. I was pregnant and she knew, but my parents didn’t know yet. It was 6 am and we were waiting hours for the Parade to start. Usually we stood and played games, but I felt so nauseous. I sat on the ground and munched on a protein bar and tried not to throw up. I was scared to drink water because I knew I would have to pee. I was planning to tell my parents the news the next day and my sister and I were predicting how it would go. I remember saying I thought they’d cry. I remember talking with my sister about how the next year I couldn’t watch the Parade in person because I’d have a 5.5-month old. She said I could definitely bring her, and we talked about how it would work out. Now Thanksgiving is around the corner and the thought of watching the Parade and NOT being nauseous makes me nauseous. Thinking about watching the balloons go by without a baby on my chest is so depressing.

December holidays bring another additional set of depressing thoughts. Chris and I had many conversations about what religion we would raise our kids. We decided we would incorporate both of our religions. The thoughts of a baby’s first Hannukkah and Christmas were so exciting. I thought about the ornament we’d get for our tiny tree. I purchased matching sets of Hannukkah and Christmas pajamas for our little family of three when they were on clearance after Christmas. I was 17 weeks pregnant, I was home free! (Can you see my eye roll through the computer?)

Sisters at the Parade (the Pillsbury dough boy wasn’t the only one with something in his belly!)
I looked so happy. I was so naive.

When we were in school, seasons were always a sign of change. Summer was time off, vacation, camp, trips to the pool. Then every August/September marked a new year. Leaves fell and we counted the days until Thanksgiving break. Winter in Florida marked a welcome reprieve from humidity, and a trip to the beach on Christmas Day. Once I moved to New York, Christmas was magical. The streets were lit up, the tree went up in Rockefeller Center, and there was always a possibility of snow. Then spring came and we were so relieved to have more light and shed our heavy jackets.

Now, every season sucks. One starts, and it sucks, one ends, and I remember how it sucked. I remember distinctly the week after Labor Day this year, I felt like I was stabbed a million times a day as all of the small talk revolved around the questions, “how was your summer?” and “what did you do this summer?”

I was supposed to be on maternity leave all summer. I was supposed to take care of a baby all summer. My summer was supposed to be magical and the start of a new chapter of my life. Instead, I was working and trying to get through every day one minute at a time.

Here’s what I wanted to hear in September, “Congratulations!” “Welcome back!” “Can I see a picture of your daughter?” I didn’t hear any of those things.

Instead, I don’t really remember the summer. It started with our first wedding anniversary… without the baby we were supposed to have. Then was my due date… without the baby we were supposed to have. Then our meet-iversary without the baby we were supposed to have. Then my nephew’s 1st birthday, where I was reminded that he was supposed to have a similar-aged-cousin. Then was the trip Chris and I took to try and distract ourselves from the fact that we had no baby.

How was I supposed to say that to well-meaning colleagues asking about my summer? I didn’t say that. I said, “good, how about you?”

I naively assumed that summer would be the hardest season. I thought for sure that summer would be harder than any other season because my expectations for what I thought it would be were so different from what actually happened.

But as autumn begins, I realize that my entire life, all four seasons of every single year, is going to be different from my expectations. What a doozy of a thought. It’s overwhelming.

I saw a post from a grief account on social media recently that talked about the seasons you had with your loved one who died. In my case I got only two seasons with my daughter. And I have innumerable ones left without her. How do I get through them? Every change in seasons is just a reminder that I am still here, the world is still turning, and somehow I continue to wake up. There’s a book called “How Dare the Sun Rise?” While the subject matter of that book is completely different, I think that same phrase often. I wake up almost every day in shock that the world is still existing while I am barely alive.

I’ve been talking a lot in therapy recently about trying to stay in the present. The past is filled with things I can’t change, and the future is completely outside of my control, so the only thing I can do is be in the present, try to find an ounce of gratitude for it, and continue on. But it’s hard to stay in the present when the present is so hard.

There are certain pieces of the holiday season that I will continue to observe, but at least this year, I have decided I need to opt out of some things for my mental health. I cannot fathom creating a DIY costume for just my husband and me, knowing that a crucial part of our group is missing. There’s absolutely no way I can sign up to hand out candy to the kids in my building who will come up to the door in all of their adorableness with their parents, while our house remains empty of little giggles.

I will probably still go to the Macy’s Parade and I will try to channel my gratitude that I only have to rouse myself and not a baby at 5 am to get a good spot. I will also travel to family to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas. But it’s not going to be easy. The constant comparison of what I thought the holidays would be, versus what they are, is on a loop in my mind. The only thing I can do is be honest by telling people I expect it to be difficult, and then try to give myself grace when it is, indeed difficult. At 8 months post-loss, It’s becoming harder for people to understand why I am still so sad, but I hope that reading this blog helps some people understand. I write it for myself, but I also write it as a gift of communication. I have learned over and over again that people can’t read minds, so instead, I have put my thoughts online.

Wishing you all a happy(ish) holiday season.

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Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Body Image and Pregnancy Loss

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TW: pregnancy loss and eating disorders and TMI if you’re not comfortable with female bodies

I have been debating for a few months whether or not I should write on the topic of body image and pregnancy, since I didn’t have a full-term pregnancy and my view is different from others. But a few weeks ago, I was on a support group with a fellow loss mom who lamented that her stomach was slowly getting smaller post-loss, whereas she watched other future moms as they continued to get bigger. I realized that while pregnancy and body image are intimately linked, so are pregnancy loss and body image. I can speak from both sides, the before, and the after.

I never understood people who said pregnant bodies were beautiful. I was never the type to look in awe at someone with a baby bump. Honestly, to me they looked uncomfortable. When I started to seriously think about getting pregnant, the thought of my body changing outside of my control was terrifying. For many years I struggled with disordered eating, but for about ten years, I’ve felt good in my own skin and I’ve been a staunch proponent of the body positivity/intuitive eating movement. I enjoy food and I don’t want to count calories. I also enjoy movement and I don’t want to count workouts. I like sweets, and I like lifting weights. I try to balance everything. Since I knew that being pregnant could cause me to change both my eating habits and my movement habits after I was finally in a good place with both, I was very scared.

After we told my parents I was pregnant, I remember talking to my dad on the phone and he asked me if I would take weekly “bump” pictures comparing the baby to a fruit or whatever weird thing the apps say your fetus is the size of (a peanut!). I remember exactly what corner of the sidewalk I was on when I started laughing hysterically. I said, “Daddy have you ever met me!?” I would never do that. The thought of taking maternity photos where I would be capturing my body in its largest and uncontrolled form seemed preposterous to me. Why would I ever want those pictures? I distinctly remember around 15 weeks when my blood pressure was on the cusp of normal and my doctor suggested she may want to induce me at 37-38 weeks “to be safe,” I was so excited because it meant I wouldn’t be so big and uncomfortable.

But let’s rewind. During pregnancy, everyone’s body reacts differently and there are a million things strangers will say about it. Pregnancy is one of the times society has decided that it’s ok to comment publicly about a woman’s shape to her face. Some people will decide you are having a boy or girl depending on if you’re “carrying high or low.” Some say you “pop earlier” if you eat certain foods, or do certain things, or who even knows. Everyone pretty much agrees that you don’t start to show until later if it is your first pregnancy. In my case, I am not a small person. I am 5’11” and I used to describe my body type on my OKCupid profile as “athletic.” Long legs, big city, remember?

More like, long legs, no big belly. Around 12 weeks, I started to get nervous. Why didn’t I have any bump yet? Not that I wanted to have a changing body, but shouldn’t I see something? I started to be a little more conscious of the foods I was eating. After years of “only eating when I was hungry” I started to think about whether or not I was hungry and why. People talk about pregnant women “eating for 2” or being ravenous during their second trimester. I never was. I was just eating the amount I normally ate. I started asking friends for protein shake recommendations so I could make sure I was consuming enough protein, but basically every protein powder said to ask your doctor before consuming it if you’re pregnant, so I nixed that plan.

For my 16-week anatomy scan, I went to a different ultrasound facility because most of them were closed. I happened to be 16 weeks during the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Not ideal. My appointment was at 8:30 am. I hadn’t been that hungry, but I figured I should eat something, so I had half of a protein bar in the cab on the way there. Most of the scan went well, but the tech had some issues getting some of the pictures, because she said our baby was staying in the same position, and she needed her to move into a different position. She said sometimes this happens, and I might have to come back the next day. But then she asked me to stand up and walk around the office and she asked what I had eaten that morning. I told the truth (half a protein bar), and she started scolding me. She said, “your baby needs nutrients and you need to feed it what it needs. You need to think about your baby and not you.” I was taken aback. It wasn’t even 9 am two days after Christmas. I had basically rolled out of bed and hopped in a cab. I wanted to do what was best for my baby, but I didn’t want to gorge myself when I wasn’t hungry.

Two weeks later, I had a regular appointment with my OB, and I asked my doctor about it. I explained to her that I didn’t want to know what I weighed because I try not to focus on the number, but that I was yelled at by the ultrasound tech, and I wanted to make sure I was gaining “enough” weight to have a healthy baby. Of course, I ended up in tears. I cry every single time I see my OB now, but at the time, I think this was my first time crying in front of her. My doctor apologized profusely for the ultrasound tech and said she was out of line and really should not have said that to me and shouldn’t talk about what to eat. My doctor said I was gaining exactly what I should be for where I was in the pregnancy, and that I should continue to listen to my body about hunger cues. I noticed after that appointment that she added “history of disordered eating” to my chart.

At that same appointment, my doctor checked on our baby and mentioned that due to the placement of the placenta, I probably wouldn’t feel movement until much later in the pregnancy, but not to worry, everything looked perfect. It seemed hard to believe that I was 18 weeks pregnant but looked exactly the same. Throughout the winter I wore the same jeans without a problem. At 20 weeks, we had another anatomy scan, and again, everything looked great, but I still had no visible bump. At 23 weeks, I finally had a tiny visible bump. I noticed it in the mirror when I was just in underwear, but in clothes, it was hard to see. I was going to my friend’s wedding in Florida, so I bought a new dress that would fit well. For the day and night before, I wore my regular clothes, which still fit. I spent the day before the wedding at the pool with my best friend, and she commented about how she couldn’t believe how little I still was. My mom asked me if I bought a maternity swimsuit and I laughed. I just looked like I maybe ate unlimited breadsticks at the Olive Garden.

The next week, at a 24-week growth scan, everything was trending well, our girl looked good, and I still looked… barely pregnant. I was secretly thrilled. As long as our baby looked good, I was totally fine with a baby on the smaller side, easier birth, right? Less stretch marks! But it was still strange. Nobody who walked by me on the street would know I was pregnant, my own friends couldn’t really tell. I was still working out like usual, going to Orangetheory 4 days a week, doing most of the same exercises with the exception of some core work. I kept my ultrasound photos on the fridge as a reminder since there weren’t many external ones.

When I was checked into the hospital the next week, they had a mandatory protocol that they needed to have a fetal heartrate monitor strapped on to me 24 hours a day to monitor the baby. For me, they had trouble getting the monitor to stay in the right place because I barely had any bump. They Macgyvered all sorts of things to try and keep it in place. One nurse folded up a paper towel and put it under one side so the monitor was tilted down. Some nurses were better than others. Every 12 hours during a shift change, one nurse would show the next one what they had come up with to help it stay. But if I shifted even an inch, the monitor would slide or slip and the alarm would go off. I had to lay completely still for days. I had to alert a nurse every time I was going to go to the bathroom because I knew it would trip up the monitor. Reaching for my water cup would move it. The nurses kept apologizing and saying it was just because I wasn’t that far along, so it was difficult to keep in place. Of course, I knew I wasn’t that far along, but having that constant 24-hour reminder, while also being told I needed to deliver my baby within 24 hours was a complete mindf*ck. I hated my body, both the size of it, and the fact that it was failing me from the inside. The two were intimately intertwined.

Now, when I see people on the street with baby bumps, I immediately think, “if they had the baby RIGHT NOW, the baby would probably survive.” The exact bumps I didn’t want, and didn’t think were beautiful, are now the one thing I wish I had. Sure maybe they are 31, 32, 33 weeks, but that’s all I dreamed of, a few more weeks. I see that bump and I think, “survival.” I think, “If only I ever had that.” It’s wild to be so close to the loss that I can remember how I felt before about being that size, but I can also see how much my entire mindset has changed.

The one thing that definitely changed throughout my pregnancy was my boobs. My first indication that I was pregnant was that they were changing. As someone who grew up like Judy Blume, doing the “I must increase my bust” chants, they were finally increasing. I thought it would make me happy, but it made me uncomfortable. I remember one time saying to my friend on the treadmill next to me that my boobs were distracting me! I wasn’t used to even noticing my chest, and all of a sudden, they were right in my face. But then, as quickly as they were new and exciting, they were terrifying. Post pregnancy, I was told that my body would likely start producing milk because my body didn’t know my baby was dead, my body only knew that I had a baby. I was constantly terrified. My body had already completely disappointed me, and now there was this. I felt like everything that was contained inside my skin was broken. My doctor (and the internet) said that the only thing I could do to prevent this from happening was wear my TIGHTEST sports bra, 24 hours a day, and basically bind my chest. I scoured google for how long I would have to do this, but every website said something different. To be safe, I decided on a month. 30 days of wearing the tightest sports bra I owned. I feared warm water, too, another thing the internet warned about. I took cold showers and barely let any water get on the front of my body. I went to sleep praying I wouldn’t wake up with a wet shirt. Every night that first week my sheets were soaked, but it was “just” post-partum hormonal sweating. My body continued to mock me and my childless arms and womb.

And then, after that month of obsessive sports bra wearing, I finally took it off and my boobs looked… the same. Normal. Just like they had “before.”

Did I make it all up? Was I ever really pregnant? How could I wake up with no baby, to a dead silent house (pun intended), and yet I looked exactly the same. I felt like I had lived 100 lives. I felt like I didn’t even know the woman I was the year before, and yet I wore the exact same clothes. I fit into everything. My body failed me over and over and over again, and yet, the mirror said it was the same body. I was the same person.

I’ve always loved to work out, and one of the hardest parts of post-partum with no baby was the bar on exercise. During those first few weeks, I went on hours and hours and hours of walks just to get out of the house and fill the time. I don’t remember them, really, I would just move aimlessly. I couldn’t tell you what I thought about. I was just trying to fill time until I could sleep again. Not being allowed to lift weights, or run, or do anything active like I was used to made me feel even worse. How was it fair that I was not allowed to do the things I liked, and the things that brought me joy, but I also didn’t get a baby? When I finally was allowed to go to the gym again, I remember a friend of mine saying I looked thin. I said “thanks, I lost a baby worth of weight.” He already knew that, of course, but it seemed like the only thing to say. I wasn’t happy I was thin, I was devastated. For the first time in my life, I just wished I was bigger. For the people who didn’t know I had been pregnant, I probably just looked normal. Even for the people who did know, I looked normal. This was the strangest part.

Throughout my entire pregnancy I probably gained 4 pounds. By the day after the hospital, I had lost those 4 plus an extra 5. Some of that was probably from not being allowed to eat for 5 days. Some was from muscle deterioration. Some was from my baby being gone. Some was from blood loss and surgery. None of the lost weight was “good.” Even two weeks ago (7 months post-loss) I went to the doctor the day after going to multiple 10 course tasting menus in Peru, and she asked me if I had lost weight. I told her I didn’t know, because I don’t weigh myself, and she said I looked like I had. Never in my life had a doctor said that to me before, and for SURE never before had it been said with the unspoken words of “are you ok? You don’t look ok.”

Clearly, I’m not ok. I also don’t think I lost weight. But I certainly look sad. Sometimes I think the circles under my eyes and the hollows of my cheeks are simply physical manifestations of my brain. I look in the mirror and I don’t see “thin,” I see “sad.” I see the indents in my collar bones, and where I used to think “oh!” I now think “oh, right, dead baby.” I wish I saw my tired eyes I thought “new mom, no sleep.” But instead I see, “mom of a dead baby, nightmares.”

When I look at my body now, I see nothing but a container. I don’t think anything of it at all. The shape of my body is the least interesting thing about me. I realize now more than ever that the size doesn’t matter. It can look one way, and completely rebel against me. I was at Orangetheory feeling 100% fine, and 4 hours later I was in the hospital feeling 100% fine and they were saying I was going to die. I can look like a supermodel and my body can still try to kill me if it gets pregnant again. I don’t necessarily hate my body, I just am completely disassociated from it.

However, I have a new added fear that people might think I’m pregnant. Most girls always fear this, the “are they or aren’t they?” like Rihanna at the Superbowl. But now, there’s the added issue that if someone asks me, I know I will spontaneously burst into tears. I am especially nervous because I know it’s from a place of love, and people will act hopeful and excited for me. I’ve stopped wearing anything with an empire waist because I don’t want the speculation. There was a photo of me in a swimsuit from the summer that was at an unflattering angle and I immediately edited it. I don’t care how I look, but I don’t want to field any questions.

Back in my post about what not to say, I mention how you should not comment on a person’s body. You can see now, it’s because it’s layered. The fact that my child lived and died within my own body adds a huge layer of complication. It’s the only loss that is completely contained within another person. For men, they don’t have all of these additional complicated feelings, and that adds to the difference in grieving. While I look the same, everything about me has changed. It’s surreal.

I am not sure how this will manifest if I ever become pregnant again. Maybe I will be happy to have a big baby bump, or maybe I will be terrified of that as well, because it’ll be even one more thing I could possibly lose. Maybe I will be happy if strangers recognize me as being pregnant for the first time. Or maybe I will view it as superstitious and wear baggy shirts for fear of not wanting anyone to speak of it. I can’t predict how I will feel in the future, all I know is that it is complicated and while I wish more than anything that I had a baby, I am not looking forward to it.

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Grief and Pregnancy Loss

The One Where All of Her Friends Were Pregnant

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TW: Pregnancy Loss

I am 36 years old. That means that if my friends want to have kids it’s now or never. Unfortunately for me, that means a lot of my friends are having kids now. And I am… not.

It’s hard. I think the main theme of this blog post is going to be that it is just plain hard. It’s difficult to navigate friendships when you’re a loss mom and your friends are pregnant. It is difficult to keep friends when they’re pregnant, to communicate with them, to relate to them, to be happy for them, to be around them, and quite honestly, it’s hard to just see them. Let’s start there, with the bare minimum.

How do you keep a friend when literally seeing a picture of them makes you cry? I remember exactly where I was post-loss when I saw the first picture of my friend and her baby bump. It was bad. It set me off for about three full days. It was not a surprise that she was pregnant, I already knew. It was also not a surprise how far along she was, I knew her due date. But to see that physical proof of something she had that I didn’t have, it was brutal. (Side note: I do not fault her at all for posting a photo, in fact I have a whole blog coming about this.)

I saw her body, and my thoughts started to spiral: Was I ever that big? What did people think of me? Did they ever think I was pregnant? What do people say to her when she’s in public? Do people congratulate her? Give up their seat for her? Can her husband feel the kicks? Do they ask her what the sex of the baby is? Does she already have names in mind?

All of these were things that I never got to have, and they were right there in my face. The hardest part was that when that picture was taken, she was exactly the same amount of weeks I was when our daughter died, but every body is different, and my body never looked like that.

One option to deal with these friendships would have been to stop all communication with my pregnant friends, or as my therapist called it, avoidance LOL. I decided this was not what I wanted for a few reasons: 1. I had lost enough, and I didn’t want to lose my friends, too. And 2. My anxiety NEEDED to know that my friends were ok.

One of the worst parts of navigating these relationships was that my emotions were and are unpredictable. I really didn’t know that seeing a photo would be so triggering. But I knew that if a photo sent me down a rabbit hole, seeing a pregnant friend in person would be even worse. For that same friend in the photo, we were going to hang out a month later, but I ended up telling her a week later that I couldn’t. I just didn’t think it would be productive for either of us if I was crying the whole time. Another month later, I changed my mind again and decided that I wanted to see her, so long as she wanted to see me. My feelings and moods kept changing, and there was no way she could have known.

A month ago, I went to coffee with another friend who was 9 months pregnant. I was SO proud of myself for this, especially for giving her a hug when I left. I thought I might spontaneously break into sobs when her baby bump touched my flat(ter) stomach, but I held it together.

Even when we didn’t physically see each other, it was hard to cut off friends from communication when we were used to speaking constantly. As I mentioned in my blog about small talk, conversation felt extremely meaningless when I knew we were just dancing around and avoiding the big stuff. As the loss parent, it was my job, I supposed, to lead the conversation. Most good friends avoided speaking about their pregnancies to me at all. I knew they did this to protect my heart, but sometimes it felt like they were actually just hiding from me and excluding me. When I most recently heard from a friend that she, too, was pregnant, she told me she wouldn’t talk about it at all on the group chat. For some reason, that rubbed me the wrong way. I knew she was doing it so that the chat would be a safe space for me, but instead, it felt like my friends were afraid to talk about their lives in front of me anymore. I was too fragile for them to share with, and they had to walk on eggshells around me. It made me take a step back and think about what I actually would want, if asked, and I realized that I didn’t know! How could my friends possibly know if I didn’t know.

In my specific case, I had the added complication in my loss that I nearly died. When I think of pregnancy, I think of death. I know too much. I know allll of the things that can go wrong. For example, my anxiety and superstition would not let me publish this blog until all of my friends due in September delivered alive-babies, and all of my friends survived and went home from the hospital.

Recently, I texted another one of my pregnant friends who lives in the same neighborhood as me. I had texted her on her birthday a few months back and she hadn’t replied. I had seen her post a few times on social media, but she never mentioned a pregnancy. I started to get nervous. I texted and asked how she was, her due date, how everything was going. As I suspected, she hadn’t been texting me because she didn’t want to push her pregnancy on me. Once I texted, I opened our communication again, which I was happy for, but then she offered for us to go on a walk. This was one step too far. I couldn’t imagine chit-chatting and walking alongside a 9-month pregnant person. I typically avert my eyes when I see pregnant strangers on the sidewalk! She totally understood when I turned her down for a walk, but I imagine it was confusing for her that I was fine to ask about her due date, but not to see her. I couldn’t explain this discrepancy.

A few months ago, another one of my pregnant friends asked me if I wanted to know when she had the baby. I was adamant that I wanted, nay, NEEDED to know that she had the baby. I explained how I had extreme anxiety keeping me up at night, knowing that so many of my friends were about to go through this mortal and dangerous time in their lives. Of course, my therapist reminded me constantly that many babies (most babies, even) were born fine, and their moms are fine, but all I could remember was what happened with me. My friend told me she hadn’t even thought that I may be thinking about her own safety, but she was so glad she asked me if I wanted to know about the birth, because she was nervous to tell me.

During pregnancy, my friends were uneasy talking to me, but leading up to their due dates, they were even more hesitant. The crazy part was, I had experience with labor and delivery! I used to be someone that people went to for advice, but in this one area, I was cursed. People forgot that I had a kid and she just, unfortunately, died. My friends knew I was pregnant, and they knew I was not anymore, and a lot of them read this blog. But most of them forgot that I was VERY pregnant, that I understood what it was like to be pregnant, that I went through 31 hours of labor, and that I delivered a child. I’ve done it.

I was recently talking with a friend who had an induction date coming up and she was explaining to me a procedure she planned to have to induce labor. She explained it for a minute or two until I interrupted and said, “I know what that is, I had that.” I had it all. They did almost everything to get my baby out of me because she was literally killing me. I had a balloon. I had a membrane sweep. I had multiple (failed) epidurals. I had fentanyl in doses that I thought were reserved for shows like Ozark. I had an emergency operation post-delivery. And then, I was post-partum. I had all of the problems and physical limitations that come along with that. I was doing everything possible to prevent and minimize milk production, I had hormone changes, night sweats, a ban on sex and hot tubs, I just didn’t have a living child. I could relate to my pregnant and post-partum friends (minus the whole “taking care of a living baby” part), but it was uncomfortable to talk about because of the ending. I completely understood that they wouldn’t want to think about my experience because it was scary and horrible, but sometimes it felt like their avoidance invalidated my story.

On the flip side, I couldn’t really bring it up either because who wants to think about possible bad outcomes when they have hope and happiness? While I wanted to text my friends daily and remind them to check their blood pressure at home, I recognized that while I thought I was protecting and looking out for my friends, it could have been viewed as patronizing, not staying in my lane, and projecting my anxiety.

When I first talked with my therapist about my anxiety around my friends’ pregnancies, she asked if a small part of me wanted something to go wrong with their pregnancies so I wouldn’t have to go through this alone. But you know the saying, “I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy?” Well, I certainly wouldn’t wish this on my close friends. Not even a tiny little bit. I spent many weeks agonizing over whether to send baby gifts in advance. Even though my friends didn’t send me their registries, I knew where to find them on Amazon or Babylist, I had had them myself! Every time I added things to my cart and went to check out, I imagined them having to return the gifts or send them back, or worse, look at them in their homes and cry. I remembered myself packing our baby stuff on a luggage cart 12 hours after returning from the hospital so my mom could take it all out of our apartment. I thought about my friends having to go through that, and I couldn’t do it. I decided I would wait until all babies were earth-side and I could feel some sense of calm and celebration for everyone. I’m not going to lie, buying items I had looked at for myself, and sending them to someone else, was not easy. At all. But I tried to channel my relief that they didn’t have to go through what I had, and I was able to feel some sense of joy. As a lot of memes say, “happy for you, sad for me.”

It’s hard not to compare. When my first friend mentioned she had a baby at 3 am, I remembered that I had, too. But she was in labor an entire day less than me. How was it fair that she had a living child AND 24 hours less of labor? I thought to myself, “AT LEAST let her go through a tough labor.” But then, a few weeks later, another friend of mine had her baby and her husband talked on Instagram about how strong she was for going through 24 hours of labor. Meanwhile, I went through 31 and no one was singing my praises on the internet. I can’t tell you what it’s like to labor hoping you’ll have your alive baby in your arms soon, but I can tell you what it’s like to labor knowing yours will be dead and I can almost 100% assure you it’s worse. But none of this is fair, and knowing that others went through 4 or 24 hours of labor doesn’t make it any better.

So, PHEW, now they all have living babies and everything is great, right? Wrong. Pregnancy, while temporary, leads to a permanent role change. The best-case scenario of having a pregnant friend, is that they eventually become a parent friend, and they have a living child for the entire rest of their lives. This brings a whole new set of problems I’ll reserve for another post.

A few weeks ago, I was on my way to a baby loss event with Baby Loss Library when I was scrolling through Instagram and saw my third friend who was due in September had her baby. Almost at the same time, she messaged me. She said since it was Sunday, she was planning to “have beer and watch football like a normal person.” I was on my way to an event full of moms with dead babies, and I realized the cold reality that I would quite literally never be a “normal person” again. Yes, I might have my own little family someday and I may also be watching football and drinking a beer, but I’d always have a dead baby. It was impossible in that moment not to compare. I was thankful to spend the day with women who understood, but the contrast of a “normal person” versus me, spending the day talking about dead babies, is my reality now and forever.

When I started writing this, I wanted to give tips. I wanted it to be a “how-to” of navigating friendships while dealing with loss. After free-writing, I realized I can’t give a how-to, because I literally don’t know how to! My main takeaways are for those who are pregnant: You should know that navigating this is hard. While us loss-parents know you are probably scared to bring up your pregnancy, and you are probably scared to even reach out period, please do. It’s a huge burden for the loss mom to constantly reach out. Loss moms are probably anxious, scared, scared to scare you, and lonely. We probably don’t want to bring our bad juju into your space. But we also probably love you and want the best for you. And while we may not be able to be “happy” for you every day because we’re jealous and angry and sad, we also don’t want to lose you. We’ve lost enough. So please, check in. Ask how to be present without showy. Be sensitive but not absent. Ask what we want to hear. What pictures of your babies we want to see. It may change day to day. And hopefully someday, we can all have earthside kids who play together.

My beautiful place setting at the baby loss event, with free books, a bracelet for pregnancy and infant loss awareness month, and of course the dates with the most important spaces in my heart.
The mandala I painted, they provided all of the supplies and instruction and frame.
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Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Welcome Back to Me, My Brain Is a Mess

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TW: Pregnancy Loss (some studies suggest trigger warnings aren’t helpful, but I personally find them helpful, so I’ll be trying to remember to use them)

Hi everyone! It’s been 8 months and 2 days. I used to apologize for “long” absences without posts, but I never could have predicted an absence as long as this.

I’m still here, but a lot has changed. Or nothing has. Most importantly, three things:

  1. I was 25 weeks pregnant.
  2. I am not pregnant anymore.
  3. I do not have a living baby.

I haven’t posted on this blog because back in November, December, January, and February, being pregnant was the biggest thing in my life, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to post about it. Then in March, we lost our daughter, and I certainly wasn’t sure if I wanted to post about that. I am still not sure. And I will not be sharing the story here now. So if you’re here because you want to rubberneck a disaster, I invite you to text me because I am, in fact, a hot mess. But if you’re here now on the blog because you want to read about my hospitalization and the downfall of my hopes and dreams, you won’t find it here.

That’s another reason I haven’t posted. Because if I’m completely honest, my life is not fun right now. I started this blog to document my life though, and this is my life. That is just honest. So, I decided two things:

  1. This blog is about me, and I can write whatever the heck I want.
  2. If you don’t want to see it, you don’t have to read it.

You may be wondering, if I’m not telling the story of the loss, what will I even say? Well, I have a lot of thoughts. I should warn you in advance, these thoughts are not well-planned or logical in their order. That’s because my brain is currently not well-planned or logical in any order. I feel like one of the “secondary losses” that people don’t talk about much is the loss of orderly thoughts. I used to be a big planner. Type A. Set schedule. I had a weekly reminder in my calendar to send out my blog newsletter. As a great example, I STILL have a weekly reminder to send out my blog newsletter. It went off yesterday. It goes off every week and every week I ignore it. But I haven’t deleted it! Everything in my brain now is in shambles and I just wake up every day like an adventure. Who knows what will happen or when or why or how? I certainly didn’t expect or plan for THIS to happen, so why expect or plan for anything? If you were wondering if this makes work and my professional life complicated, it does. Keeping track of tasks is a lot more complicated than it used to be and I need lots of technological aids.

Anyway, as you can see from that previous paragraph, expect some rambling. It’s a struggle. If you’re surprised that I decided to come back to the blog even though I can’t form cohesive thoughts, I’m surprised, too. But last night I had this strong urge to write about something and I couldn’t quiet it. I started the blog because I loved to write, and that is still true. I’ve been writing this whole time in a never-to-be-published blog and in a journal. But there’s something different about putting thoughts into the world for people to see. The possibility of having someone else read my craziest thoughts and relating to it gives me hope and purpose.

Personally, throughout the past few months, I have so appreciated the podcasts and Instagram accounts and Facebook groups of people dealing the same struggles as me. It’s terrifying to see how common it is, but it’s also extremely heartwarming to know I’m not alone. Sometimes I don’t want to see them and I put things on mute, but sometimes they are the only things that make this feel bearable. If a community holds a loss together, they collectively can carry more. Those are two more of the reasons I decided to come back to the blog: to find community and to bring people into my new (and often depressing) reality.

More coming soon.

♥ ,

Emily

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