Holidays are very difficult for women who have suffered from miscarriages, infertility, stillbirth, infant loss and other grief. Christmas always tends to come to people's mind. However for me, the hardest holiday is Mother's Day. Two years ago on Mother's day weekend, I found out I was pregnant after trying to conceive for almost 18 months. I thought that agony was finally over and the timing was so fitting that now I could belong to the "Mother's Day Club". We told our families the joyous news that day, and then later miscarried at almost 11 weeks.
Last year, I made my rounds at my in-laws, wishing each of the ladies a "Happy Mother's Day". An elder auntie (the same one with a number of noted comments) said it back to me, but quickly corrected herself and said "oh you're not a mother yet". Thanks for rubbing salt in the wounds. I told Gerry last month that I dread this day and really wish we could avoid it altogether.
I have been reading lately through posts from a "group" friend that Mother's Day was actually created by a group of bereaved mothers as a form of protest to ensure their sons were brought back safe from the war - a way to advocate for the safety of their children. Now it is a celebration of motherhood but the tendency is to focus on mothers who have living children. The article below is a good read and for me, "the safety of our children" transcends to the awareness of stillbirth several of my friends are advocating for through their non-profit society.
One time at a group support meeting, a few of us discussed that with miscarriages, we never really felt like a mother because we could not hold or name our baby like the "stillborn" moms. As much as I felt like a mom for those weeks I carried, it did not equate. Others said they had felt the same way at first but later felt that they became a mom at the moment of conception and to not let anyone tell me I am not a mother. In group, we all respect each other's opinions and that we each handle our loss differently so there is no right answer. For me, I do not define myself as a mother, at least for now, but highly respect those women who have lost a baby in early pregnancy who do feel that way.
Our little angel wrapped in our arms.
Awkward is not usually used to describe Mother’s Day, but it describes mine perfectly.
On November 16, 2012 at 12:16 am, I gave birth to my first child, my daughter, Saralynn.
She was perfect: 7 lbs. 12 oz., full head of brown hair, arrived on her due date and is just the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
There was not a dry eye in the room when Saralynn entered this world and I admire my husband for cutting the cord. Our lives were changed forever.
But we didn’t get to hear Saralynn’s first cry. We will never fight over whose turn it is to changer her diaper. We will never watch her get on the school bus for her first day of school or see her walk down the aisle at her wedding.
The day before I had noticed that her movements had slowed significantly. Everything you read online and people you talk to just say that the baby is moving down getting ready to make her entrance and not to worry.
I’m a worrier.
I laid down to do a kick count and did not feel a thing. Since Saralynn was very active the day before, I called my OB and he instructed me to go to the hospital. My Grandmother and I arrived before my husband did and the nurses immediately started hooking me up to different monitors.
As soon as my OB arrived, he started scanning me with the ultrasound machine and there it was.
Nothing. No heartbeat.
As soon as he spoke the words, “there is no more heartbeat” my husband came in the room. The look on my face must have said it all to him. The OB tried to introduce himself to my husband, but he pushed right past him to get to me.
In those 5 devastating words, we became parents to an angel.
On November 21st, our families came together to celebrate the short life of a
little girlwho has touched more people in unspeakable ways than those who live out their entire life.
Fast forward to today and our lives are the same as they were last year, just with a big hole that is always present. A piece of our hearts is forever gone.
Still there are words that echo in my head that were spoken to me shortly after we lost Saralynn-
“Don’t worry. One day you’ll join the club.”
They were said with good intentions and did not bother me at the time.
Now, they bother me.
I am a mother.
I became a mother that fateful Saturday in March when I went to Walgreens and bought a bag of dark chocolate M&Ms and a pregnancy test.
I became a mother when I took the best care of my unborn child that I could so she could start her life as healthy as possible. I went through labor and delivery just like every other woman does.
I have a baby.
She was real. We held her, took pictures, and admired how adorable her little hands and feet were.
I am a mother.
Yet to those who do not know me, do not know the tragedy that I deal with on a daily basis, I am childless. I have it easy. I don’t have to wake up multiple times at night for feedings. I don’t have to clean poop off the walls from a diaper blowout. Raising a child is hard and I should enjoy my freedom.
Having to bury your child isn’t exactly a cakewalk either.
We actually had her cremated. One, so she can be with the rest of the family in Wisconsin when we feel the time is right. Two, we’re military! We PCS and I am not going to leave my child in some place that we just happened to live at that specific point in time.
I have come to the conclusion that there are 2 clubs when it comes to being a mother. There’s the “I had a baby” club and the “I actually had the opportunity to raise my child” club.
What hurts the most is that it is other mothers who make this distinction. Because I do not have a live child to parade around, I am limited to the first club. I am Saralynn’s mom, but not actually a mom according to them. Do moms who lose their child due to SIDS, accident, or disease suddenly stop earning the title “Mom?” No.
Even the military acknowledges the existence and loss of my daughter. The service member’s
SGLIcovers stillborns when it comes to the loss of a dependent child.
So this Mother’s Day, my first Mother’s Day, will I count to others? There is no handbook to instruct me, my friends, my family, or strangers on how to handle a Mother’s Day when it comes to someone who lost a child so early on. I won’t take offense if I don’t receive cards or text. My family celebrates Saralynn and that’s what is really important. If I receive cards or a text, I will be flattered and honored that I crossed someone’s thoughts. I will celebrate in my own quiet way as I reflect on becoming a mother to an angel.
Just don’t say I’m not a mother.
There is no denying that I am Saralynn’s mother and she is my daughter. Yet there seems to be some sort of disconnect when it comes to classifying me as a mother by others.
I know who I am. I am a mother. No one can take that away from me with their words or their actions – even inaction for that matter.
With stillbirths occurring about 1 every 166 pregnancies, the odds are someone reading this has an angel baby. This Mother’s Day, celebrate you.
Mother’s Day is meant to celebrate all mothers, with children living or deceased, biological or not.
Happy Mother’s Day.
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