Content Warning: This essay talks about pregnancy loss and late term pregnancy loss. There are no graphic descriptions or medical details, but it does dwell on the grief of the experience. My goal with this essay is not to dredge up past hurts to pointlessly ruminate but to share and hopefully provide company.
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In my garage I have a box labelled simply, “Before.” It has a label because I once read on one of those listicles that the best way to stay organized is to make sure that you know what is in every box in your house. This prevents clutter from accumulating.
Most boxes are easy to label. For example, expired electronics that I hope will one day miraculously resurrect after enough rest. Or clothes I no longer fit into but am in denial about. And a personal favorite, goodie bag trash that I’ve stealthily extracted from my children and that I dream of giving away one day. But this eponymous “Before,” as you can see, doesn’t have the same descriptiveness to it.
What is it? I’ll tell you. It is a box that contains all the things my husband and I had prepared for our first baby, till he was stillborn. Then we had to put them away as the sight was too difficult to bear. But parting with that stuff was even harder. So off they went to the purgatory of things we don’t want to deal with, the standard American garage.
This all came to a head, again, recently, as a guest happened to see it and casually asked what was in a box with such a cryptic label. And that’s how I found myself, 10 years after the fact, explaining to this hapless friend that I had lost a pregnancy in my 3rd trimester a while ago and had no other words to describe what that box represented except “Before.”
With time, I figured out what “Before” stood for. It meant before my other two children turned up. It meant before I realized you could be hurt like that. It meant before I did some serious growing up.
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What does it mean when someone you haven't met dies? Because plainly, that's what happened. I'm a pragmatic person and I couldn't understand why I was so sad.
The thing is, although I hadn't met him, I loved him. He was a part of me, literally and figuratively. And when I lost him, I lost a part of myself. I think that's why it hurt so much. At least, that's my best guess. And the grief was that much harder as it felt like the world had factored in no space for it.
You see, when a person gets very pregnant, goes away for a while and comes back not pregnant, the perfectly normal assumption is that all is well. So it was awkward to get the question, "How is the baby doing?"
Sometimes, I was deliberately cruel and replied with a point blank, "He died." If I was feeling more generous, I would say something like "He didn't make it." Then usually, I would dissolve into tears and let the asker quietly stew in their life choices. I didn’t do it on purpose, it was hard to hold back the emotion.
It was humbling to break down again and again in front of people I didn't want to be vulnerable around. Sorry to my colleague for blubbering in the elevator that once, leaving you no room for escape. And thank you for being an ally, reading the small room, and never acknowledging it ever again.
Honestly, some very small part of me was also glad that people got to see how sad I was. I wanted them to hurt too, even if it was just a millionth of a fraction of what I was feeling. So there I was, wandering the regular world feeling very alone, and small and stupid. And sad. Let’s not forget that.
But then something interesting happened. Once word got around, people came out of the woodwork to tell me about their own stories of pregnancy loss.
Women who I had written off, old aunties, girls I knew growing up who I just thought I was better than. People who just seemed like they had it all together and had never been sad a day in their life.
They called me and when I wouldn’t pick up, they passed messages through others. “Tell her” they would instruct my friends and family. What they were really saying is “Tell her she is not alone.” And now I'm telling you.
I was told stories of pregnancies lost months, years, even decades ago. Many of these people had gone on to have other children and continue with their lives. But it's as if these little side roads, paths not taken, followed along and never left sight. I called these stories the offerings.
Their grief didn't feel fresh like mine did, but it was palpable and present. Like a large mole on the face of a loved one. You've grown so used to it, you don't even see it anymore. But every now and then you are reminded that it's there - unobtrusive but undeniable.
With these offerings, a bed of voices formed and carried me. They said we have walked your path. We still walk it with you. And I know it doesn't feel that way now, but soon you will join us and carry the ones who come after you. And you know what? I did.
A few months later, my friend Tommy called and asked if I could speak to a friend who had lost her pregnancy in the third trimester. I said yes not out of charity or with an idea to help. I said yes in the way you say yes to swallowing after chewing food.
I had to talk to her because we were one. Today I cannot even remember her name. But in that moment we walked the world together. In that conversation we were both seen.
I recall, as I put the phone down, I had crossed to the other side. I was now sharing my own offerings with someone else. What could that mean? Did it mean I was getting over it?
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Slowly, my grief felt like a buoy bobbing in the sea, getting further and further away. And I didn’t like it. You’d think I’d be happy for the sadness to move out of focus. But it was the only way I knew to acknowledge this person who I’d lost. I didn’t want to let go.
At some points, I had a strange desire to eat his ashes. Some way to put him back in place. Fortunately I know that's not how biology works so I held back on that.
Remember that age, sometime in our early teens at the very crotch of puberty, when dead baby jokes were a thing? That was no accidental choice of topic. We were leaving childhood and testing the waters for what broke societal norms the most. And the natural conclusion was - the end of life before it starts.
Try telling dead baby jokes but replace the subject with an adult. It's still horrible but lacks a certain something, no? That something is the total upheaval of our expectations of the order of things. So yeah, losing a pregnancy is devastating.
If reading this essay makes you think of someone who has gone through something similar, I urge you not to try to find the bright side of this experience. A well-meaning friend started a sentence like this “In a way, it's beautiful that…” and I didn't say anything but I think my expression let her know that she had to stop talking that way.
There is no rationalizing. Because the whole thing was senseless. There is only solidarity. And of solidarity, there is a lot. You'd be surprised how many people go through this grief.
Shakespeare said “We are not all alone unhappy.” And you know what, he’s right! You are not alone. I was not alone. And by the power of simple arithmetic, we are not alone. Admittedly, it is an invisible grief (most griefs are). I'm here to tell you that it doesn't take a lot to change that.
Because in a way it's beautiful that… just kidding. Our grief is not just visible, but held up to the light. I was not alone then. And on some level with this essay, I am not alone again. And I know it doesn’t feel that way, but neither are you.
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