The Hope in Grief

This story contains content of child loss, specifically stillbirth.

Although I was frightened, the nurses helped me hold you properly. I learned how to support your neck. I learned how to change your diaper and your tiny outfit. I counted your little toes and your little tiny fingers. Ten and ten, just the way it’s supposed to be. I saw your lips, and they were your father’s. Your nose—well, it was your father’s, too. I spent 9 months making you, just for you to come out looking like your dad. But I didn’t mind. You were beautiful. And you were just you. Undeniably, your own person.

After you arrived, they wheeled us out, made sure we had safe travel, and sent us on. No manual. No instructions. Just “good luck” and “congratulations.” I worried about getting into an accident with you in the car on the two-minute drive home. I was also worried about introducing you to your puppy brother. He never did like other people much. But as soon as I sat down with you in my arms, he gave you a big sniff and laid right next to us to keep us safe. Of course, he gets jealous here and there that he’s not the only child anymore. But he loves you just the same.

The fear really sets in when you cry. How do I know if you are hungry, or if your belly hurts? Are you sick? Do you just want to be held?

How did the nurse tell me to give you a bath again? I can’t remember. I’m so overwhelmed. Is tummy time really that important? You hate it. I’m having trouble nursing—is formula okay?

But then I put you to bed. You rest your tiny head on my shoulder as I rock you. And everything is calm, and good, and right. You coo a little before finally evening your breathing and falling asleep. And I let you stay like this, because I can’t believe how wonderful it is. How wonderful you are. And how much more wonderful my life is because you are in it. This is how it is supposed to be.

And it only gets better. You get a little older, and you go to preschool. On that first day, my heart breaks watching you walk into the classroom all by yourself. Your little backpack is almost bigger than you are. How are you ready to be without me? I’m not ready to be without you. That first day, all I do is wait for you. I go home and I try to eat a little and worry if you’re eating your snacks now, too. Are you sitting next to someone who will become your best friend? Are you nervous to talk to your classmates? Or maybe you are the life of the party, just like your dad. As I’m in the pickup line, I feel distressed that you may have had a terrible first day. And yet, when you emerge from the entrance to school, there is a smile on your face. Not only did you have a good day—you are ecstatic to see me. And I worry about the day when you are too cool to be seen with me.

And that day does come. You don’t want to hang out with me anymore. You want to be with your friends. And I worry about you driving by yourself. Will you be responsible? Maybe you are, but that doesn’t mean everyone else is. But despite my concerns, you make it through your teens mostly unscathed.

And all the while, through all my worrying, you become a wonderful young man. A good person who has a vibrant personality. Who has learned to love deeply and live carefree but with such intent. But I will never stop worrying about keeping you close. For the rest of my life, I will concern myself with making sure you experience all life has to offer, while appreciating that the best things in life come from the people with whom you surround yourself. Whether that be your father, your friends, your boyfriend or girlfriend, or even me.

But this is only the dream of someone longing for what never can be. You only have a few weeks left before I am to meet you. But I know something is wrong. I haven’t felt you move since last night. But as I walk myself into the doctor’s office, I try to convince myself that you will give me a reassuring kick right as they put the wand on my belly. But you don’t. All she says is, “I’m so sorry.”

As I lay in the hospital bed now, the nurse reads to me how to suppress my breast milk. She hands me pamphlets on how to grieve, as if those pamphlets can sweep the dust that is now my heart. As if I can ever unhear the deafening silence that followed your entrance into the world. As if I can ever unfeel the emptiness in my arms.

You weren’t long for this world, and I don’t know why. The doctors don’t know why. I’ve been to them all. I’ve listened to them tell me the same thing over and over: this shouldn’t have happened—but it did.

It is a dream turned nightmare.

Your father and I go home, and we are hollow. We sit with each other in your room. Your room that you will never see. It is so full of all the things you will never get to look at, or play with, or wear.

The despair is all-encompassing. There is no hope. No joy. Even the sadness and anger ebb, so that all that is left is nothingness.

And then one day, I smile. I can’t remember why. But for a split second, I forget. I forget that the entirety of my world has crumbled. And for that split second, I feel hope. Hope that your father and I can live alongside the grief we feel, instead of immersed inside it. And that split second turns into a full second. Then a minute. And one day, I realize I’m dreaming again. While I long for you to be here, you are no longer a dream. My dream is your sister. And I can see her. I see myself counting her tiny little fingers and tiny little toes. Ten and ten, just how it’s supposed to be. She doesn’t really look like you. She looks more like me. But in her, I still see you. And while I will never have the answers why you left, my longing for you has created hope for her. And she has healed me. My heart is now scarred, but no longer broken. And it is with you that I have found life is not over when tragedy strikes—but it is a chance for a new beginning. And I will wear my pain as a reminder that there is a chance for hope, even in the darkest caverns of grief.