Baby Steps

Trigger Warning: Pregnancy Loss



We went to sleep last night with the window open. Maybe it was the gentle breeze that nudged me awake. Now, in my morning haze, I hear birds singing the song of a new day. A lawn mower growls in the distance, shaving off the evidence of days past. I don’t want to open my eyes, though, because when I do, that signals the true beginning of another day to face. I fight it for as long as I can, and then finally, I give in and open them.

My heart is heavy and pained after only a few seconds of being awake. It’s that feeling when you first wake up, and you forget that something awful has happened, and then reality washes over you and pulls you down. You notice its powerful warmth and strength as it drags you to depths you did not know existed. Once settled at the bottom, the familiar sorrow takes its rightful place. Sean, my husband, is up and out of bed. I am alone and know that the silent screams of despair will soon fill my head.

My babies are gone. My precious identical twin boys who owned my heart in an instant. They lost their battle to live while still inside my womb at the five-month gestation mark on Mother’s Day, of all the days. While I never held them or cared for them in the traditional sense, I was their mommy. The mommy who would never wipe their noses or rock them to sleep. The mommy who would never break up the arguments over who had the toy first or console them over a broken heart. The list of things we will never share together is so endless that I fall victim to breathlessness often.

I sit up and look around. I have to force myself to actually stand up. I don’t have the energy or the desire to do much else. Just getting out of bed is a monumental accomplishment.

Baby steps.

Next—what to wear? Nothing fits except maternity clothes, and I don’t need them anymore. This is a sharp reminder of the life I had just a few short weeks ago. It is a double underscore with a thousand exclamation points at the end. I suppose the jeans and shirt I threw in the corner will do … again. After wearing this duo for so many days, I’m sure that if I called out, they would stand at attention and jump right onto my body. Either that or run for the washing machine.

Dressed now, I make my way down the stairs. I count each one to drown out any unwanted thoughts. There are 14 in total. I get 14 steps of peace, and then it ends for a bit. The thoughts and I are together again at the end of this short trip. We make our way to the kitchen to brew coffee only because it is part of the routine.

From the living room, I hear sportscasters arguing about stolen bases or something along those lines. Sean is watching TV. He says, “Morning,” with a quiet, tender voice. Probably because he knows the dread I am feeling. This is my last day at home. I have to go back to work tomorrow, and I am afraid. I hate to leave the house because I don’t feel safe without it surrounding me. Life still goes on outside, and I don’t want it to. I want to stay here forever. But I can’t.

The hours of the day blur together with no meaning like they have every day since Mother’s Day. I am a robot that does not compute. No, actually, I am the Tin Man, the one with no heart. Even if I go to Oz, it won’t matter. That’s the saddest part – it won’t matter. Sean tries to console me and make me feel better. I love him so much for trying. He is suffering just as I am, but he does a better job fighting it than I do. Maybe I don’t want to start healing because it makes me feel guilty. How can I go on and be happy and live a full life when my children are gone? It is a delicate dance, I suppose. I have no rhythm and step on my own toes as I struggle to let go and let life take the lead. Two baby steps forward. Ten giant steps back. Whether or not I want it to, life does go on.

The night finally wins the battle with the day as darkness settles over our home. I need to prepare for my first day back. Not my clothes or packing my lunch but preparing my mind. As if this all wasn’t bad enough, tomorrow, I also get to look at Gabrielle and the blossoming life growing inside her. Her baby is due just a week or two after my baby boys should have arrived. I am sick to my stomach as I lay in bed with Sean. He holds me and tells me everything is going to be okay. I want so much to believe him. Sleep is difficult to find, but eventually, I can hold it back no longer as it takes hold of my hand and guides me to another land. I love the silence.

My sleep is not broken by a gentle breeze this time. It is an alarm clock that forces reality upon me as it shrieks from my nightstand. Each shrill warning pierces deeper than the last. Sean is still fast asleep. His alarm will start its noise in an hour. I struggle to stand up again and wrestle with the dreaded task of dressing. I count my 14 steps for peace, make coffee, and do all the other things that others might find easy this morning.

It’s time. I cannot put it off any longer, so here I go – deep breath and all. I am out the door putting one foot in front of the other towards my car.

Baby steps.

The drive is monotonous. I do not switch on the radio because I don’t want to hear music or commercials or anything that might be associated with happiness or, worse yet, children or families. I cry in my silence the whole way. I do pay attention to the road, though; otherwise, God only knows where I would end up. God, yes, God. The one I begged to change our circumstances but who did not for reasons I will never understand.

I make it to work and get out of the car. I put one foot in front of the other.

Baby steps.

Once in the school building, there are fake smiles, hugs, and hellos for everyone as I die a little more inside each minute. I get the warmest embrace from Gabrielle. Her swollen belly presses against me, and I fight back the tears with the strength of ten men. The walk to my desk is as long as the green mile.

People around me are trying to get back to our normal interactions. My therapist tells me that the grief and sadness do not continue for those around me because it is too painful for them to keep me company in my heartache. I think that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard. Let them stay here in the pits of Hell with me. I am lonely here. Lonely and embarrassed. I go on as the mother who could not save her children. I am the helpless one who simply stood by. A mother should be able to protect her children and keep them from harm, but I could not. While that may sound ridiculous because there is nothing I could have done to prevent their deaths, it is the lump that stays lodged in my throat.

I ease into my chair in the front office, and the parents begin dropping off their children for school. I now understand the sadness some of these families must live with. In a sense, they, too, have lost the children they imagined. Their children are diagnosed with autism, and that alone changes their life course. Like me, I am sure they wonder if it is because of something they did or didn’t do. Some sin they committed years ago and now karma has come knocking to collect. I see these precious young faces as they come to give me hugs and kisses and let me know I have been missed. Guilt washes over me again. It is a sensation I am used to.

I go through the work motions like I never left. I answer the phones and the door, enter data into the computer, file, and type letters. At lunch, I listen to mindless conversations about things that don’t matter to me. After my break, I fight the copy machine in a game of tug-of-war over a stuck piece of paper. I deliver messages and keep things in order, something I don’t do very well in my personal life. I can’t wait for my eight hours to come to an end.

With the day finally over, it is time to go back home to my safe haven. I am exhausted and want desperately to get in my car to cry in private. It was as awful as I expected, but at least I am out of the house and pretending to be part of life again.

Baby steps.

           The drive home is monotonous as well. I make my way there in my preferred silence. The tears warm my cheeks as they make their way familiarly down my face. I pull in front of the house instead of the driveway. Sean is not home yet. I sure do wish he was. I put the car in park and turn the key towards me. With a difficult exhale, the staggering thought of having to do this every day hits me with a tidal force. Still in my car, I talk to my boys. I profess my love and tell them how I wish more than anything in the world that we could be together. I promise that I will see them again and can’t wait until the day we are reunited. I sink into my seat and close my eyes. I imagine what their faces look like. They are perfect with smiles that expose dimples for days. They are tiny but seem larger than life. They have their daddy’s brown eyes and they are wide with love and wonder as they giggle and coo. I pull them close to me and breathe in their powdery baby smell. How I wish this moment were real.

           I blink several times to adjust my eyes after crying them out and keeping them shut for a few minutes. I mentally dust off my daydream and collect my pocketbook from the front seat. As I do, something catches my eye. Two delicate white moths are fluttering around my windshield. They are so close to me that I can see their softness. They are bouncing about together as carefree and happy as two free-flying insects should. 

My baby angels are here. Without any doubt, I believe it is them. Their little souls want me to know that they hear me, and they are with me in a special way. They hover around a bit, and then they are off to see more of the world. This surreal encounter makes me feel better. I can tell because a smile is sneaking its way across my face. I open the car door and step out into the early evening air. Ready to go in the house, I turn, putting one foot in front of the other.

Baby steps.