When we talk about it, like REALLY talk about the things that may make people uncomfortable, something changes. Breaking taboos and shattering silence opens up conversations. It allows other people who experience loss a since of community among the weary. There is also the opportunity for new perspectives and better ways for friends and family to support parents of loss. Anna, shares with us what she wants you to know about miscarriage and birth.
Anna- My labor was induced one Friday evening in July. I had anticipated going into labor on my own, but part of me was somewhat relieved since I’d had an induction with our oldest, and I knew what to expect. The contractions started within an hour or so, and I breathed through each one, keeping my eye on the monitor to gauge how long it would last. Between them, my husband and I held hands and talked. He encouraged me every step of the way, and when the pain became unbearable, he helped to steady me as they prepared the epidural.
Once I had some relief, they checked my cervix, and I was measuring around 5 centimeters. We decided to try and sleep, knowing that things could start to progress quickly. The epidural stopped working on my right side a few hours later, which we expected because of all the scar tissue from my previous back surgeries. The anesthesiology team did what they could, but nothing worked. So I was resigned to fighting my way through each contraction, while gripping tightly to a Bible verse my mom had printed out for me.
Early the next morning, they checked my cervix again. I was now at 7 or 8 centimeters, and it was time to break my water. During our son’s induction, I was ready to push within 20 minutes of having my water broken, so there was little surprise when it happened again this time. The pressure and pain were excruciating, and I remember telling my husband over and over that I didn’t think I could do this. But our bodies are amazing, and I could feel mine taking over, doing what it was designed to do.
On July 16th, 2016, at 7:52 a.m., Lillian Ruth was born. I gave one final push just as the sun was peeking over the trees. When they placed her in my arms I was in awe of her beauty. A little button nose and two rosebud lips. She was just as perfect as I’d imagined, and worth every moment of my difficult pregnancy. I’ve always found the instant bond between mom and baby to be extraordinarily profound.
There’s something about a group of mothers coming together that seems to inevitably lead to birth stories being shared. Spontaneous, non-medicated, inductions, cesareans, we all have different births to share, though each is an act of incredible love. The story I’ve just shared could easily belong to any other mother. However, you’d likely never hear me speak this one, for there’s something that makes it taboo. It would almost certainly cause a painful silence, quick change of subject, and diverted gazes.
Lillian was stillborn. At 35 weeks, I went to the hospital because she had stopped moving, and my world shattered when I learned her heart had stopped too. She was born the next morning, silently. There is nothing like giving birth to a baby you know has died. A few people told me I should have a c-section, and that it wasn’t fair for me to endure an entire labor. At the time, I felt similarly, but the doctors told me they usually just induced in “these situations” (i.e. the baby dying). I think my shock was so great that I didn’t try to argue with them either. During labor, I could only think about how each contraction brought us closer to saying “good-bye.” I was overcome by fear, which is why I kept telling my husband, “I don’t think I can do this.” It was an indescribable agony, yet I almost always look back at it and smile. It was beautiful too, in the way that only a birth can be. Heartbreaking, yet abundantly full of love. And it was one of the very few “mothering” acts I will ever get to do for her.
I don’t think many people realize that I actually gave birth. I’m not sure if they think stillborn babies magically appear, or perhaps it’s that the idea of a baby dying is unfathomable, but whatever the reason is, it’s very far from the reality. I gave birth. It was as real as that of any other mother. I also experienced the full gamut of postpartum recovery, from the mesh underwear to the hair loss. Thinking about my milk coming in still makes my stomach churn. My breasts were painfully engorged when we went to the funeral home, and every ounce of me wished I could’ve been feeding a newborn instead of signing a cremation authorization. It didn’t seem fair, and it was all a piercing reminder that she was gone. My body did everything it should to provide for a living baby, yet I had none to show.
I don’t say any of this for sympathy, or attention. I guess all I am trying to do is challenge the stigma surrounding stillbirth. I used to share bits and pieces of her birth story with people who knew she had died, but the insensitive comments and well-meaning platitudes (or people saying that it was “too depressing”) became too painful for me to bear. So now when I am surrounded by others sharing their births about their living children, I bite my tongue and hold back tears. A lump develops in my throat as I think about how Lillian’s birth really isn’t that different at all.
If you were to ask the bereaved mother about her birth, she would tell you a story of love. It may be similar to mine, or it could be entirely different. By asking, and listening, you acknowledge her baby, and the fact that they entered the world in much the same fashion as any other, perhaps even your own. You honor her baby’s life, and for a moment, help her feel like a “normal” mom, both of which are tremendous gifts.
Her baby may have been born silently, stillborn, but her baby was still born.
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