Face to Face

“Maybe you shouldn’t drink coffee during this pregnancy.”

I had just told her that we were expecting our rainbow baby, and that was her reply.

No “congratulations,” no “I’m so happy for you,” no “I’m praying for you!”

Her response to me felt like blame for the death of my daughter at 8 ½ months pregnant only 5 months prior.

Maybe I shouldn’t have drank coffee while I was pregnant with her.

Perhaps you’re like me and you grew up singing, “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me!” But I now felt like those words were a lie. Words cut deep.

I was already battling feelings of guilt and shame because she died in my womb – on my watch. Wasn’t I supposed to know? Friday’s strong heartbeat gave no indication that by Monday there wouldn’t be one. Not. One. Beat. When the doctor said the words, “your baby doesn’t have a heartbeat,” they stung.

Maybe I shouldn’t have drank coffee while I was pregnant with her. I only had one cup or less a day…

When I delivered my daughter a day after learning her body no longer had life, the operating room was deafening silent. The lights were blinding and my mind was blank. The silence broke: “girl, 2:32pm.”

I only had one cup or less a day.

I held her for as long as they would let me. Initially there was warmth, then as the hours past her body became cold…and my hope for a miracle was lost. It was the lingering warmth from my body after the delivery. But, oh how I prayed it was hers. 

The doctor came in the room to help us navigate our new normal. As for the cause of death, she said words I still don’t fully understand: “cord accident.” The umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck 3 times. “But, how does that happen?” I asked. “As the baby moves, the cord moves…” she responded. She said more, but I couldn’t hear past the deafening silence that returned. I decided not to ask any further questions. 

I only had one cup or less a day. I didn’t know.

It was nearing time to leave the hospital to return home. It meant that they would finally have to transport her to the hospital morgue for delivery to the mortuary. It would be the last time I would hold her. I played a song for her, I sang to her, I kissed her cheeks, I stroked her head. Then I told the nurse they could take her.

I didn’t know.

Twenty minutes after I allowed them to take her away, I felt a pang inside. I needed to see her just one more time. I walked as fast as my body torn by recent cesarean birth would allow me to walk down to the nurse’s station. I couldn’t wait for the callback this time. I asked as calmly as I could, “can I see her just one more time?” The nurses face said what the deafening silence wouldn’t allow me to hear: it’s too late. The blur of life in slow motion began.

I didn’t know. Maybe I should’ve spoke up sooner.

From there, a fire of guilt began to consume me. The external suffering was the loss of my child. The internal suffering was the thought that I was responsible for her death. The car ride home from the hospital with my husband was met by the lingering deafening silence. Muted sobbing, blank stares, and weighted thoughts were our only exchange. Upon our arrival home the silence broke into uncontrollable grief-ridden cries as we crossed the threshold into an empty home. All signs of a nursery were neatly stowed away in storage by our family. We now had a beautiful home office. I was immensely grateful. I was immensely saddened. 

I’m not sure how long it took my husband and I to break through the tension of our loss. Most attempts were thwarted by the simple absence of words. We learned to cry silently in the shower. I both respected and abhorred our distance; I did nothing to pursue reconciliation. 

Maybe I should’ve spoke up sooner.  

We became pregnant again only 3 months after we lost our daughter. I couldn’t bear the weight of my thoughts and the fear of losing another child, so I went to counseling. In counseling I learned that grief is a process that we all approach differently. In my monthly (sometimes weekly) sessions, I gained the confidence to approach my grief face to face by no longer pretending that it didn’t exist. It was real. It was tangible. I needed to go through it in order to heal. So I decided to break through the silence to find purpose in my pain. I put pen to paper and wrote down every fear, every thought, every question, and every moment I wanted to remember. I decided to do the hard work and talk to my husband no matter how awkward it felt or how many tears welled up in my eyes. Sometimes I even had to scream!

Maybe I should’ve spoke up sooner. But, I’m glad I did the hard work to fight for healing.

A breakthrough happened in those sessions. I experienced freedom in the depths of grief that I never knew was imaginable. Then something even more amazing happened… the well-meaning, yet hurtful words of others no longer had control over me. Trust me, many more things were said that hurt much worse: “well, you’re young, you can have more babies,” or “you really shouldn’t do too much, that could’ve caused her death, you know…”

Those quick, unfiltered comments from others carried weight, but not the type of weight that could put me in bondage to grief, guilt or shame. It’s because I learned the truth. In this life, we will have trouble. It’s almost promised. But through each setback, God is always with us. Once I understood that deep within my heart, I was truly free. 

Grief doesn’t simply go away. It’s managed day-by-day and sometimes moment-by-moment. It’s faced. And once faced, there’s healing. Though it shouldn’t, it can be avoided. 

But, I’m glad I did the hard work to fight for healing.