A Letter From Jesse's Mom

  Dear Whoever, 

 

This is an open letter written with the hope of bringing understanding about what it is like to lose a baby. If you have ever lost a baby yourself, know someone facing a miscarriage, or even if you have never heard of anything about miscarriage until this now. Wherever you are, whoever you are, this is only my story, but in a way, the story of other moms who have lost a pregnancy, and suffer from the overwhelming emotions of miscarriage. 
 
These are my experiences caused by the loss of my baby. I didn’t just lose my baby; I lost many other “things.” I lost my dreams. Dreams of having beautiful birth with a happy ending. Dreams of bearing my husband’s first child, and giving my living children another sibling. I had dreams of celebrations of the life of my baby. Gender reveals baby showers, birth announcements, and many years of birthday parties.
I lost myself. I lost my identity. Who am I? Am I just a mother of my living children? Can I count the baby still? Can I count my son in heaven since I did just fail at doing the only thing moms are supposed to do, protect their children? I don't know who I am. 
 
I often feel like I have done something wrong, and karma is catching up with me. I don’t know what my purpose is. Does God no longer love me? Do I still love God for giving me this life experience to navigate? 
 
Most days, I don’t know why I’m still breathing when my baby never took his first breath of life. Some days I pray for my life to end, and I ask God to take me too. 
 
 I seem to have lost my innocence. Now I know that at any moment, I could lose again. Should we try again? What if that ends in loss too?   What about my 2 living children? I’ve been painfully reminded that nothing is ever promised. The pitch-black silence and darkness of death and the pain of loss is overwhelming. However, the truth is I have no choice but to learn to cope with the pain I will live with every single day of my “new” life. I am no longer, and I will never be the same person. This is my “new normal” 
 
I have lost countless what-ifs. Every day that I get to live while my baby is gone, I lose moments of a life that never will be. I will never get to see my son’s eyes or hear his voice. I will never get to celebrate him in his growth and comfort him in his failures. I will never know anything about him that is the most painful thing of all. Who would he have been? Who would be his best friend? First love? Would he look like my husband or me? Would he love animals like I do? My son is a mystery that can’t be solved. This is all backward; parents are not supposed to outlive their children.
 
And giving birth to death, and to Life never known is an extremely, emotionally draining experience, but it is real.
 
Try not to be offended if I do not shout “Congratulations!” during your announcement, or have the energy to celebrate your babies. It’s not because I’m not happy for you. I’m still just completely exhausted and full of sorrow for me. I often struggle with feelings of jealousy and envy, blame, anger, and shame.
 
In those first few days, I was often asked, “What can I do for you?” 
Those days have long passed, but I still need people to help me keep my head above water, as I’m still very much stuck in the sea of loss; I still feel like I’m very much drowning. Even though I keep telling myself it’s time to pack up my emotions, place them neatly in a box to unpack in therapy, and move on because I look up and life and the world are still turning, even though I still feel very stuck here. 
 
Can you do me a favor? Will you Remember to hold space, not just for me, but also for my baby?
 
Remember my baby on Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and every other holiday. Keep including me. Yes, I may not show up to your baby shower, or answer your text about your pregnancy test, but don’t treat me like a woman who you can never be a mother around.
 
I DO care, I just hurt at the same time. We all know that our world celebrates life more than it acknowledges death. I ask that you know the existence of invisible motherhood. I ask that you know and remember and say my baby’s name. He isn’t some forbidden topic of discussion.
 
I am utterly exhausted, and my heart is incomplete and shattering day after day. When I am distant, please show me that you care. Offer to come to do my dishes, mop my floor, fold my laundry, and vacuum the rug. Or bring us dinner because I can’t even begin to tell you more times than not, I’ve looked at the time and noticed it’s 6pm and I’m still in bed. Yes, it’s been months since my loss, but I’m still struggling to meet my family’s basic needs most days. Offer to Come to visit me, come sit with me. Let me be sad, broken, and angry. Validate me. 
 
When I am present, please hug me and tell me that you are there. It is not my intention to isolate myself from you. Life has, however, isolated me from joy, from peace, from rest. I know that I must survive this new life of sorrow, I know that I’m time I do have to move on. However, losing a baby isn’t a grid that expires after so many days have passed. Every day I find it painful to watch life pass without my baby here. There is no cure for grief. There is no off button, there is no switch that can be flipped 
 
All I know as a friend, as a family member, a stranger more importantly, as a mother to an angel is I need you to love me where I am, for however long I’m here, because while life still goes on, so much of my life ended when my baby’s heart stopped beating. 
 
Sincerely, 

Jesse’s Mom