I thought I was safe. Or more precisely, I thought our unborn baby was safe. After a dozen early miscarriages in a row, I had made it into the second trimester, we had seen and heard the baby’s heartbeat more than once, and I had even begun to feel her tiny movements. I let myself believe that I would hold this baby in my arms.
And then I started to bleed. And cramp.
At the hospital, in labor at 17 weeks (40 weeks is full-term), I learned that the baby had died. I was shattered. Shattered. I delivered her tiny body in the emergency room. She had fingers and toes, tiny eyelids and tiny ears. She was perfect in every way — except for a heart that no longer beat.
We named her Aimée, French for “loved” or “beloved,” and she was. She was born 33 years ago this coming December, five days before my 28th birthday, and I was plunged into the depths of grief.
I heard phantom baby cries. My arms literally ached. My chest felt like an elephant was sitting on it — I could barely breathe. I couldn’t sleep and spent many nights rocking myself in a rocking chair, holding a baby doll. I wanted to crawl out of my own skin or get an epidural for my heart so I couldn’t feel anymore, the pain was so intense. I thought I might be losing my grip on my sanity. I thought the grief might actually kill me.
And all the while, a drumbeat played in my head: My baby is dead. My baby is dead. My baby is dead.
Many people didn’t even know I was pregnant, but for those who knew, it felt like most of them could not fathom the depths of grief that rocked me. I heard, “Oh, you can always try again,” or “It was for the best,” or “At least you didn’t really know her.” But miscarriage grief isn’t proportionate to how long you were pregnant.
October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month and Oct. 15 is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. In the United States, approximately 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage — around a million a year — and almost 50,000 more are stillborn or die in infancy. That’s a lot of grieving parents, siblings, grandparents, and other family and friends. In fact, I am confident in saying that virtually everyone knows or will know someone who has experienced a pregnancy loss.
How to help someone experiencing pregnancy loss
When someone you love has lost a baby, at any age or stage, there are many ways you can help support them through their grief.
First, just acknowledge it. You don’t have to find the “perfect” thing to say. There is no perfect thing. Just saying you are sorry can be enough. Don’t minimize or try to one-up.
If it is possible, help them create memories with and about that baby. If the pregnancy is lost early, this might mean a poem, a locket, a small figurine or even a tiny blanket to wrap the baby in after he or she is delivered. If the baby is lost later, this can include taking footprints, making foot or hand molds, or getting tiny burial gowns like those made by Utah seamstress Michaun Torgersen from old wedding dresses. It can also include taking photographs. It may be months — years even — before families may be able to look at those photos, but they become so precious. Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep is an organization where professional photographers volunteer their time to come to the hospital to take heirloom pictures of babies who have died.
Then, please remember that grieving takes time. So much time. Due dates, holidays and normal childhood milestones seen with other children are often grief-filled, especially in the beginning. The December I lost Aimée, when I was asked what I wanted for my birthday or for Christmas, all I could say was, “My baby.” You will not remind someone of their baby if you ask about them. I promise you, the parents have not forgotten.
To parents who are still in the early days of loss, I want you to know that it does get better. You will adapt to a new normal and the grief, while never gone, will lose some of its sharpest edges. You will smile again. You will feel joy again. In the meantime, lean on others for support as you navigate this path. You are not alone.
On Oct. 15, there will be a “wave” of candles lit at 7 p.m. in remembrance of our lost babies. It can be a physical candle or a virtual one. Whether you light a candle or not, please know you are not alone.