Breakfast Bomb

I usually take it for granted that our little community of family and friends and coworkers were all aware and sensitive when Haven died. Today I got a taste of someone who didn't know and who wasn't sensitive.

We were at the window at a Tim Horton's drive through to get some breakfast and tea when Danny recognized one of the ladies working inside (an old coworker). I smiled at her. 

"Oh heyyyy," she said, popping her head around the woman serving us, "listen, did you have your baby?" Silence reigned for a few seconds until Danny said, "yeah, we did, but unfortunately she, uh, she didn't make it." The lady dramatically covered her mouth, "oh, I'm sooo sorry!" She stepped away from the window and I thought that was that.

Nope.

She popped back into the window: "were you full-term?"

Danny: yeah.

Lady: "oh my, you don't think about that happening. What happened?"

Danny briefly explained.

"Oh, that's terrible. It must have been so hard." She popped away again, and the other lady in the window (a total stranger!) asked, "was it a boy or girl?" 

Danny answered, but I was just staring off into space at this point, barely believing this was happening.

The old coworker popped back into the window and asked in a conspiratorial tone, "I hope it doesn't sound nosy, but are you guys going to try again?"

I just sat there in shock while Danny said, "uh, we're hoping to, yeah." 

"Oh, that's good." Other random lady chimes in, "hopefully it'll work out this time."

I completely broke down by the time he got me to work. I understand not knowing, but a response to this situation needs to end at "I'm so sorry" and nothing else. I am still in shock that someone who barely knows my husband AND a complete stranger could go on such a nosy tear of questions immediately after finding out we lost our child.

Now I need to somehow let this go and focus on work... I am in disbelief. What is wrong with people?

Invisible Parents, the Sequel

There is a parental child benefit that all parents in Newfoundland receive upon the birth of their child. It also applies to parents whose child was stillborn. To be honest, I wasn't sure at first that I wanted it. I felt a little sleazy collecting money when my daughter had died and I didn't have any child-related costs. But I realized quickly that funerals and headstones and all of those things cost money, and they are not covered in any way when your child is stillborn (my insurance booklet very "tactfully" says that my coverage for a dependent's life insurance is only for children "from live birth"). So every expense has been out of pocket. (It turned out that, thanks to the generosity of our friends, family, and coworkers, we were able to cover all expenses without going into debt.)

Filling out the application was emotional for me. You have to tick a box saying that your child was stillborn, and the form asks for the child's name, but it is "not required if you are applying as a result of a stillbirth." I felt like the form was screaming, "YOUR BABY IS DEAD AND SHE DOESN'T MATTER AS MUCH AS OTHER BABIES!" For the rest of our lives, we will have to fight for the legitimacy of our parenthood to our daughter. The fact is that many won't view her as a person and will not think our grief and acknowledgement of her as our daughter is justified. So...I filled her name out anyway. Small victories.

We completed the application and mailed it in with all relevant information and additional forms, only to receive a letter in the mail saying that our application could not be processed because we needed to include a stillbirth registration letter. What? No one told us that we needed one or how to get it, and the application form did not mention it. Stillborn babies don't get birth or death certificates. All I had was a letter from the funeral home confirming that they held a service for Haven. So I had to call that office back to find out what they needed and how to get it, then I had to call Vital Statistics in order to request it.

When I asked why I hadn't been told anything about it, the lady said, "well, I think because it's a hard thing to talk about with parents." I said, "well, it's a whole lot easier than putting parents through this process!" Having to rehash our story with strangers over the phone is one of the most stressful and painful things that I have had to do, and it's something I have had to do more often than you might think. Honestly, I don't give two craps how uncomfortable our situation is for someone else to deal with. They aren't the ones who lost their only child, so they can, quite frankly, suck it up.

This pissed me off, but I restrained myself. After all, it wasn't that lady's fault that the system is broken.

At least there is a happy ending to this story. Or there will be. A local blogger who lost her daughter in a similar way to us (Being Everlee's Mom) contacted the government about this issue and they are now working on a way to streamline the process to spare parents from having to jump through hoops in order to have their children recognized. I know that a lot of families will benefit from such a change. I guess it's just one change at a time, one courageous parent's voice at a time, that will make stillbirth and parents of stillborn babies visible.

The Real World Approaches

In Canada, you would normally receive a full, paid year off from work (up to 55% of your normal earnings) if your baby is born alive and well. You still receive the pregnancy/maternity leave portion of your Employment Insurance when you deliver a stillborn child due to the physical recovery and time for grieving. That means 15 paid weeks, and two unpaid weeks. Your employer must give you your job back, or an equivalent job with equivalent compensation. Well, I am about a month away from the end of my pregnancy leave, and I am starting to think about reintegration into The Real World. I have been in a safe bubble of sorts; I've been able to choose the people I want to be around, I have been able to focus on physical recovery and grieving, and I have been able to start each day at my own pace. That will change soon, and I am afraid.

I am afraid of strangers' reactions, since I have such a public job. The more I read forum posts and pieces of people's stories, the more I realize that there are a LOT of people out there who don't understand stillbirth and don't ascribe personhood to stillborn babies. Therefore, they don't think a parent is justified in mourning as though their baby breathed on the outside, or in talking about them the same way as they would any other child they bore. It's ridiculous, frankly. There are babies born much earlier than the point where Haven died, and if they were to spend even a few hours breathing on the outside, even with assistance, a lot of people would think of those babies more as people than they would my daughter, because she never breathed on the outside. I am afraid of meeting these people because I am afraid I'll either lose my mind and yell and them, or that I will be dumbstruck, and they will take my silence as agreement or some sort of proof that they are right.

I am afraid that I won't be able to keep up with things anymore. My job requires me to be "on" all the time, and to remember things. To keep things running smoothly. An administration job is not the kind where you can just shut off your mind. I was always sharp, remembered the little things, did things without being asked or reminded. And now, here I am. I still have "mommy brain" from all the hormones (I've heard this might never go away), my grief is horribly distracting, my focus on trying to conceive (TTC) is distracting, my thoughts about how my husband is doing are distracting...there really isn't a lot of room left for sharp thinking. I hope that I am able to flip a switch and just turn the focus onto my job once I'm back, but I'm nervous.

I am afraid that, if I can't conceive before I get back to work, the exhaustion of full-time work will make it more difficult. I'm afraid that if I can't time conception right, I'll end up having to work next year during the most busy and stressful time at work (April and May) and put my baby at risk. I'm already afraid that if I DO conceive this cycle or next, that even those few months at work will be dangerous for my baby due to my stress and anxiety. Basically, I'm afraid of stress.

I am afraid that going back to work will make all of this seem more real somehow. Like it never happened. I should have been returning in February of 2015 after an exhausting and joyful year of nursing my daughter and watching her grow. Now I am returning early, empty-handed and exposed.

I am afraid that people will think that going back to work means I'm okay.

Sigh. I'm just afraid.

Stuck in the Muck

When you first lose a child, you are immediately in shock, you feel numb, and your emotions are all heightened. I cried more easily then, and nothing felt real. The week after is kind of a blur. Only 28 hours after I gave birth to Haven, I was sitting in the funeral director's office making funeral plans. Or rather, my husband was making plans while I sat there and cried quietly.

Almost a month and a half out, I am starting to understand that grief doesn't move in a straight line. It's not worse at the beginning, then better and better from there on out. What is different about losing a child, especially an infant, is that there isn't any situation that isn't a trigger. Your baby would have been with you everywhere you went, so it doesn't matter where you go, what you do, or who you see, they simply aren't there with you. Instead, there is a black hole that travels beside you and your arms ache, longing to be filled with your child who is never, ever going to be there again.

I have been trying to get out among friends in the "real world" every few days, but that has become harder. The first few weeks that my husband was back to work, I would go to friends' houses, but they all have kids, save a few. So I would get through my visit, get home, walk through the door, and burst into tears. Tears that continued to pour sometimes for hours on end. So I've kept to myself a little more since a few of those experiences.

But it doesn't seem to matter that I avoid painful situations; they just seem to find me. Here are some examples from just this past week alone:

Example 1: I am a voting member at my church, and there was a pastoral/board vote last Wednesday, so I knew every person counted (you have to have 2/3 of members present). I decided to go, even though it would be my first time back. As soon as I walked through the door, well-meaning people were expressing condolences and wrapping their arms around me. I was in tears within two minutes. Though I had many friends there, no one thought to save me a seat. Thankfully, I found a spot with friends, who sort of barricaded me in one of the rows of seats and I was left mostly alone for the rest of the meeting. I felt so alone in that room, even though I was surrounded by people who love me and my husband.

Example 2: Some of our closest friends invited us over on Friday, along with some of our extended group of friends. I knew in advance that two friends would be there with their baby, who was born just weeks before Haven under scary circumstances (they got a warning, we didn't). They are a trigger for me, but I'd thought I would give it a try (after all, I can't hide from them forever). Big mistake. I walked in the door and could see the mom holding the baby in the living room (they didn't see me). I ducked into the kitchen and one of the hosts asked quietly, "how are you feeling with them here?" I looked up at her with big eyes and said, "panicked." And promptly burst into tears. She hustled me up the stairs to her room to give me a moment. I cried and sobbed. And his cries kept wafting up the stairs...I can't explain it, but they hurt me physically. She brought me some wine and some tissue (good friend!) and cried with me. My husband showed up later and was directed up the stairs to me. I begged him to take me home. I knew he was feeling it too. When will it not be "too early" anymore? I really don't know.

Example 3: I went to a party the night after at a friend's house. It was going alright, though it was hard with such a full house (I haven't exactly been around any crowds since I've been off). I ended up in her living room with a few girls, sipping wine and feeling sleepy. They all eventually slipped out, and the last one said suddenly, "can I give you a hug?" I said, "sure." She said, "I heard what happened. I'm so sorry! My friend is going through the same thing." I said, "I'm sorry to hear that." She didn't miss a beat and said, "I guess it's important to remember that it's a pretty normal thing to have happen." I was stunned and just mumbled, "yeah, I guess so." She left, and I closed my eyes to rest, just fuming inside. SERIOUSLY??? I am still angry thinking about it. Normal?! Sure, death is normal in that we all die, but it's not normal for a healthy infant to die with no warning. Not normal at all! What in the world was she thinking? I don't need her opinion and did not ask for it. This is probably just the beginning of The Shit People Say for me. I think I have been sheltered mostly, but I've heard too many other parents' stories to believe it'll stay this way.

Example 4: Facebook. It's covered in new birth announcements, baby pictures, pregnancy announcements, you name it. My sister in law is pregnant and due soon, and she just posted her bump photos. They make me so angry and so jealous. I hate that I feel this way. Pregnant women make me feel so inadequate and so empty. I also feel fear around them, because I know what can happen.

These are just a few of the worst things, but there are always countless moments when I feel the black hole gaping around me. At the grocery store, knowing one of us should be carrying her. When I shower and notice that my milk is totally gone and my bleeding has stopped. When I open the fridge, and my Strongbow reminds me that I'm not pregnant anymore, so I can drink alcohol. It's EVERYWHERE, and I feel like I am stuck in the muck of my grief.

I just miss her so much.