My Story
I have spent a great deal of time internalizing the events of my adult life that have shaped me into the person I am today. Rarely do I speak of them, as speaking of them gives them breath and brings them into the present where I absolutely do not want them to exist. I am sharing this now as a step toward healing, not only for myself, but hopefully for others as well. I know I am not alone. I humbly hope that my story will speak to some of you, and that we may find healing and peace together.
I married my high school sweetheart, Mickey, at the age of 21 and after 5 years of marriage, I became pregnant. I have the fondest of memories from this pregnancy. I cherished every kick and summersault. I couldn’t wait to meet my son, my flesh and blood, my precious baby boy. Aiden was born in January of 2005. He was, and is, the true love and light of my life. I will never forget his precious little hand wrapped around my finger and knowing that this was a bond like I had never experienced before. He was perfect, and he was mine. I knew that I would be forever changed.
In 2007, Mickey and I decided that it was time to welcome another baby into our lives. Soon, I was pregnant again and glowing with joy and anticipation. Well into my second trimester, around 18 weeks, I felt uneasy and fearful that something was wrong. We went to the hospital just for reassurance that everything was fine. After an ultrasound and waiting what seemed like an eternity, a doctor- who I will never forget- casually entered the room, head down and distracted. He flipped through my chart, as if it were the first time he looked at it. With a detached demeanor, he then rolled out the words that will forever be engraved in my soul-
"It looks like you have experienced fetal demise. We will need to schedule you for delivery."
------- What? ------- I was in shock. Then the reality flooded in. My baby was dead. There was death inside of me. My womb had become a tomb. I began wailing. I cried so hard I literally thought it would kill me.
Then another realization: delivery?? Why couldn't they just knock me out and take care of it? The problem was that I was too far along and the baby was too big for any type of procedure. I would have to be induced and deliver the baby naturally in the maternity ward at the hospital, surrounded by crying healthy babies and proud new mammas. I desperately looked at the nurse, searching for some reassurance and comfort that everything would be all right. Then I heard the second set of words that haunt me to this day-
"If the baby comes out before your scheduled delivery, just put it in a bag and bring it to the ER."
How callous. How inhumane. This is a phrase and image that often runs through my head at the most inopportune times, even to this day. Thus began the worst nightmare of my life.
In the hospital maternity ward, the nurses placed a picture of a white rose on the door of my room. I learned that this is the symbol they have for stillbirths. I also learned that it wasn't completely uncommon. This sort of thing happened to other women, often enough to have a sensitivity policy in place for it. I will never forget the nurses who held my hand through the hardest two days of my life. One of my nurses had even had the same experience herself, and she willingly shared what she went through with such compassion and understanding.
What I didn't know before going into delivery was that even though the baby was smaller than a full-term baby, I would still need to dilate and the process would still be extremely painful. I opted for an epidural, which numbed most of the pain. My memories of labor are hazy, but after hours of emotion and physical turmoil, my baby boy finally arrived. The nurses carefully wrapped him in a blue blanket and presented him to me. I reached out and pulled him close to my heart, cradling him in my arms.
I remember his hands and feet: so small and delicate; a miniature baby swaddled in my tender embrace. My baby. I held him gently with his tiny hand resting against my finger, just as Aiden’s little hand, now seeming gigantic in comparison, wrapped firmly around my finger when he was a baby. Only this time, the hand I held lay lifeless against me; another image I will carry with me forever. We named him Gabriel Michael. I can't remember how much time I spent with him before they took him away. I remember the moments, but not the time.
While still physically recovering from labor, we attended Mass in Gabriel's honor and then headed to the cemetery for the funeral service, another task I never thought I would be faced with. The casket was disturbingly small, placed on a platform as the centerpiece of the service. I remember kneeling in front of the tiny casket, weeping and praying over him. Again, moments, but not time. There are many details that I don't remember, although the details I do remember will haunt me forever- sudden snapshots of imagery from the past invading my mind at any given moment. It would be over ten years before a headstone would be chosen. I just couldn’t do it. I will always feel the guilt of abandoning my baby in an unmarked grave for such a long time. I never visited and to this day I have yet to visit. I just don't know how to do it. The hurt is too much.
Aiden was too young to understand what had happened, but we did tell him that he had a brother in heaven, and every time we saw a cross, we would tell him that Gabriel was with God. This is when Aiden started calling every cross he saw, “Gabriel”. It was heart wrenchingly adorable and innocent. Aiden helped me through the pain everyday, but the pain was so overwhelming that it often clouded the reality of the life happening all around me.
About a year later, while still mourning the loss of Gabriel, Mickey and I decided to try again. I couldn’t wait until I healed emotionally. I didn't have time for that. I wasn't going to miss my chance to have another baby, so I fought through it. The doctors assured me that losing Gabriel was a fluke. It was just one of those unexplained things that happens. They never did find anything wrong with Gabriel, so there was no reason to go into pregnancy fearing another loss.
A few months later, I was pregnant again. With measured fear, I gingerly walked through each day of my pregnancy as if I were a porcelain doll that would immediately shatter if I were to lose my grip on it in the slightest. Around 18 weeks, I went in for a routine ultrasound, well aware of what 18 weeks meant for Gabriel. I was fearful and on high alert as I meticulously analyzed the screen for any unusual signs. I knew by then what I should see on the screen and what I should hear. I saw a baby, but I heard nothing. There was nothing. It had happened again. The unthinkable, the nightmare I already lived through, happened again.
And so this second nightmare began with delivery in the maternity ward and another white rose on my door. This time I opted to skip the epidural, which I regret to this day. The pain was excruciating with absolutely no reward. When my baby was born, the hospital room was dark, Mickey slept in the chair next to me, and not a single nurse was present. Writhing in pain, I looked down between my legs, and there she was, a tiny baby girl. I remember feeling incredibly alone in that moment. I felt isolated and scared; my stillborn baby cradled between my legs. We named her Grace Elizabeth. Once again, we had a funeral, much like Gabriel’s, and buried Grace in the same plot with Gabriel, her brother. It was like I rewound the tape of my life and experienced all of the horrific events again.
I continued to move forward living in a fog. I spent a couple of years again trying to heal. I was fighting against my biological clock. I desperately wanted more kids. I desperately wanted Aiden to have a brother or sister, or better yet, several brothers or sisters. But time was running out. Aiden was getting older and I was getting older. It was time to get to the bottom of things.
Mickey and I first saw the fertility specialist when Aiden was about 5 years old. They ran so many tests on me, none of which I can specifically recall. I just remember being poked and prodded constantly to the point where this became my new normal. I was put on a cocktail of medications and hormone supplements and soon I began a series of fertility medications to prepare for another pregnancy. Mickey had to give me a shot in my stomach every night. I was a guinea pig; less of a woman and more of a test subject. I didn’t even feel like a woman. I was a science experiment. After a few months of these medical rituals, I became pregnant for the fourth time. This time would be different. I was under the care of one of the top fertility specialists in the country. I had been put through so much to get to this point. It would have to work this time. This time we had science on our side.
Ten weeks into the pregnancy, I went in for my routine ultrasound and there was no heartbeat. This time, the baby perished early enough in the pregnancy that I did not have to deliver. This was an indescribable relief amidst yet another nightmare. I honestly didn’t know if I could survive another white rose delivery. I went in for a D&C, and like that, the baby was no more. I didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl. It was a common miscarriage during the first trimester, the likes of which happened all the time, although this is no consolation for losing a child. And just like that, we tied a neat little bow around the entire experience, as if the pregnancy never happened. But it did happen. I carry it with me just as I carry the loss of Gabriel and Grace. All around me, everyone's world kept spinning but mine was still, trapped in the pain of loss. How could the world go on as if nothing had happened?
I never named this baby. I always just refer to it as “Baby”, as if that is its name. It’s just a baby. But it is my baby nonetheless. It has no gender, although I find myself referring to her with the female pronoun. Gabriel and Grace are buried in a cemetery that I frequently drive by. Baby is not buried, but I believe her to be with her brother and sister. Although I have yet to find the courage to visit the gravesite, every time I pass the cemetery, I say a little prayer for my three precious babies-
“I love you, my angels. God bless you, God Bless you, God bless you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
-one for each baby.
During these years, as the pain inside of me had multiplied by three, Aiden was growing and thriving and I was surrounded by the mothers of his peers. We would gather in the greenbelt after school, waiting for our kids to run across the grass and into our arms. Various casual and seemingly benign conversations occurred during these moments, typically revolving around motherhood. Funny thing about some mothers…it seems that the more kids you have, the more of a mother you are, like a badge of honor pinned to your lapel. These mothers asked me, more times than I can remember- “Why do you only have one child? Are you going to have more children?” Does one child not qualify me for the mom club? I really don’t think it did in their eyes. As if my education as a mother had been halted because I failed to have more children. As if I were on a lower tier of motherhood than they were and I was not fully initiated without more kids.
I still struggle with comparing myself to other mothers. I struggle with jealousy when I see a woman with a round pregnant belly or when I see a family with a litter of children. To this day, I cannot hold a baby. It is still hard not to feel bitter and cold when I see a healthy baby in a mother’s arms.
At this point, I was still holding onto hope that I would eventually heal enough to be ready to try one more time. But time went on and on and I still didn’t feel ready. Weeks turned into months and months turned into years. I felt rather confident that one more loss would break me. I feared that I would lose myself completely. Like Humpty Dumpty, no one would be able to put me together again. I was already broken. How could I survive one more fall? This fear was overpowering and I knew I was done. I had lost the war and it was time to take care of my body and myself.
During my years of pregnancies and losses, I was diagnosed with stage IV endometriosis. I was constantly in pain. Electric shock waves would shoot through my midsection and down my legs like labor pains. During my 40th year I made the decision to have a hysterectomy, which would eliminate the endometriosis and relieve me of my chronic pain. In addition to a great deal of scar tissue from the endometriosis, the doctor discovered about 40 fibroids in my uterus, ranging in size from a pea to a golf ball.
The hysterectomy brought with it a myriad of emotions. I felt relief. I was finally free from much of the physical pain that I had felt for years. I also felt empty though: hollow. I felt like my womanhood had been ripped out of me. I was broken: fragmented and mutilated. The transition into feeling whole again took some time, but I know now that it was the right decision for me.
The years of loss were extremely hard on me both physically and emotionally. I developed severe OCD, anxiety, and depression, while also suffering from intense post-traumatic stress disorder. I struggled with eating disorders, ranging from not eating and weighing only 99 pounds, to binge eating and weighing more than I am willing to admit. I felt hopeless and helpless, like a prisoner in my own mind. I began therapy about a year ago and began to confront my experiences head on. Therapy, along with anxiety and depression medication, has brought with it many revelations. I still struggle with the past everyday, but I finally have hope for the future.
I often refer to myself as broken. In the past, this has always carried with it a negative connotation: one of self-pity and defeatism. There is a beautiful ceramic technique, known as Kintsugi, which falls under the Japanese philosophy, Wabi-Sabi. This philosophy poetically embraces the flawed or imperfect. Kintsugi, or golden joinery, is a technique in which broken pottery is mended with gold lacquer. The breakage and repair become a part of the history of the object, something to be celebrated rather than disguised. The idea is that the piece is even more beautiful for having been broken. This struck a chord in me that has proven to have lasting effects. Clearly I am not broken beyond repair. I continue to live and breathe. I have been pieced together with golden joinery. I should be celebrating my breaks; allowing them to exist as a beautiful part of who I have become.
I have immersed myself in my art as my primary form of therapy. I have also immersed myself in motherhood. I am thankful everyday for the miracle that is Aiden. He is enough. I am his mother and I can truly celebrate that now. But I also understand that being a mother does not validate your existence as a woman. There are so many glorious gifts of womanhood, and for some, motherhood is one of those gifts. It is simply a single facet; a path for some but not for all. It is by no means a measurement for womanhood.
I have always been seeking closure to this part of my life, but I realize now that I have been chasing a mythical being. Closure is not something I should be looking for. I simply hope to be able to mend the pieces of my life together, forming a new pattern of being, a whole person full of experiences, both good and bad.
Sharing my story has brought me one step closer to healing and finding peace. It is my hope that this may be a step toward healing for others as well who may have similar stories. There are more of us than we know. We are bonded together by our pain. If together we can find community and strength, if together we can grow in our understanding of the experiences we have been through, this alone would make sharing my story worthwhile. Thank you for listening and gifting me with your time and attention. Thank you for becoming a part of my story.
