Breaking my silence.
First, I would like to say that it has taken me four years
to write this. I’ve thought about it
over and over again but just recently had the strength and courage to share
this with you. My hope and prayer is
that my story can help someone else.
I am no stranger to grief.
When I was 26 years old, my parents were involved in an accident that
took my mom’s life and left my dad fighting for his in intensive care. I went
through the stages of grief with my mom’s death…and still do. It’s a constant ache and I face reminders of
her absence in my life daily. I’ve lost
all of my grandparents, my aunt, a cousin, and even two dogs. But nothing I
have endured in my life could have ever prepared me for that day in February
four years ago. Nothing.
Tim and I knew that we wanted to have a family
together. We were beyond excited to
discover that we were pregnant in March 2009.
But I had a miscarriage at around 8 weeks. That was devastating. We were scared but excited when a pregnancy test
showed that there was another baby growing inside me that June. After I passed that “8 week” mark, I breathed
a huge sigh of relief. A few months
later, we found out that we were having a boy.
We had a baby shower and set up the nursery. Everything was ready. The crib and swing were assembled, my bags
were packed, and all of his little clothes were washed and put away. We picked out a name. We were beyond ready
for our Kyle Patrick.
On Thursday, February 18th I went to work as
usual. It was my due date actually. I began teaching my class and then I started
having contractions. My co-workers were
so excited and even began timing my contractions. I called Tim and he drove to pick me up. A fellow teacher took a picture of us
together so we could remember that moment.
We were ready.
Once at the hospital, they took us into a small room in
order to start paperwork and get us checked in.
The nurse brought in the fetal heart rate monitor. Then I heard 4 words that had the power to
crush me and change my life forever…”There is no heartbeat”. I was numb. I couldn’t breathe. Tim left to make some phone calls and I found
myself in a cold room. Alone. I collapsed.
I begged and pleaded and yelled at God to please spare my Kyle’s life
and take mine instead. God was quiet.
The minutes and hours that passed after that are forever
etched in my mind. Time didn’t matter
anymore. Nothing mattered to me. They gave me medication to induce labor
faster and even gave me morphine to numb my pain. They couldn’t numb my emotional pain though.
Believe me when I say the pain of a broken heart far exceeds any labor pain. I knew that I would have to go through labor
to deliver a baby whose cry I would never hear.
I looked at my dad in his eyes and told him “I can’t do this”. Somehow by the Grace of God, I was given the
strength to go through labor. They tell
me that I pushed for about two hours.
Like I said, time no longer mattered to me. I had Tim and my sister by my side along with
an incredible nurse and midwife….and a room filled with family next door. Shortly after midnight on February 19th, Kyle
was born. They wrapped him in a blanket
and handed his perfect 9 pound body to me.
I looked down at my precious boy and kept saying through my sobs, “I’m
so sorry, I’m so sorry my baby”. Although
I blamed the doctors for not inducing me the day before, and I blamed God, I
mostly blamed myself. I was his
mom. It was my job to protect him and keep
him safe and I failed. This is something
I still struggle with.
Kyle’s “coming home from the hospital outfit” quickly became
his “going home to heaven outfit”. We had a funeral. We were blown away by the number of family
members and friends that came to honor our little boy’s brief life. Walking into a funeral home and seeing a baby
in a tiny casket was not easy and I could see it on everyone’s face. We decided to lay Kyle to rest with my
mom.
The days and weeks after losing Kyle were hell. I would wake up to a tear-soaked pillow from
crying in my sleep, and if I made it from the bed to the couch, that was an
accomplishment. I would sit on the
couch, cry, stare out the window, cry, take Tylenol PM, cry, fall asleep, wake
up to a tear-soaked pillow. Repeat. It’s a level of despair and darkness no one
should ever have to face. I read a quote that said:
“There is, I am convinced, no picture that conveys in all its dreadfulness, a vision of sorrow, despairing, remediless, supreme. If I could paint such a picture, the canvas would show only a woman looking down at her empty arms”-Charlotte Bronte
I say all of this only to tell you that there is hope.
Even though it made me feel incredibly guilty, I laughed again. As silly as it sounds, I cried after I
laughed the first time from the amount of guilt I felt. I felt guilty for feeling joy. Why do we do that to ourselves?
Grief is grief. My
grief is no different from someone who lost a parent, a spouse, an aunt, a
friend, a family pet, or the grief over a failed marriage. I stand today and
share that there is hope. The journey
is not easy. I will not lie to you. Although the pain will always be there, it
does get easier. I know at times it can seem impossible, but I promise you, hope is out there. You will forever be a different person. But you will find joy again. You will smile again. You will laugh again. Oh, there will still be moments that grief knocks
you off your feet out of the clear blue, but you will stand back up again.
I didn’t talk about Kyle often for fear of making other
people feel uncomfortable. I remember the awkward silences when I returned to
work. No one knew what to say to me, but
it wasn’t their fault. I decided to
break my silence. Although the state of
Ohio couldn’t issue Kyle a birth certificate and there is no documented proof
that he lived, he did live and continues to live. He lives in his little brothers’ laughs and
smiles, he lives in my heart, and he lives with his Heavenly Father now and
forever.
When people ask the dreaded question of “How many children
do you have?” my heart still races and I feel a lump in my throat. I pledged to tell them my real number. Through this journey over the past four
years, I have discovered people are much too quiet about their grief. Perhaps we’re quiet for fear of making ourselves
or someone else feel awkward or uncomfortable. Or fear of opening up that wound
again. Only after losing Kyle did a coworker
tell me she also lost her son in a similar way many years ago. Only after talking about Kyle did a neighbor
share that she lost her firstborn daughter. Miscarriages, stillbirths, and the
struggles of infertility are very real. Grief
is very real.
Share your story. Talk about it.
Break the silence.
If the world
won’t listen to you, I will. I promise.
