It really is hard to explain just how hard it is to be a Still Mother. The constant triggers, the insensitivity we are frequently shown, and just how draining it is to constantly walk around every day with our emotional shields up to try to deflect some of the pain thrown our way. All analogies inevitably fall short of the experience of living it but the phrase death by a thousand cuts keeps resonating with me.
Let me describe a typical day in the life of a Still Mother to show you what I mean.
The alarm on my cell phone wakes me up, not my child’s cry, and the silence in the rest of the house is a constant reminder that my babies died. They are still the first thing on my mind. Cut, cut, cut. I hop onto the computer to start my waking up process. I play a farming game that forced players to produce game “children” to be extra farm hands a couple of years ago, so my “kids” (named Unlikely and Impossible) are a constant reminder that it is assumed everyone has kids to raise and I am the anomaly that doesn’t fit. Cut, cut. Facebook’s gift this morning is an ultrasound photo from a friend that I forgot to hide when she announced her pregnancy. I quickly un-follow her but the damage is already done. Cut, cut, cut.
Driving to work and flipping channels on the radio, I briefly land on a weekly women’s segment. But as usual, the topic involves motherhood and telling cute stories about your children. Yet another reminder that being a woman must always mean being a Mom. I have no cute stories to share since my children never lived outside the womb. Cut, cut.
I try to absorb myself in work until the monthly staff meeting over lunch. As usual, the early focus of the meeting is discussions about everyone else’s children and the grandchildren that one employee is expecting. Cut. She actually whined that her grandchildren may move three hours away and how could such a horrible thing happen. I inwardly mutter that she has no idea what horrible really means. Cut . At least half the people in the room know that I have had losses and cannot carry a child to term, but none of them seem to think twice about how painful these conversations must be for me. Cut, cut, cut. They have heard my story of pregnancy loss but not cared enough to remember or to notice how quiet I am during these meetings. I do my best to mentally check out of the meeting but these cuts have already slashed deep.
Back in my office the onslaught continues. My immediate supervisor is currently obsessed with his family tree and has been having me type it up for him. I help him count the number of children, grandchildren, along with the greats and great great-great grand-kids. It is a bitter reminder that my branch in my family tree is dead. I remind myself that I am too fond of eating to quit my job today, paste a fake smile on my face and carry on. The cuts keep coming and I am already feeling weak and drained.
I log into Facebook for some distraction at the end of my shift. My brief moment of happiness that an old friend reactivated her account quickly turns to horror. She is posting multiple quotes from one of those prosperity televangelists implying that thinking positive thoughts will always make your dreams come true. Cut, cut, cut. I know the quotes are not directed at me; she is not thinking of me at all when she posted them. But those self-righteous platitudes that blame the victims of tragedies for not having enough faith to either prevent the tragedy with prayer or to just not let it bother them in name of trusting some magical plan are just infuriating. Posting those shows a serious lack in judgment and empathy so I am acutely aware that I will never feel comfortable being emotionally open with this friend again. One more friend lost and another deep cut in my heart.
I go home to cook supper for the two of us; always just the two of us. Cut. The TV is on in the background and I intentionally try to start conversations during each commercial break for distraction. It doesn’t work. I hear every single painful ad. Diaper ads talking about how special that first hug is between mother and child. Cut. Pregnancy tests and knowing sooner. Cut. Parents teaching their kids to ride bikes. Cut. And it feels impossible to find any TV series to watch that doesn’t eventually have a pregnancy story line. Tonight it was a re-run of a sit-com with a character moaning that his fiancée might not want to have children and he just can’t imagine a life without kids. I internally cuss at the TV about the reality of living a childless life. Cut. I switch to Netflix so at least I can watch reruns of shows that I know so I won’t be blindsided by an unexpected trigger. Inevitably, though, I forget just how many triggers there are in any show. I can’t escape the constant reminders that having children to raise is expected to be reality for everyone. It feels like it is reality for everyone. Everyone but me. Cut.
I web surf while watching TV so I can check in on my online friends in various support groups for loss mothers and those struggling to conceive. Another pregnancy announcement. Cut. Pregnesia in another group with loss mothers with living children attacking loss mothers without living children for not celebrating their pregnancies as a sign of hope. Somehow the message that not everyone ends up having a living child becomes perceived as being bitter or wallowing in grief. Once again, the Still Mother is reminded that she is different, alone, an anomaly and frankly unwanted if she is gong to be honest about her feelings. Cut, cut, cut. Another recent loss mother who was hurting over insensitive comments from family. How can people be so cruel as to tell someone that losing their baby “might be for the best?” But ask any loss mother and she has probably heard something similarly horrible. Another deep cut.
At bedtime there are no children to tuck in or little feet making noise as they sneak out of bed and down the hall. The house is quiet and feels empty. I read for a while in bed to try to get my mind to wind down and stop thinking. My heart is drained and has nothing left to give. And I often cry at bedtime with the weight of my memories and pain. I cry with the knowledge that tomorrow will be another day with similar assaults on my heart. There are no days off from being a grieving mother. Cut.
Sadly, I can’t even record all the emotional cuts that happen during a typical day; a thousand doesn’t sound like an excessive number at all. Some days my emotional shields are stronger, or my heart is harder, and the cuts don’t hurt as deeply. Some days I am just numb and the emotional cuts don’t seem to matter, because nothing matters when you are in that state. But that numb state is just surviving, not living. I do actually want to live life, someday, maybe.
That’s just how it is to be a Still Mother. Constantly on edge, waiting for the next cut to come.
It’s amazing we don’t bleed to death…
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