“How are you doing?”
The question is usually asked casually. The ones who really mean it say, “No, really, how are you doing?”
My response has become, “Not bad.” It’s never “good” anymore. Because I’m not good. I’m not sure I will ever be good. But I’m also not bad. I’m dealing. I’m trying my best.
When I begin to feel really sad, sometimes I just let it out. I cry and cry and it feels so good. When I am alone, when I allow myself to think, my heart always feels William. He is constantly there with me. It is a deep love. It is also a crushing pain; the reason for the tears.
There are other times when I just can’t cry. Sometimes it’s not the right place or the right time to cry. That’s when the mask goes on. I smile to try to hide the pain. I make my mind pay attention to what is happening now, in this moment, instead of focusing on what happened in the past, what could have been. The mask doesn’t allow me to feel sorry for myself. The mask reads about the world, listens to others’ problems. It allows me to realize that I may be going through tremendous pain, but so are others. The mask tells me that I need to use this pain to my advantage. The mask asks me how I can do that.
The mask, in a way, is beneficial. It makes me feel like a stronger person than I really am. It provides me with a temporary reprieve from the pain. It allows me to continue to function in the world, to go to work, to attend social gatherings. It provides me with an opportunity to help others. It gives me a reason to live. The mask is my defense against the emptiness that has invaded my body. In a way, I’m glad for the mask.
But another part of me wishes the mask wasn’t there. While I would never want anybody to experience this heartache, I wish more people understood the agony of pregnancy loss. This isn’t a pain that will ever go away. It can’t be fixed. It won’t be cured, even if I am able to have another baby. There is a part of me, of our family, that is missing. I can’t ever get my child back. That’s my new reality.
I frequently remind myself that I have two choices — I can let this pain crush me, or I can let my love for William win. Some days the pain gains the upper hand in the battle. I wonder how I will make it another day. Depression begins to wrap its evil, ugly hand around my heart. But I fight it with love, and with the mask. I make myself start mentally listing everyone and everything I have to be grateful for, even when it feels like there’s nothing. I set goals to do better, to help the world become a better place.
Maybe someday more people will be willing to see me as I really am, without the mask. A mother who’s missing her child, and finding a way to continue to live without him. But until that day, I’ll keep my mask ready and forge ahead, taking steps towards healing, and living a life that my son wasn’t able to. I will keep living, for him.
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Kelly’s world was forever changed when her son, William Robert, was born on Jan. 5, 2016. He was such an active baby, constantly kicking and moving when Kelly and her husband, Stephen, were able to see him on ultrasounds. His strong heartbeat gave them hope that he would be their rainbow baby. Kelly and Stephen lost William suddenly when he was 15 weeks and 3 days old. He had another sibling, Angel Baby, who was born at 9 weeks gestation in May of 2014. When William and Angel Baby gained their wings, Kelly and Stephen suddenly found themselves wrenched on a path to childless parenthood. While trying to navigate her way through this unexpected journey, Kelly leans heavily on a support network of other bereaved mothers, along with friends and family. She and her husband have one dog, Sadie, and two cats, Sam and Sully. Kelly teaches special education at a middle school in Massachusetts. When she is not working, Kelly can be found blogging, taking her dog on long walks or relaxing with friends.
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This is so eloquently written… And so in line with how I’m functioning too. But you’ve put into words that which I haven’t been able to do myself, thank you.