By Sue Dagg
I have a secret; one that I would actually prefer for others to know.
This secret echoes inside my mind every time I meet someone new, or see someone from my distant past. Sometimes the voice in my mind whispers, and other times it bellows. Throughout the shaking of someone’s hand, introductions, making small talk; there’s a repetitive thought I can’t remove. There are times- during the making of an appointment, the agreeing to a deadline, the routine asking ‘how are you’ that doesn’t want an accurate answer- that I want to blurt it out.
“My daughter died.”
It’s a strange feeling, this secret, because I know that people don’t really want to hear it. In our mundane lives, this truth is disturbing, upsetting. It’s a shocking pause to the day that causes someone to feel, when they didn’t expect to. It results in a loss for words and an inability to say the right thing; for some people, a repeated attempt, over and over, to say the right thing. It makes a person feel helpless or adrift in their otherwise routine day. When these things happen, humans can’t help but respond by asking themselves questions about why; this can lead to a terrifying thought that if it could happen to them, then it could happen to me. By telling my truth, I cause other people discomfort, and there’s a social pressure to avoid that.
Social conditioning runs deep. Consider this: That my daughter Emily lived is the greatest joy in my life. That she died is my greatest sorrow. Those two events have profoundly impacted my life to the point that everything in my world has become “before Emily was conceived,” “during Emily’s pregnancy and life” and “after Emily.” Every event, every thought, every action is categorized into one of these boxes, and discussions with my husband almost always include that identifier. “Remember, before I was pregnant with Emily…” or “You know that time, when I was only a few weeks pregnant…” If minds could speak for themselves, I would have a constant label on my forehead saying “premie baby that didn’t survive.” And yet, in most daily interactions, I don’t say a thing.
It’s not because I want to hide a single part of the amazing girl who lived. I’d prefer to be shouting it from the rooftops. In fact, oddly, I feel truly deceptive when I don’t say something. There are a number of times that I’ve handed over money to a cashier I’ve never met at a shop I’ll probably never go again, and felt that I have acted as a fraud for behaving like any normal person on the street when I’m not- I’m a woman who has a dead daughter. I’ll never be normal again. How devious and disingenuous not to tell them the very most important thing about me.
But in our society, we don’t discuss the meaning of life with total strangers. When we talk about emotion, it’s superficial and not truly an avenue for exploration. Our daily world is transactional at best, and there is no room for a response to “Hi, how are you today?” to include “Not so bad now, but yesterday I couldn’t stop crying about the fact that my baby isn’t alive and here to hold.” And so it happens that I stay quiet about the loudest parts of my mind.
I want to be really clear here: I am surrounded by beautiful, compassionate friends and family who will listen to me talk about my daughter whenever I choose. In that respect, I am acutely aware that I am one of the luckiest loss mothers around and I feel grateful for that every day. I’m also certainly not always ready to take on the grief and sadness of others that inevitably follows when I disclose a part of my story. Yesterday, a “how are you finding motherhood?” conversation turned very exhausting when the shocked and distressed woman on the other end of the truth took more than six attempts to apologise for her question. When I tell someone about Emily, for better or worse I have taken responsibility for their consequent emotional surge and I’m not always equipped to deal with that. My tale of a very special daughter who I couldn’t hold on to for long enough isn’t a story that I want to tell every day, but it is one that I live and breathe every day.
This secret that I hold isn’t really a secret. What it is, is a daily reminder that I am different and in some ways – no matter how many women or men share similar aspects of my story – that I am alone. The voice echoing through my mind isn’t really shouting to the other person to be heard, but calling inside myself, reminding me that I am ‘other’, that I am different. It’s a feeling that I sometimes don’t belong, that I don’t fit. It says to me that the person would be speaking differently, treating me differently if they knew, and perhaps trying to extract themselves from a difficult conversation.
In time, I hope that this dialogue in my mind will become quieter and I will find greater peace in the fact that I am as different in my story as all people are in theirs. I hope I will come to remember in ‘real time’ that most people have a narrative of their own that they won’t say, that would lay them just as bare as my truth makes me.
In the meantime, I have a secret.
______________________________________________
Sue Dagg is 35 years old and lives with her husband Rob and bulldog Lilly. Their daughter Emily Beatrice was born prematurely at 23+4 due to PROM and died after only three weeks of life. She was a fighting spirit who beat many odds to be born. For Sue, part of bringing meaning to Emily’s life is found in breaking the stigma of talking about pregnancy and infant loss, and ensuring others know they’re not alone.
- Infertility vs Cancer - April 19, 2021
- Loss is Not a Dirty Word - December 7, 2020
- What I Wish I Could Tell the Non-Loss Community - November 17, 2020
Thank you. Just thank you for this post. You have stated perfectly how I feel everyday since giving birth to my twins at 20 weeks in October, losing them both. My babies died is something that repeats in my head daily when I talk to people. Again thank you for sharing, it helps to know I’m not the only one.