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 A MOTHER WITHOUT A CHILD - long but worth it 
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Post A MOTHER WITHOUT A CHILD - long but worth it
I found this story on the website of a lady who lost her twins in June this year, it's not her story but something that she came accross that described how a mother feels after losing her baby, and for me, it is scarily accurate, especially those parts in bold. I will also have Grimtaz add this to the stories section. If you are interested in the website it came from it is
http://mysite.verizon.net/resposee/


A MOTHER WITHOUT A CHILD



By Robin Wallace
March 20, 2002 |

The sneaker salesman asks me about my exercise preferences -- aerobics? running? -- and I'm halfway through a detailed history of step classes and speed walking before I realize how ridiculous the regimen must sound considering the heft I'm carrying around. I want to explain that my excess flab is the product of recent childbirth, but stop myself midsentence. I can't tell the sneaker salesman that I'm shaping up postpartum because, unlike most new mothers, I don't have a baby. He died, still snug in my womb, before he could be born.

It's just not a thing you toss into casual conversation. Yet, this self-imposed, socially correct silence is painful to maintain. I attend showers and cocktail parties, where women I've never met are talking about their pregnancies and their kids. I don't want to impose the burden of my personal tragedy on strangers, but I also don't want to have to stand in these circles denying who I am.

I craved oranges and had burning pelvic pain, too. My epidural also didn't take on the first try. But, of course, the natural progression of such remarks -- Congratulations! Did you have a boy or girl? What's his name? How old is he? -- makes such contributions impossible. So I stay quiet. And with each incident of forced, unnatural muteness, of pretending I did not have a baby, I lose my son all over again.

You don't realize how many strangers you chatter with each day until you must guard each word to avoid mentioning the most significant event of your life. You do not appreciate how many acquaintances you can go a year or more without contacting until the specter of a chance encounter turns routine functions like grocery shopping or visiting the local pub into perilous exercises of anxiety and avoidance. You cannot know how important your physical appearance is to you until you cannot provide every person you meet with the excuse of pregnancy for your fat.

My husband refuses to be robbed of the heartbreaking pride he still takes in having sired a child. I watch him tell old friends and associates. I watch his face contort with the effort of reconciling stubborn traces of joy with the awkwardness and discomfort that comes from sharing this information. But my husband keeps himself in a pretty tight orbit of friends, family and colleagues. If my world is to extend beyond the safe cocoon of people who know what happened -- and for me, it must -- I have to be prepared to suppress the most distinct part of who I am.

A stillbirth is not the worst-case scenario in pregnancy; it is the unfathomable. You skip that chapter in the pregnancy book, not so much because the idea is too awful to consider but because it is too improbable, too horrible -- you think -- to actually happen. When it does happen, you learn that the unimaginable does indeed happen, that there is no reason to really believe that it can't or won't. The basic human inclination to hope for the best -- in times of eager promise or fearful anxiousness -- is not only exposed as a sham, it is also no longer available to you. You become proof of the foolishness and naiveté of such faith.

My son did not look dead. He was pink and round and perfectly formed and appeared only to be deep in a peaceful baby slumber. His eyes were closed, but there was an expression on his face, a thoughtful one, as if he had spent some time pondering his future, planning his entry into the world. The secret of who he would have been was permanently trapped inside him, but its presence was unmistakable. Personality, humor, intelligence, talent -- potential my son would never have the chance to realize, potential from which the world would never benefit.

I see his face every minute of every day, and when I see it -- when he was born, and now, in my memory -- I think of what happened as some sort of payback, a restitution for past sins or transgressions. Yet I have no sense of any cosmic debt being paid, of karmic accounts being settled. Instead, my little baby hovers above me like an angel of foreboding, a warning to heed the message of his death. I cannot figure out what that message is, what lesson I was supposed to learn, and the fear that these lessons will keep coming until I decipher the meaning of my son's death is paralyzing.

I had been very proud, almost cocky, about the speed with which I had conceived and the ease with which I carried this baby. For so many of my closest friends and relatives, procreation had become an exhausting medical process resulting from infertility and miscarriage. My pregnancy was romantic, natural. My son was going to squeeze into the world two months before my 34th birthday, six weeks before my first wedding anniversary. I had beat my biological clock and breezed through weeks of tests and examinations without a complication or concern.

Pregnancy, for me, was a process in which I cast off my old self, with its mundane inadequacies and failings, and regenerated a spectacular new me in its place, a me empowered with awesome, preternatural capabilities. By the end of my pregnancy, I could not remember or imagine the reliable efficiency and functionality of my pre-pregnancy body. I could not recall an intellect that could be engaged by any subject other than the baby I was carrying. I spent the last weeks of my pregnancy in severe, immobilizing discomfort, but that only seemed to reinforce the importance and seriousness -- the privilege -- of the condition. I could not imagine a life that was not defined by this experience.

Instead I am distinguished by a grotesque mutation of the experience. What was to be my ultimate triumph is now my most abject failure. The onset of labor did not send me to the hospital; the eerie stillness of my child, the absence of his familiar squirms and kicks, did. A team of nurses and doctors frowned at the screen of a sonogram scanner with mounting dread and alarm, and some essence of myself, something innocent and optimistic, drained away. Whatever my pregnancy had been or meant, whatever memories or expectations it had brought into our lives, collapsed into a mangled pile of useless rubble in the few seconds it took for an obstetrical resident to look up from the sonogram screen and say, "I'm sorry."

Whether a woman believes motherhood to be her most significant experience, or mothering to be her most important role, she is redefined, her identity permanently altered, once she gives birth. I am stranded in a lonely purgatory between the worlds of motherhood and childlessness. I carried my baby inside me and pushed him into the world. I know the surge of all-consuming love and pride that rushes into every cell of a person's body the instant her child is placed in her arms. But I never fed my son or changed his diaper. I never heard him cry or saw him smile. I have not had to adjust to the stress and exhaustion of this awesome new responsibility.

Everyone I know is having babies and I imagine I can hear the cliquish scorn of the other mothers I thought I'd be joining: "You're not really one of us. What ever made you think you could be?" I had been the dutiful and faithful pledge of this elite sorority, but ultimately I was only permitted to push my nose against the glass. I've had a child but I don't have my child. I fit in nowhere.

Sometimes it does feel as if the pregnancy did not actually happen, as if the whole ordeal was simply a disturbing, vivid dream or the product of my own imagination. I could be the protagonist of a science fiction thriller, my identity stolen, the last year of my life erased by mysterious evil forces. I can remember months of pregnancy, but other than some medical bills and excess weight, there is no real evidence of it. Sometimes, for a second, I think I'm still pregnant and just haven't had my baby yet.

Sometimes, however, my whole body will just ache for my son, a ravenous craving. I find myself at these times taking huge, deep breaths, as if I could catch a whiff of his essence in the air. I know what my husband smells like. I know the comfort of being able to summon a memory or a place, or the spirit of someone, through the power of a familiar scent. I hold the blanket and knit cap my son was wrapped in at the hospital up to my face and I inhale until my lungs are bursting; but these remnants of my baby are eerily odorless, not the faintest trace of olfactory evidence remains. Everything else in the world has a smell, or at least a scent that evokes presence, but my son did not leave one behind. I cannot even have that simple connection with him.

I sometimes see myself as a freak, the pathetic subject of a nature documentary, the slow, sad female of the species who, tricked by a cruel twist of biology into believing she has reproduced, spends her life roaming her habitat in search of her phantom offspring.

My son was born at 1 o'clock in the morning, an induced labor fast and painless under heavy dosages of epidural medication. My husband and I named him Luke Michael. We were able to hold him and kiss him and baptize him and keep him with us for hours after his birth.


They were agonizing hours, filled with fantasies that Luke's eyes would open, and punctuated by a horrible sound that I later realized was our wretched, unhinged wailing. But Luke was beautiful and he was ours; there was still a joy in holding him, still a thrill in seeing him for the first time.

I spent the next days, even the next week, trying to celebrate Luke's birth while simultaneously mourning his death. I could not stop myself from brimming with the pride of a new mother. It was a part of me that could not be kept down. Hours after I held him in my arms for the first time, I showed off my son, taking extreme advantage of a hospital policy that allowed families unlimited access to their dead newborns. Luke was held by his grandparents and aunts, passed around my hospital room in a ritual that seemed perfectly sound to me at the time, but that probably permanently traumatized my ambushed relatives. They saw his long legs, his giant feet that had jabbed my ribs.

My husband and I have photographs of ourselves holding Luke; we have his lanky footprints. I sent clothes to the funeral parlor -- a diaper, an undershirt and the special homecoming outfit I had chosen for him -- to make sure he was dressed properly when he was buried. We honored him with a formal funeral, and laid him to rest in a small white casket covered in downy feathers like angel wings. I tried to be as much of a mother to my son as I had the chance to be.

We are not so selfish or self-absorbed not to know that our pain is barely a blip on the meter of world suffering and tragedy. But our small world revolves around our missing baby. Even as I struggle with the sadness that the loss of my son has unleashed in my life, I am comforted by the way my grief returns with faithful potency every time I fear I may be forgetting. It is the gaping hole in my life, where my baby and I were supposed to be together, that reminds me that I am still very much his mother. Whatever I fear now, it is not that my grief will never heal. My greatest fear is that it will.

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MANDA
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Tue Aug 16, 2005 3:16 pm
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Oh Manda, thanks for sharing :tear:

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Tue Aug 16, 2005 3:39 pm
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Wow :tear:
Like you Manda, very much the way I feel.
The story reminded me of a time just recently when I bumped into an old acquaintance who asked me how many children I had, I told her two, she then asked me the ages of my kids and I had to explain that sadly my boy was stillborn recently and she just passed right over the subject no coment not even a blink or expression, just nothing she just carried on talking as tho I had not even mentioned it. It left me feeling quite lost not angry but hurt that nothing was said.
Riley is my son, only he has live in heaven and I refuse to hide my son away.

Thank you so much for sharing that lovely but sad story.

Take care
Jacqui

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Tue Aug 16, 2005 6:04 pm
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Jacqui

I totally agree with you, Thomas is my son and always will be, he may not of lived on this earth but he will always be a part of our family. I had this horrible experience a few months ago when I gave everyone a family photo for xmas and we had put Thomas in it and my sis in law had the cheek to ask me if they could have one without him in it and I said NO, he is part of our family and if you cant acccept that, thats ur problem.

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Tue Aug 16, 2005 9:08 pm
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Ohhh Kim that is so sad.
You kind of expect that sort of ignorance with people you don't know that well but when it's family, it's just rude and it hurts.

Take care
Jacqui :)

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Wed Aug 17, 2005 10:23 am
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Kim

Just wanted to say how sorry I am that you should have had that experience from a member of your family.
I have a "family" photo wall in our home, and before putting up any of Trinity I asked Manda if it was ok. I didn't want to upset her either, but wanted the world to see how very proud I am of my new granddaughter.......so now, along with all my other family photos, there are photos of Trinity. Now we can stop and say Hi to her everyday when we go through the hallway.

I hope you can rise above her ideas, and good on you for including Thomas in your family photos.

God bless
Take care
Rae


Wed Aug 17, 2005 9:44 pm
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Thanks everyone

We too have a wall just for Thomas and also we have a shelf on the bookcase for him. I got his memory blanket that the hospital gave me framed with Photos of us all holding him on it. Then on his shelf we have 2 photos of him and 2 cross stitches who were done by my sister Pip and my best friend Colleen. Then we have few ornaments my mum and I have bought as well as things friends have given us. We will be moving in a few weeks and I am unsure where in the house I will put his wall but I will find somewhere. Oh yeah I also have the memory box the hospital gave me and one i bought coz the original got too small as I have clothes that were especially bought for him, a cardi his grandma knitted all the cards we got and all his hospital notes in there. My mother in law has 2 photos of him in her house, ok they arent on the wall with the rest of the grandchildren but they are there and I am happy with that.

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Wed Aug 17, 2005 11:49 pm
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Awww Kim that is so sweet. What a great way to remember your wee man

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Thu Aug 18, 2005 11:22 am
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This letter makes me weep everytime I read it. I have decided to email it to some friends b/c I think it captures a lot of my feelings so well. I hope it is well received!

Jennifer

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Mon Aug 22, 2005 3:24 am
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Kim,
I'm so sorry you got those remarks from family. I think unless they have lost a child themselves they just dont get it! They think get over it! But the thing is we cant get over it so these remembrances are all we have!
I've had all sorts of comments,like well you have other kids you are lucky! Yes thats true but that doesnt make me want Noah any less!
My mum said to me once,Oh well now you have your new baby you wont need to go to Sands anymore. The thing is even though yes I do have another precious baby,I still can never forget my precious angel,nor do I want to! At sands I can talk about him and not be looked at like crazy!

I was hurt on Noahs 3rd anniversary,no one at all in either family even rang,let alone sent a card. It was so hard for me as that meant no one cared about him! I know in reality ppl think if they say something they will upset you but really you want the aknowledgement dont you. Ironically it was an online friend who sent me yellow roses! It was so nice!

We have a wall unit which is all Noahs,pictures and ornaments and precious things plus a wall with pictures. It feels like he is part of the family this way. Every xmas or birthday we add something to it,either there or at the cemetery.
Feel free anyone to look at his webpage,the link is in my sig.

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Mum to Melissa(23),Jenny(21)Robert(18)Sam(15)Jeremiah(10)Rebekah(4)and our angel Noah,born silent at 38 weeks on 5/1/02
Also Nana to Jake(4) and Makayla(2)

http://www.babiesonline.com/babies/n/noahdaniel

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Mon Aug 22, 2005 10:16 am
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Post Michelle
Yes we have had those comments many of times in the last 15 months. People just dont get it thou, yeah we can try and have another but that new baby is not gonna replace Thomas and in my case if I do succeed in having another one bubs will probably be a girl. SO he would be our only son. I had a comment passed like that to me when i went into the nappy shop and the guy said oh havent seen you for a little while and I was like well I havent been in because I lost my baby and he was like ahh well just have another and I just didnt say anything and walked out, have only been back there once or twice since then.

My father in law is the worst, it was only a couple of days after losing Thomas and he came round and said ahh well you gotta carry on with life now and I was like NO WAY we havent even said our final goodbyes. He also used to come up to the hospital when I was in and just hang around we ended up telling him to give us some space.

ok i bleated on enuff now, so many things I coudl say about this its not funny but I will stop now.

Huggles

Kim

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Mon Aug 22, 2005 10:56 am
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It's a bit of an old post now but i wanted to say i really liked this one too, I cried my heart out when i read it................along with the other stories too. :cry:


Kim, i'm sorry you have to experience these people, it's hard to imagine that some people can be so flippant, to be told just to have another baby, just like that. It makes me mad. I must admit i haven't really experienced that. all the people who knew i was pregnant are all heartbroken for us, but have never shyed away or avoided us, We have been very lucky with the support we have been given.


Sat Sep 03, 2005 1:47 pm
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