My personal religious feelings have always been complicated. Raised ostensibly Christian, I never found a home in Christianity, nor any other organized faith. Viewing the complexity of the world around me, I believe there is probably a higher power, but I don’t feel the need to worship. When asked for a label, I use the term, “agnostic deist.”
Throughout the years, I have reexamined my beliefs. I’ve read the Bible. I’ve studied contemporary literature. I also studied other prominent world religions, and engaged in respectful conversation and debate. (Please note — this site IS NOT a place to engage in spiritual or religious debate).
I had planned to raise my son outside of a religious faith. I wanted him to have the opportunity to learn about the various beliefs in the world without pressure to choose as I would choose. I planned to raise him to be a critical thinker, to ask questions, and to respect that not everyone chooses the same beliefs. In my experience, these three things were more important than that he believe exactly as I believe.
When Adrian died, I again reexamined my beliefs. I wondered if I should allow the chaplain to perform a blessing. I wondered if it would be important to me. I realized it wasn’t. I realized that even in the face of the finality of his death, these ceremonies still didn’t resonate with me.
I don’t know what will happen when I die. I don’t know what happened to my son. This isn’t an existential problem for me. I know that Adrian existed, and that’s what feels important to me.
Funeral
Because of my beliefs, it was important that Adrian have a secular service. Having never attended a service without religion, I didn’t know what one “should” look like. I even considered for a few days the possibility of a Buddhist or Wiccan-officiated event, but realized both that those did not feel right, and that it was almost impossible to find an officiant in my area.
I eventually asked a Christian chaplain with whom I felt comfortable if he would perform a secular ceremony. I will always appreciate his flexibility. He was respectful, and he listened to the things that were important to me. He found poetry to read in place of scripture. He created a service that felt appropriate to me. He also checked in with me following the funeral. He embodied what I feel a chaplain should be.
Spirituality of Friends and Family
About a month after Adrian’s death, my best friend Jessica* told me that religious solicitors had come to her door. While often open to discussion, Adrian’s so-recent death had rocked her. She told them she was mad at God.
Other friends felt differently. Many are devout followers of an organized faith. Some are agnostic or atheist. Everyone dealt with loss in their own way. A very few tried to pull me into their faith. On good days, I recognized the love in these intentions. At other times, I was easily annoyed.
Something that will always stand out to me, though, is when a good friend of strong faith brought me moving help from his church. In the midst of my grief and often overwhelmed by logistics, these three young men cheerfully moved and organized my house, leaving a tangible sense of peace in their wake. Without ever mentioning religion or God, they were simply pleasant company. Before they left, I offered to let them pray.
Prayer
I have never felt the need to pray, but I understand it. I understand feeling lost and helpless, and needing to do something to make a difference. The day Adrian died, the midwife who sat with me in the hospital asked if she could pray with me. She asked permission. I said, “Okay.” It didn’t hurt me to allow her to pray. I felt sincerity in both her prayer and medical practice.
That evening back at the hospital, the man who brought me a wheelchair asked if he could pray for me. He asked permission. I said, “Okay.” He held my hands and said a short prayer, and then pushed me in the wheelchair to Labor and Delivery. His actions matched the words he was speaking.
My first week back at work, an older gentlemen paused in the middle of my office space and prayed. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t consider the environment. He didn’t ask if I believed as he believed. This prayer made me angry.
When people ask if they can pray for me, I appreciate the sentiment. In the right environment, it can be comforting. When asked for permission, I feel respected. This gentlemen’s actions conveyed that his beliefs were more important than anything. It wasn’t comforting. It was hurtful.
I don’t know if anyone else prayed. It’s not something most people talked about. I appreciate that those closest to me often found less religious ways to express their love for me. It showed that my beliefs were respected as much as me.
Platitudes & God’s Will
Before I understood grief, I probably uttered some terrible platitudes. I think most people who say these things aren’t aware of how hurtful they’re being. I can generally keep that in mind when I hear things like, “Time heals.”
It’s more difficult when platitudes involve God’s will. It’s quite hurtful to hear that my child was “supposed” to die, or that this is God’s way of testing me. These are not things I believe. The concept of a god who would purposely kill children is utterly foreign to me.
But sometimes these conversations are difficult because they come from a fellow parent who is also suffering grief. It’s a reminder that faith can be as isolating as it can be comforting, and this is one area where I will often be alone. It reminds me also how important it is for all of us to be respectful, because even with faith, we can’t know the truth inside our fellow hearts.
Strangers of Different Faiths
There have been a handful of additional experiences this past year. There are new friends who call my child an “angel”. There was the nurse who told me I needed to develop a relationship with God. I’ve come to brush off most of these things. It’s generally not worth my strength to engage.
On occasion, I will find someone like me — someone who believes sparingly, or disbelieves entirely. There are also those who hold strong beliefs, but don’t expect that faith in others. We find mutual respect in each other. It is freeing to feel understood.
Things I Believe:
Everyone is fighting something. We are all on our own journey.
Perspective is a beautiful thing, but it doesn’t erase. My pain isn’t better or stronger or deeper than yours; only different.
Time doesn’t heal. Medical care and self-care can be healing. Time is only a measure of the length of the process.
There are things in life a positive attitude cannot erase. There are problems in life that can’t be fixed.
There is no cure for grief.
There is no “meant to be.” There is only what exists.
Grief is real, and necessary, and lasts as long as it needs.
There is no shame in grief.
Despite variability in human actions, there is love and beauty and potential for goodness in the human spirit.
We matter, simply because we exist.
~
My son matters. Adrian James Hernandez will always be part of me.
In my twenties, when I thought about having children, I assumed I would meet someone, get married, and life would move forward from there. Of course, life doesn’t always happen the way we plan. When I hadn’t found the “right” person by age 30, I realized I needed to make a choice — I could either keep looking for a partner and gamble on decreasing fertility and increasing odds of birth defects as I aged, or I could focus on what I decided was more important to me — having a child. I chose to become a Single Mother by Choice.
I never thought being a single mother would be easy, but odds weighed, it was the right decision for me. Because I acknowledged the difficulty, and because I wanted to give my child the best possible future, I spent a few years getting ready. I paid off debt, bought a house, finished my Master’s Degree, and situated myself into a new position where I wasn’t working the crazy hours I used to. It took time, and there were a few hiccups, but everything mostly came together easily.
When I became pregnant, I was ecstatic. There was never a time I wasn’t wholly committed to and excited about my son. I bought his first onesie the day of my positive pregnancy test, and I started interviewing doulas at six weeks. I built my life around ensuring I was prepared to be his mom.
Our pregnancy wasn’t “easy,” but it was fairly textbook. I planned for a midwife-assisted natural birth, but continued seeing a more traditional hospital-based practice in case of emergency. I attended classes and read all the books. I thought I was prepared for everything.
On 29 June, 2017, during a routine medical appointment on the morning of my 41st week of pregnancy, I was informed my son had no heartbeat. I had experienced symptoms of preeclampsia, and he had been moving less than usual the previous week, but none of my providers had been concerned. Despite concurrent care, participation in a home nurse education program, and 50+ hours spent reading books and attending childbirth classes, I was blindsided. I had no idea that babies died.
I spent the next year of my life in a fog. Instead of monthly photos, blowout diapers, and breastfeeding, I dealt with milk donation, missed milestones, and grief-induced stupidity. Human interaction became incredibly difficult. Some people said insensitive and stupid things, and some disappeared entirely. When I went back to work after only 7 weeks, my greatest fear was divided between crying if someone asked about my son, and crying if they didn’t. And through it all, I continued to experience all the normal aspects of being postpartum. I was a mother without a living son.
One of the few things I am grateful for is that I wrote to my son throughout our pregnancy. I wrote to him in excitement; I wrote to him in love. And after he died, I kept writing. About three months after his death, I thought about sharing these letters in some public way. I was nervous, but I wondered if this might be a method to share important information with the world. Because it’s an important and misunderstood aspect of nature that babies die, and mothers grieve. And grief is both natural and real.
Nine months later; one year after the death of my son, I am launching this site. I am sharing this story with all of you.
Offerings placed at Whiteshell Provincial Park during Landon’s Legacy Retreat, Sept 2017. These offerings symbolize a mother and her child; I placed knots between mine to show that Adrian and I are forever connected (Miranda Hernandez)
Starting to live again wasn’t easy. Going back to work was only the beginning. There were still days when I struggled to draw breath. (To be honest, those days never really leave me.) I still resented people who tried to pull me back into my old self. I’m not that person anymore. But I’m related.
I can’t really say when it happened. I know it started as a trickle. I know it started when I realized I still had opinions that don’t relate specifically to having or losing a child. There were times I surprised myself, midway through a conversation in which I had once again become articulate. In which I was actively engaged. In which I was making actual sense. These things were “progress,” but also hard.
I don’t think I would have understood before how difficult it can be to participate in the mundane when your heart is broken. Not because the actions themselves are difficult, but because you feel like your actions are a betrayal of your grief. For the longest time, I felt disloyal whenever I smiled. (To be honest, this feeling never really leaves me.) It took and still takes so much effort to claw into life anyway.
Here’s the thing, though, when you start to get out of bed — you find that when you start to put one foot in front of the other, it eventually becomes a pattern. You find that life returns whether you want it or not. You find you wake up one day, and you have started the process, and it feels impossible and inevitable all at the same time.
Motivation
I think one of the biggest incentives to come alive again was starting this website. I thought about it very soon after Adrian’s death, and then put it on hold. Starting a large, complicated project with no boundaries and no idea of the time investment was something the old Miranda would do. She was overflowing with energy. I was still struggling to remember my laundry. The idea didn’t leave me, though. It percolated. I sat with it until I decided it was something I could do. I think this was the first real spark.
The second thing that came to me was my volunteer work. When I was pregnant, I had backed off from many of my previous commitments, but one that I couldn’t leave in good conscience was my work as a CASA. Having been assigned to a case when I was technically pregnant but before I even knew, I felt a strong need to remain and see it to completion. My CASA supervisor had assumed my duties immediately following Adrian’s death, but when I started to breathe again, I realized it was something I wanted to do.
I can’t speak for other people after tragedy. I can’t state that what drives one person will work consistently. I can’t even state that these things worked consistently for me, but they started the process. They gave me reason to try.
Around this same time, I started therapy. It sounds funny now that that wasn’t one of my first steps, but in the immediate aftermath, it wasn’t yet right for me. I needed time to get to a place where words made sense again. And call it maybe kismet, but I also needed to meet the right person so she could hand me my therapist’s card. I started at a time when it was most needed, and I was ready to receive it.
Afterwards, I found more motivation. I started practicing yoga again, and I signed up for a yoga-centered retreat for mothers who had lost children. The retreat was hard, and scary, and also important to me. It showed me I wasn’t alone.
Protection
In the midst of everything, I recognized I couldn’t leap back into my old world. I had limited bandwidth and energy. I had also lost so much of my old excitement. (This is one more thing that may never change.) Pretty much everything was just — hard. In order to protect myself while re-emerging into society, I made a few changes:
• I avoided crowds. This included declining invitations to parties and social work events I would have attended previously. This continues in a small way today; while I no longer turn down invitations immediately, I do monitor my energy to determine what I can handle.
• I found new service people. Faced with the outrageous difficulty of communicating my loss to my handyman, dry cleaner, and favorite take-out restaurant, I chose to find new places to do business instead. It became one more layer to my loss.
• I avoided specific people. A few individuals, often through no inherent fault, unknowingly made my return more difficult. Recognizing I couldn’t ask people to change, I pulled back on my end. In some cases, I was able to reestablish contact at a later date. In some, I accepted that our relationship had come to its natural end.
• When I returned to Facebook, I unfriended unnecessary acquaintances, and “unliked” or hid almost everything that used to spark my anger. I also uninstalled the Facebook app, and turned off notifications. This allowed me to visit the site to see family news on my own schedule, instead of being driven by the latest hot debate. I recognized debate was not a good use of my energy.
• I learned to say, “No.” This one should probably be at the top of this list, but I leave it here for impact. Learning to communicate the new limits to my abilities was a major achievement for me. It was also necessary, and is something I still practice today.
Even with protection, none of this was easy. But it felt inevitable, if not necessary.
And one day, I woke up, and I was alive. This still feels strange to me.
Adrian’s elephant in Whiteshell Provincial Park. This was one of the first photos I took with elephant, on the roots of a fallen tree whose branches almost form a heart (Miranda Hernandez)
Adrian’s positive pregnancy test and his first onesie (Miranda Hernandez)
Thinking & Planning
I planned and prepared for Adrian for several years. Late in 2015, I felt my life was stable enough to begin the medical part of the process. I booked an appointment with a local fertility clinic, and started seriously considering potential donors. While I could have used one of the many reputable sperm banks, it was important to me that my child have access to a more complete personal and medical history than was typically provided. I also wanted my child to have the option to meet the donor later in life. This meant I needed a known donor.
Working with a Known Donor
Using a known donor can be a somewhat complicated process. There were questions of legality, morality, physical attributes, medical procedures, and future status. Most important to me was the question of how to find someone who was willing to be a donor for the “right” reasons. After an exhaustive search, I did find someone who felt right, and after much discussion, we agreed on terms and solidified those terms into a legal agreement. For the purposes of this website and to protect his privacy, I will refer to the donor here as “Timothy”.
After the agreement was signed, Timothy underwent the same procedures required by the FDA before anonymous donation. This included a comprehensive physical, medical history, and screening for infectious diseases. All of this was accomplished in the same two-week window in which he made his donation, which resulted in a total of approximately 20 vials of semen. After a quarantine period, also recommended (but in the case of a known donor, not required) by the FDA, Timothy repeated the screening for infectious disease. Although I felt comfortable with Timothy and didn’t feel worried that he was withholding information from me, this second round of testing ensured protection from highly infectious diseases like HIV, which can take several months to manifest in bloodwork. All of Timothy’s screening came back without concern.
Physical Preparation
While Timothy was going through the screening process, I was physically preparing to become pregnant. Although I wasn’t considered medically infertile, my fertility office put me through the same battery of tests as the rest of their patients. I could technically have opted out of these tests, but I decided there was no harm in doing them, especially since I had to wait for Timothy’s quarantine period anyway. All of my tests came back clean as well. There was no reason to think I would not have a healthy pregnancy.
Finally, I visited my primary care provider to discuss my planned conception. We discussed medications I was currently taking, and I asked if there was anything else I needed to know. I wanted to be as prepared as possible.
Insemination
There are multiple types of fertility procedures available. Since I was not considered medically infertile, and since my testing had come back clean, my doctor and I decided together that we would try at least three rounds of intrauterine insemination (IUI) without the assistance of any medication. IUI is considered the least invasive medical procedure, and is roughly the medical equivalent of having intercourse.
On 30 September 2016, I went to my fertility clinic for what turned out to be my first and only round of IUI. It was a very quick procedure, and after less than one hour in the clinic, I was back at work. Exactly two weeks later, on 13 October 2016, while vacationing with my sister Alexis* in Orlando, Florida, and literally on the morning we had planned to go to the Magic Kingdom, I found out I was pregnant.
Pregnancy
I stared at the pregnancy test for what felt like hours. It didn’t feel quite real. My sister had gone to get coffee, so I messaged the two close friends who had been following my journey. They were both excited. When my sister returned, I asked her how she felt about being an aunt.
We did go to the Magic Kingdom that day, Alexis driving while I read through everything I could find on pregnancy and amusement parks. I had been looking forward to riding Space Mountain, but I changed my mind.
My first morning back at work, I asked my boss if he had a moment to talk. I felt like bouncing off the walls, but I very calmly told him about my pregnancy. He was overjoyed for me. My team lead was out that day, but I texted him and told him when he called me that evening. I was surrounded by support.
Beyond that, I kept the news mostly private at first. I told a handful of close friends, and then the rest of my work team at 12 weeks. I also told my extended family, almost all of them in person. It was important to me to start rebuilding the family bonds that had started to lapse as we all moved in different directions.
Every day, I woke up full of excitement. Every day, I felt thankful for the magic growing inside me. He was always my beautiful miracle.
I was sitting in my prenatal centering appointment when I felt him kick for the first time. I was exactly 20 weeks pregnant that day. It was a minor movement, but I felt it more and more throughout the week. By the time of our anatomy ultrasound the following week, I was able to recognize when he didn’t like the feel of the wand; he kicked every time it came to close to him.
Adrian’s 21-week anatomy ultrasound
As I gained weight and he grew bigger, he developed a fondness for the space under my right ribcage. I often felt something small and round pushing against that space. I think at first it was his bottom, but when he flipped over onto my left side, I started feeling feet there. It was a game for me to push gently and tickle back when he kicked against me.
The day of our baby shower, and my introduction to Elephant
Although I had told the people that mattered, I felt a need for the obligatory Facebook post as well. At 38 weeks, I selected my favorite maternity photos and made the announcement. I was ecstatically happy.
Saki and Amy Anne help to announce my pregnancy with Adrian James (Modern Lux Photography)
Miranda on the Pacific Coast in California (SynchMedia)
I wrote letters to my son throughout my pregnancy. When he died, I continued to write. It had become a habit. I wonder sometimes if I write for him or for me. I think the answer is — yes.
Letters to Adrian are lightly edited for clarity and mechanics, and to protect privacy. They are otherwise presented exactly as written.
My water broke in a gushing flood. I understood then what women meant when they said it felt like peeing. I looked down, expecting to see water pooling on the tile floor. What I saw instead was blood.
That moment woke me, brought me back to physical reality. I thought about what the blood could mean. I wondered briefly if I was dying.
I got caught up in the details, then. I called the hospital, while my sister ran for towels and a dress we could fit over my head. My grief was swallowed up in movement and the placement of trash bags on the passenger seat.
We drove to the hospital, through traffic that was unusual for eight o’clock at night. I clutched a makeshift diaper of towels, feeling the loss of more fluid with every turn.
My sister pulled up to the curb, in haunting parallel to our appointment that morning. Someone on the sidewalk brought a wheelchair and asked if he could pray for me. He held my hands. My mind hovered over us. It still wasn’t real.
Early & Active Labor
Upstairs, I met my nurse for the evening, a sweet and well-organized woman who asked for my birth plan. She discussed the protocol the hospital uses for stillbirth deliveries — my choice of pain medication, unlimited food and liquid, and a personal nurse on every shift.
The doctor followed. He confirmed I was in labor. He had wanted to perform an amniocentesis, but I had lost so much fluid they weren’t able to position the needle. The nurse took more blood and put a saline lock above my wrist, but did not yet connect any fluids. When I told her I wanted to labor naturally as long as possible, she brought me a birthing ball and mentioned that the shower was available in my restroom.
Beth* had returned with my original doula, and together they set up soothing music and an aromatherapy diffuser. When I was originally planning for birth, I had requested “massage”-type music — the wordless, instrumental filler that facilitates relaxation. I had also requested specific scents. It felt both weird and also comforting that these things were still going according to plan.
For the first few hours, I rocked on the birthing ball, starting to feel the contractions in my belly and lower back. They weren’t painful at first, just present. I breathed into them the way I was taught. My sister and my doulas took turns talking, idle chatter to fill the void. If I could shut off the screaming part of my brain, I could almost pretend it was ordinary.
Although I was in natural labor, I wasn’t progressing quickly, and by midnight, I had only dilated 2 1/2 cm. I knew because my water had broken, there were increased risks of infection; long labors can be dangerous in these cases. After discussion, I accepted assistance via IV Pitocin.
Afterwards, my contractions became stronger, and also more irregular. I clung to my Bradley training, first breathing, and then moaning through them. My doulas took turns rubbing my back and my feet, and continued talking to me. I was physically present, but mentally gone, my consciousness living mostly in my physical body.
Transition
When I entered Transition, I started to feel the vibrations of the contractions in the bones of my pelvis. They were still irregular, coming in intervals of 2-5 minutes. I also felt nauseated. I think under different circumstances I would have continued to work through the pain, but in the early hours of the morning, I decided it was too much. I asked for the epidural.
The anesthesiologist worked calmly but quickly, allowing me to moan through each contraction before she continued. Afterwards, she tested the efficacy, and seemed satisfied that the pain was beginning to dull. I had requested a lower dose than usual, but the relief was very welcome. I slept for about an hour.
With the lower dose, I appreciated being able to feel each contraction, but without the intense sensations I felt at the start of Transition. We passed the morning in conversation, my doulas playing music and rubbing my feet, and my sister telling stories from our childhoods. By 11am, I was fully dilated and ready to push.
Second Stage
The doctor on duty talked me through pushing for a few contractions, with little progress. Despite the sleep that morning, I was feeling a little loopy and also feverish. The doctor left and I asked if the midwife was available. She wasn’t scheduled until 2pm, but I think she may have come in early for me.
I pushed for four hours. We tried multiple positions and techniques, but the greatest progress came when I realized what it meant to push. That was also when I was most tired. At one point, I tried to roll onto my side to relieve the pressure on my back and hips, but the movement ignited a fire in my old pubic bone injury. I believe that was the only time I screamed.
Towards the end, the nausea returned. I asked for Sprite, sipped out of a straw between contractions. I also experienced intense hot flashes, struggling to hold my upper body still enough to keep the multiple ice packs in place. I felt like I was burning from within.
With each contraction, I put my legs into the air, knees bent. If I faltered, hands were there, holding me steady, wiping my brow. I never felt like I was alone.
When I thought I was spent, the midwife told me to keep going. I could feel my son’s head in my pelvis, an unbearable ache. I pushed a fifth time through that contraction and heard her say his head was free. I pushed again, contractionless, and his body followed.
I lay back, exhausted. She had warned me, but I ached to hear him cry. It was the loudest silence I’d ever heard.
She took him away to be cleaned with soft blankets, careful not to tear his tender skin, then she returned to me. Something was wrong.
Third Stage
I came back to myself and heard the midwife asking for the anesthesiologist. She said I needed drugs — a lot — and now. I didn’t understand the whirlwind around me. I still don’t know what caused her to worry, but the anesthesiologist did not arrive in time. The midwife reached inside of me and pulled, releasing the last of my placenta and removing it. It wasn’t an easy process, and I begged her repeatedly to stop. In many ways, it was worse than the birth.
Afterwards, she apologized. I wonder now if I was hemorrhaging? I wonder now if she saved my life? We never talked about it again. I still don’t know.
She pushed on my belly to expel more fluid and added antibiotics to my saline drip. I think I slept briefly.
After the Birth
The midwife returned to my side. I opened my eyes and saw my son. He was wrapped in a white knit blanket with a matching cap. I unwrapped the bundle, exploring his newborn skin. He was so recently dead. He looked like he was sleeping. It was the first moment I knew that “he” was a he.
The photographer had come in after the birth, had set up unobtrusively for photos. She captured these first moments, my explorations and his perfect nose. She captured everything.
After the first photos, the nurses dressed him in his first real clothes. The two newborn outfits I had brought were both too small for him, but they cut a slit up the back of a onesie and put it on him anyway.
I spent the next 24 hours with my son. I think that before his death, I would have thought this strange. I don’t think it’s at all possible to understand the importance of those first moments until you have lived them. He was beautiful. He was perfect. Even in death, he was still my everything.
I sat with my son, holding and singing to him, telling him stories. He still looked so much like a living child, fast asleep.
Before I left the hospital, I asked if I could leave him in his clothes. I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving him naked. It wasn’t standard, but they let me do it. The nurses and staff were truly amazing.
When it was time to leave, I placed him back in the bassinet, kissed his forehead, and told him if he was still present, that he could go. I promised him I would be okay. I don’t know if I will ever be okay.
Adrian’s first outfit (Mamarazzi Photography)
I had a pre-scheduled non-stress test appointment the morning my son died. My sister drove me to the hospital, dropping me at the front door while she parked. I walked in, feeling “funny”, but still not anticipating the words I was about to hear, the words that didn’t yet exist in my vocabulary.
The nurses, by this time all familiar with me, said, “Hello.” One led me to a bed. It was crowded that morning and I took the last one available. We made small talk. I told her he had been quiet that day, but that I felt him moving in the car. I thought I had.
When she couldn’t find a heartbeat with the doppler, I think the idea started to form in my head, but I wasn’t quite ready. She led me across the room to the ultrasound machine. When she brought up the image and my baby wasn’t moving, I asked if there was a problem. She excused herself and said she would return shortly.
Within moments, the attending doctor was at my side, his face that carefully neutral shade of controlled calm. He put the wand to my stomach and my heart started racing. My hands covered my face. I both knew and I didn’t.
I’ve written about this moment several times since that day. It is an ever-present memory; I will take it to my grave. I remember the doctor’s face as he said the words, “I’m sorry.” My next memory is of someone screaming. It was me.
They got me to stand up and walked me down the hallway. I was surrounded by people, wishing they would carry me. I remember two doors, and the hospital gown folded neatly on the edge of the bed. Was this really happening? Was I expected to give birth to him?
I sat down on the bed, someone still holding me. I stopped saying “no,” but the tears were never-ending. I still felt him moving. It was the movement of his dead body.
They let my sister in the room. She replaced the woman by my side. She held me, murmuring, told me that she loved me. She gave me strength when I wanted to die.
The doctor returned, glanced briefly at the hospital gown. No one ever asked me to put it on. He offered a second ultrasound. I needed the confirmation. It was still impossible to believe my child was gone.
My sister called my doula. She had recently moved to a different city, and I was her last client. She started driving right away, but also called someone else from her service while we were waiting.
I remember my sister’s voice for what felt like hours, slow and soothing wrapped around nonsense stories like I had asked her to tell me when I was in labor. I remember her arms stroking my back, and how I was able to just feel and drift.
I remember feeling like my pain would never end.
Someone asked if there was a staff member I would like to see for the delivery. Although this was a “traditional” hospital, they did have a handful of midwives on staff. I requested the one who had seen me for contractions at 34 weeks. I liked her spirit.
The “new” doula, Beth*, arrived. We had never met, but I liked her almost immediately. I asked her about my options; “what happens next?” I needed to hear it from someone with no relation to the hospital. I needed to know all of the possibilities. We talked about methods of induction. I realized I did want to go through with a vaginal delivery. It was important to me.
The doctor returned and repeated the options. We decided I would go home and return that evening for overnight induction via catheter. The midwife also came by. She sat by my bedside and talked to me, and something in her voice felt more than medically knowledgeable. I wonder now if stillbirth was something she experienced too. She was the first one to warn me of the primal need to hear my baby cry.
Nurses followed. They took my blood. They were the first ones to call me, “Mama.” Someone brought in a form for a birth photographer. I asked my sister to fill it out for me. I am so thankful now for every piece of the hospital’s protocol. I may never have thought to request my own photos. Today they are my treasures.
My body continued to feel pregnant. I still peed constantly. I still felt my son’s feet embedded under my ribs. I still rubbed my belly, looking for some clue he was still with me. None of it felt real.
At home, I tried to sleep, but found that I couldn’t. I took a bath and wrote a very long letter to my baby. Afterwards, I was sitting on the couch, thinking about getting ready to return to the hospital, when my water broke. It was 24 hours too late.
I left the hospital in a fugue state. I had thought I was “okay,” but as the first notes of music came on the car stereo, the tears returned. My sister reached across and held my hand, my other hand other clutching the teddy bear from the hospital. I was thankful then for the weight of the bear. It was exactly what I needed.
My dog Amy Anne met me at the door, howling a very specific, pitiful cry she only used when she was upset or overwhelmed. I opened the back door to let her outside and sat on the grass, still clutching my bear. Amy jumped around me, alternately licking and bark-crying, running short distances and then running back again. She tried briefly to take the teddy bear from my arms, but when I told her no, she stopped.
I don’t remember if I ate that night. I mostly remember wanting my bed. I crawled under the covers, cuddling with my cat, my dog, and my bear. I slept the whole night.
It is an irony of nature that even mothers without living children experience the aftereffects of giving birth. I woke up the next morning full of milk, swollen to the point of pain. I had decided in the hospital that I would donate my milk. It felt important to me. So although I wanted nothing more than to stay in bed forever, the pain and my promise both forced me to get up.
I found the box of pumping supplies in the spare bedroom. Assuming I wouldn’t need it for weeks, I hadn’t prepared anything. I’m sure the pump was easy to use, but in my foggy state, it took more than an hour and several YouTube videos to put it together correctly. When I was finally ready, my breasts were so full they weren’t able to be pumped. My sister called my doula, who sent over a list of suggestions. She also came to visit that evening, and helped me pump just over a thimble-full of early milk. It felt like the biggest accomplishment in the world.
In the following days, I think it was milk that kept me going. It was the desire to produce that spurred me to eat and drink. It was the need to be “clean” that kept me from alcohol. It was the pain of the milk itself that got me out of bed each morning. It was the one thing I was capable of doing.
Early Days & Hard Things
I was not capable of talking to people. My sister had handled the first phone calls for me. She had called my team leader, who communicated the loss to those who needed to know. She fielded calls from multiple concerned managers, and coordinated with the coworker who brought me flowers and food the second night we were home. She handled everything I asked her to, but some things had to be done by me.
Since my son was born on a holiday weekend, the “normal” events were somewhat delayed. My sister had cancelled my appointment with the midwives, but they called Monday morning to ask about rescheduling. It was the first time I had to say the words, “My baby died.” It came out as a screech.
The second conversation took place with the hospital’s coordinator for the disposition of remains. They had been closed by the time of Adrian’s birth on Friday, so his body had remained in the morgue over the weekend. Because they called me, I was shocked at their lack of preparedness — one of the first questions the coordinator asked me was if my insurance policy was under my husband’s name. She also asked me repeatedly if I wanted an autopsy on my son’s body; after discussion with the pathologist, I decided only on an examination of the placenta.
I avoided personal conversations for a long time. It was so difficult to form sentences; I couldn’t imagine entire conversations. I turned off Facebook almost immediately, and sent every personal call to voicemail. One evening, I worked up the courage to call my best friend, but I missed her. When she returned my call, my courage has disappeared. I sent messages in text, told a handful of people who been trying to check in. Each conversation was excruciating. Each conversation was recognition that my son was really dead.
If it had been an option, I may have stayed in my house forever. I ordered groceries (and ice packs for my breasts) from an online delivery service. My sister cooked all of my food. When I finally did have to leave, I didn’t know what to wear. Knowing that women still look pregnant for months after delivery, I had originally planned to wear my maternity clothing, but that now felt so painful. I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone asking me when I was due. For those first weeks, I dug into my closet for the largest t-shirts I could find, paired with ratty sweatpant-material capris. As I told my sister, I didn’t care if anyone thought I was just fat.
The Funeral
On 4 July 2017, a day I had planned to be cuddling a new baby, I started planning Adrian’s funeral. It was hard, but it was necessary; I felt a burning need to honor my son’s life.
Throughout this time, I cried and raged and continually fell apart. As focused as I was on funeral arrangements and continuing to pump milk, it was still a daily battle to get out of bed; to understand that this was my new life.
A week after his death, I sent a five-line email and funeral announcement to everyone I knew. Writing it took hours. Sending it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
After the funeral, I fell apart again. I continued to eat, drink, sleep, and pump milk, but I had little energy for anything else. My sister had a commitment at work and had to leave. She was worried about me, but I promised her I would be okay. I had promised Adrian I would be okay.
After my sister left, I picked up Adrian’s ashes from the funeral home and some memorabilia from the hospital. They had saved his clothing like I requested, and also provided two sets of dental-clay hand and footprints. I was so thankful to have so many pieces of my son’s memory.
I continued to write to him. Like planning the funeral, it also felt necessary. It was how I continued our bond. It was how I explored our grief.
During the funeral, my brother and my cousin’s wife both offered to visit me. I think everyone worried about me being alone, but I needed it. I needed time to feel and scream and grieve. At the end of July, I went to visit them instead.
Travel & Family
My brother, aunts and uncle, and several cousins live in California. Getting on a plane to visit them after only three weeks felt both too soon and also like going home again.
I have always been close to my cousin Neil*, who is only a year younger than me. When he married March, it felt like instant kinship. As she is also a therapist with a very gentle personality, staying with them felt right.
My second day there, March asked if I wanted to join her for yoga. I had gone once several months prior, but hadn’t kept up with my practice during pregnancy. Still recovering from giving birth, it was difficult getting back into my body again, but the difficulty felt good; grounding. We went twice more during my trip, and I continued my practice when I returned home again.
We also went shopping. I was normally such a clothes horse that Neil had commented on the size of my one small bag, but I had almost nothing that fit. We shopped enough that I left with a second bag, and felt far more confident in my post-delivery appearance.
I also felt good just being around good people. My cousin’s family was easy. His two young children were sweet and playful, and my aunt was an energetic but soothing presence. I also spent time with my older cousin and his wife, and discovered that they had experienced child loss as well. It is a terrible and too often unspoken story.
While in California I continued to pump milk, but having never established a strong supply, it was always difficult for me. On the seventh day of my trip, I pumped for more than an hour to produce less than one once. On that day, I decided I was done.
At Home
When I returned home, I visited my midwife and my office. At work, I wanted to check in, to show myself I was capable of walking back into the building again. I also wanted to determine when I would be coming back to work. A lot had felt uncertain before.
At my midwife’s office, I was surprised with a summary of the pathology report on my placenta. I hadn’t realized it would be ready so soon. She discussed the high level findings with me, promising to send the report itself by email later. I left in a fog, with more questions than I understood. I also didn’t realize until much later that it was typical to be physically examined at the six week mark. That didn’t happen for me.
The following week, my sister and I went on a cruise I had booked in a fit of impulsivity the week following Adrian’s death. I thought it could be a healing trip, as if healing could be accomplished solely by blue water and sandy beaches. For the first few days, I threw myself into activities, trying. Towards the end of the trip, I realized it’s possible to be miserable while surrounded by beauty.
I had one week at home before starting work again. Even after seven weeks, everything felt rushed. I felt like I never had the time or space I really needed to grieve.
As soon as I confirmed my pregnancy, I signed up for everything. I saw my prenatal provider as soon as the hospital assigned one. I signed up for classes and mailing lists and interviewed a doula. I had been reading the Mayo Clinic Guide to a Healthy Pregnancy while I was planning for pregnancy; I continued reading it, and also devoured the thick book created by the hospital. I even signed up for a service that would send a nurse to my home once a month to work with me. I wanted to know and be prepared for everything.
One morning, around the seven week mark, I almost pulled over on my way to work because I thought I was going to throw up. This was the beginning of a period of nausea so ever-present, I understand why many women call it “all day sickness”. For the next six weeks, although I never actually threw up, I felt like I had a constant cross between a bad hangover and the flu. Ironically, intense morning sickness is moderately accepted as a sign of a strong and healthy pregnancy.
While I was slightly overweight when I became pregnant and I turned 35 during my first trimester, none of my providers seemed overly concerned. I was categorized as “low risk” throughout my pregnancy.
Other Symptoms and Events
Because I had done so much reading, I wasn’t surprised when I first felt round ligament pain. It was a moderately painful sensation that would have caused concern if I hadn’t known it was a normal part of the process of expanding the uterus. I really thought I knew and was prepared for everything.
I also wasn’t surprised when I experienced two intense migraines towards the end of my first trimester. When I became pregnant, I stopped receiving my quarterly Botox injections for migraine control, and I knew that withdrawal and/or the pregnancy hormones could potentially stimulate unpredictable headaches. They were difficult, but not unbearable.
One thing that bothered me more than expected was back pain. Beginning about halfway through the first trimester, I experienced a low-grade but nearly constant ache in the small of my back. Although my providers said it was normal with weight gain in pregnancy, I thought it was interesting that the ache started before I gained any weight.
To assist with both the migraines and the lower back pain, I saw a chiropractor nearly weekly for the second half of my pregnancy. The back pain never went away entirely, but the chiropractic care definitely helped. Perhaps more surprisingly, while I continued to have a few small headaches, I did not experience another intense migraine after working with the chiropractor.
The Natural Movement
Being a vegan, a sometimes yogi, and a lifelong tree hugger, I often lean towards the natural side of things. My pregnancy was no different. My prenatal vitamins were vegan. I subscribed to both the nature-oriented and more traditional sites. And I gave a lot of thought to unmedicated childbirth. After discussion with several moms who had delivered without medication, I signed up for childbirth classes in the Bradley method. Although Bradley is also known as “husband coached childbirth”, I felt that the core principles, which were centered around childbirth with minimal interventions, were well aligned with my own core values. Additionally, my doula was available to take on the role of “husband”/coach. Looking back, I value what I learned in Bradley classes, but I do wish today that we had spent at least a little time discussing scenarios in which interventions are medically necessary. Such scenarios aren’t common, but they also aren’t rare enough to justify a lack of genuine consideration.
It was partially because of Bradley, and partially out of examination of my own feelings, that I decided to establish concurrent care with a midwife practice. It wasn’t covered by my insurance, but it was important to me to have the option to deliver in an environment more conducive to nature and with minimal interventions. Although this was my preference, I did also understand that dangerous conditions could develop, and because of this reason, I continued to see my insurance-covered, more traditional provider as well.
To document my wishes, I created a very simple birth plan. I used visual images and short phrases to describe the handful of items that were important to me — minimal interventions, freedom of movement, immediate skin to skin, delayed cord clamping and delayed bathing. Everything fit neatly onto one page with room to spare. In concert with my doula, I also considered the alternative — should a c-section become necessary, I still wanted immediate skin to skin and delayed bathing, but everything else would go according to the recommendations of my providers.
What if?
I think every woman fears the worst case scenario. After my son died, I thought for a while I might have been a tiny bit prescient for sometimes worrying about my pregnancy, but now I wonder if maybe that’s just normal; if maybe every mother worries just a little bit? In the early days, I didn’t have much cause to be concerned.
When I was about five months pregnant, I spent several hours driving in one day. I worked a volunteer job that required some travel outside the city, and that night I didn’t get home until almost 10 pm. I had noticed some stiffness in my legs during the day, but it wasn’t until I got home and undressed for bed that I realized my ankles no longer existed; they were that swollen. Thinking of the late hour and the long drive to the hospital from my home outside city limits, I called the triage phone number, and asked them about my symptoms. We decided together that as I was feeling in generally good health, and with no other warning signs, I was fine to wait to see my provider at my regularly scheduled appointment the following day.
Looking back on my pregnancy to this date, even including my decision not to go to Labor and Delivery that evening, I don’t think I did anything wrong. I don’t think there was anything I missed or dismissed without thought. My main concerns came afterward.
Some Possible Signs
My prenatal provider gave me compression socks during my appointment the following day. The swelling went down the day after that, though it seemed to come back very easily. I then noticed one morning that the one ring I wore on my right hand was tight. My hands didn’t seem very visually swollen, but I started wearing my ring on the chain around my neck. It was around this time, but maybe a little later, that my blood pressure started to slowly but steadily increase. Not very long later, the nausea that had disappeared at the start of my second trimester began to return. It was never as bad as those early weeks of all-day sickness; it mostly came and went. I noticed that the midwives were the only ones to even ask me about it, but everyone said it was normal.
The midwives were also the only ones to test my urine at every visit. They never specifically told me the results, but I also never asked, and again — nobody seemed concerned. I wonder about this a lot today. I wonder about this the same way that I wonder about my screening for gestational diabetes. Nobody ever explicitly provided my results for either of these things¹. I always just assumed that no news was good. Now of course I will always wonder.
If you’re familiar with the symptoms of preeclampsia, you may have caught on that I displayed many of them. In my eighth or ninth month I asked my doula about it. I don’t know why I never asked my providers. Or, I guess I did, but always in an offhand manner: “So, I feel like I have all the symptoms of preeclampsia except for protein in my urine?” Looking back, I don’t know why I was so reluctant to be more aggressive. This was my body, my pregnancy, my child. Not speaking up more is one of my strongest regrets.
Throughout this time, my back pain continued to bother me. I tried several support bands, but none seemed to help for long. As I put on weight and as Adrian began to move, I also discovered some pain in my groin area, in the same place I had fractured my pubic bone about ten years previously. My provider referred me to an orthopedic specialist, who confirmed that the bone was still intact, but stated that the surrounding tissues were probably tender and aggravated from the pregnancy. He recommended physical therapy, and stated that I may have some added pain in labor.
While this referral was processing, I continued to experience pain, often to the point where it was difficult to walk. One day when the pain was particularly intense, I went in to Labor and Delivery for an evaluation. While there, they discovered I was having low-grade contractions. I was familiar with the feeling of Braxton Hicks from our exercises in Bradley class, but I was still surprised that I could have contractions and not be feeling them at all. After monitoring, increased fluids, and a pelvic exam confirmed I was not in actual labor, I was sent home with instructions to drink more water for the rest of my pregnancy.
Towards the end of my ninth month, I also experienced pain in my upper right arm and in my wrists. I had heard that wrist pain was common in pregnancy and generally went away after delivery, so I didn’t raise the issue with anyone. The arm pain, though, was odd for me. On several mornings towards the end of my ninth month, I awoke feeling as if there were an electric shock running through the fleshy portion of my right upper arm. I never found out the cause of this pain.
The final issue that was never clear to me concerned kick counts. There was a section in my book from the hospital to document counting, but none of my prenatal providers ever really discussed the process with me. I mentioned in centering one day that my baby seemed more active on some days than others, and that I wasn’t sure when to be worried. All my provider said was, “Yes, kick counts can be important.” I blame both of us for not being more concerned.
I had no problem with the non-stress testing. It wasn’t something I considered a true intervention, and it made the providers happy. So beginning on the morning of my 36th week, every Thursday morning I went to the hospital for this test. I used to joke with my sister that Adrian always “performed” on those days. Even on quiet mornings, he kicked at the NST straps almost the moment they were applied, and he always achieved at least the two accelerations the nurses were looking for, if not more, in the twenty minute time frame.
However, while I didn’t object to the NSTs, I was strongly opposed to being induced. I genuinely didn’t understand the objective; so many of the conversations made it sound like it was for convenience. And here is where I have to put some of the blame not only on the providers, but also on the literature. As much as I paid attention in prenatal visits, as much as I devoured the books², no one ever told me I was risking stillbirth. Induction was always presented to me as something that could prevent “complications”, but the specific complications were never discussed³. Nobody ever told me that there were warning signs that something could be wrong. Nobody ever explicitly said, “If you don’t have your baby now, he or she could die.”
The Last Week
On the morning of my 40th week of pregnancy, I went for an NST as scheduled. That morning I noticed my blood pressure was higher than usual for me, significantly higher than the past several months, and only a few points below the threshold marking stage 2 hypertension in the general population. I pointed it out to the nurse running my test, but although she kept me on the monitor for a bit longer than normal, she didn’t seem concerned.
The previous day, I had met with my midwives for my 40 week check. I had mentioned to them that my baby had been moving less than usual. I also mentioned that I had experienced a sharp pain in my upper right abdomen, just under my ribs. I discovered afterwards such pain could be related to both placental abruption and/or preeclampsia, but at the time, they didn’t seem concerned. At both of these visits, I was obviously swollen, my hands thicker than normal, my feet having long since outgrown anything but a single pair of flip flops.
I think back to these two visits now, and I wonder if things could have happened differently — if I could have made more of a fuss, asked for more testing. I don’t know why I assumed that medical providers are perfect. I don’t know why I didn’t feel confident enough to push for stronger confirmation.
I left my midwife appointment and my NST appointment both with instructions to not come back for another week. That was the week my baby started to die.
Worried about my blood pressure, I stopped in to use the machine in the grocery store pharmacy on several occasions that week. About a day after my last NST, it had started to come down to a more normal number for me. I also drank raspberry tea, and started walking around the block and spending time in the pool, hoping something would jump-start my labor. Around this time, I started to feel both crampy and slightly queasy, both signs I had read and heard from my doula were good indicators that labor was coming.
On the Sunday before Adrian died, my sister and I went to a movie. Throughout the film, I assumed the loud noises were bothering the baby, because he kicked like crazy. However, he continued to kick after we left the theater, and this movement was like nothing else in my pregnancy. I learned later on that such intense fits of fetal activity are indicative of potential cord accidents. If I had know this then, I would have gone immediately back to the hospital, but I didn’t know; I simply thought this was one more sign he was getting ready.
On the Wednesday before my 41st week, I was cranky and achy and so very ready. I had been so opposed to being induced, but I had an appointment with my midwives to discuss the options on Friday. I knew a pregnancy couldn’t go on indefinitely. I was actually dreaming about the possibility of a 4th of July baby.
That evening, I had planned to go to a community event, something local to get out of the house, but when we got home from shopping, I wasn’t feeling great. I decided to lie down and stare at my belly. I remember distinctly the very large kick Adrian gave me that night as I lay on the couch. It was so strong it shook my belly. It’s possible that was the last movement he ever made. When I woke up the next morning, he was already dead.
1 – Reviewing my medical records after delivery, I discovered that I did not have gestational diabetes or protein in my urine. I am still frustrated that my providers did not explicitly provide this information.
2 – In the Mayo Clinic book, stillbirth is listed a complication of disease or use of drugs/alcohol, but never as a risk of an overdue pregnancy. In the book I was given from the hospital, stillbirth was not discussed at all.
3 – A number of websites discuss pregnancy complications, but it is interesting that even articles like “Overdue Pregnancy: What to do when baby’s overdue” don’t list stillbirth as a potential outcome.
Miranda on the Pacific Coast in California (Synch Media)
I’m not a doctor. I’m not a counselor. I’m not a therapist. I’m not a mental health professional of any kind. I have not researched suicide. I can’t speak to statistics. The words I share here come solely from personal experience. I can only tell my story. If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts or worried about someone who is, I encourage you to please seek help.
Experience with suicide in my earlier life
I was twenty years old, living across the country when a friend called to tell me Jake* had died. In those days we still used the words, “committed suicide.” I don’t think any of us knew any better.
Jake hadn’t been doing well. We used to be best friends, but grew apart after high school. The last time I saw him, he was living with a roommate in our hometown. I had had a song stuck in my head, something Jewel-y and definitely not Jake’s style. But he was the better musician, and he was helping me transcribe it. That’s the kind of person Jake was. He was always doing things for other people.
Looking back, I don’t feel ashamed I didn’t recognize the symptoms. I had no frame of reference. I had no way to know. But I am sad about it. There is regret. Jake will always be important to me. He was one of my best friends.
In the following years, suicide touched me tangentially. Someone at work took his life with a gun. My work was large; I didn’t know him. When I was pregnant, an former co-worker died by suicide. I wrote to Adrian about this, and told him how it made me feel sad, and confused. During that same time period, the fiancé of a old friend also took his own life. I didn’t find out about him until months later.
Every year at work, we were “trained in” suicide prevention. Every year, I felt as if this training wasn’t enough. I still wonder what precisely would have reached Jake, or any of the others. I still wonder how much pain people are hiding in this world. But I also never really understood. I never expected suicide would feel like an option for me.
Thoughts of suicide after Adrian’s death
When Adrian died, my world shattered. It reframed everything I thought I knew about death. My new world felt empty; hollow. Things that used to be important no longer mattered to me.
For the first several weeks after his death, I lived life on autopilot. I ate and took care of myself. I communicated with friends. I made plans for activities. I kept writing to my son. I went through the motions, and waited for life to make sense. But mostly, I was a husk.
Before Adrian died, I didn’t understand suicide. I didn’t understand what could cause someone to want to end their life. After he died, I realized how much was missing in that conversation — it wasn’t that I wanted to kill myself; it was that I felt as if the important parts of me had already died.
I used to think suicide was cowardly. I used to think suicide was selfish. In the aftermath of Adrian’s death, living a life that felt achingly empty, I came to understand — there are worse things to be or feel than selfish.
I thought about suicide. I thought about it a lot. I thought about it while eating breakfast. I thought about it while brushing my teeth. I never told anyone. It felt like my secret escape route.
And I think it’s important to note here that I wasn’t mentally ill. I didn’t have depression. I didn’t have postpartum depression. I was “only” full of grief. I was “only” coming to terms with a world in which my son was not living. These thoughts felt like a natural part of my new world.
Resources and Relationships
After the deaths by suicide of two celebrities, I had a conversation with some fellow loss moms. I mentioned that I had been suicidal, and one of them asked me what could or what did reach me. And I think this is something that is maybe not well understood. Because in my case, the answer was, “Nothing.”
When I came home from the hospital, my sister sat me down and asked if I had any guns in the house. I said no. She told me I was important to her. She told me she loved me. She checked all of the boxes for suicide prevention. She said all the right things. It wasn’t enough.
I had a job and family and more resources than I could count. But in those early moments, those resources meant nothing to me. I would never have called a hotline. The darkness inside of me couldn’t be communicated with words. There was nothing anyone could say or do to make me want to live. That decision had to come from within me.
The simple fact is this — I thought about suicide. I thought about it all the time. And if I had been ready to make a plan, I would never have said a word.
Please note — I can’t speak for those with mental illness. That wasn’t a relevant factor for me. I can only tell you my story. And in my story; in my world, I had to be the one to choose to live. That choice had to come from inside of me.
My decision to live
When my son died, it tore a hold inside of me. I was broken. I don’t have words for the pain. And in the end, the pain was what saved me. Because I knew what it felt like to lose meaning in my world. And I didn’t want to be responsible for that feeling in anyone else.
I can’t say when exactly it happened. It wasn’t an instant. It wasn’t overnight. It was a gradual decision. It was a tentative feeling I hesitantly explored, probing into it at various moments in those weeks. It was something that took time. It required the freedom to change my mind.
I think it’s important to note, again, that no one could have influenced me. There is no amount of thankfulness or blessing shaming that could have forced my mind. It’s likely I would have rebelled against any attempt to force me into happiness, or even into too-early consideration of my decision. I needed the freedom to explore inside me.
But eventually, it did happen. I made the choice. I chose to live. And I continue to choose life, every day. And there’s nothing anyone can say or do to influence that decision, or take it away. It’s mine.
Is it possible to help?
Because I am open with my story, people often ask me how to help someone in a suicidal situation. This is such a hard question for me. I stated at the beginning that this is a personal story, and I can’t know if my feelings are universal; I can only speak for me.
So with the caveat that I am speaking from a very individual perspective, I would say this — in my case, there was nothing anyone could have done to prevent my suicide, if I had chosen it. But there were two additional factors that were relevant to my decision to stay.
The first factor was human interaction. I had people in my life who were important to me. There were people I was close to prior to Adrian’s death, and of those, they were the ones who stayed. They were the people who sat with me; who listened; who didn’t try to strong-shame me into being okay. They were the ones I could call at two in the morning when I was feeling the darkness, and they were the ones I wanted to protect from ever feeling that way. Most importantly, they were the ones who would never use their love for me as a tool to force me to stay. These people gave me motivation to live when I wanted to die.
The second factor was finding the beauty in my new world. And by beauty, I don’t only mean the physical; there were times in my grief when the most beautiful things in nature were painful to me. And again, I can’t speak for anyone else, because I think these things are highly subjective to me. But in my grief, the thing that gave me the greatest hope for joy was seeing other families. I loved being around children. I craved contact with babies. I needed to see the beauty in the reality that life does go on, and not every baby dies. I needed to know there was potential for joy, even if it was currently denied to me. I am so thankful for every mother who let me hold her child. I am so thankful for every family who treated me like someone they loved.
.
~
If you’re feeling suicidal right now, I’m sorry. Whatever is going on in your world, it’s incredibly unfair. Please know that I love you. Please know I’m so sorry for your pain.
If you are in crisis, I encourage you to seek help. Call 911. Call a hotline. Call a friend. Text a friend.
I don’t know you, but I love you. I hope you live. I hope you choose to live.
~
I’m not a mental health professional. Nothing I say here is in any way meant to be professional advice. But if it helps you; if you’re looking for something personal, here is what I offer to you, solely from my own experience:
Feel – your emotions are valid. Your grief is real. Whatever your pain, it is understood. I hear you. You are not alone. If it feels right, let yourself feel your grief. Let the emotions wash over you. Cry. Recognize this is all part of being alive. Breathe.
Write/Draw/Paint/Scream – find a way to express your grief. Put it on paper, capture with photographs or paint. Scream into your pillow; scream into the wind. If it feels right, keep going. Write a book. Start a website. Put on a play. Let this be your will to live.
Find support – call a friend. Text a friend. Go on the internet. Find a counselor. If it feels right, tell people about your pain. Ask for support. Ask for what you need. You deserve love. You matter. Please know that I love you. Please know that I care.
Find beauty – find one thing that doesn’t hurt. Pet your dog. Watch your favorite movie. If it feels right, find something every day that makes you smile. Find something every day that touches your soul. Find one piece of the world to give you hope that life goes on.
Care for your body – drink enough water. Eat a good meal. If your appetite is suffering, keep nutritious snacks nearby to eat when you’re able. Take vitamins. Go outside. Lay down for bed at a reasonable hour. Take a shower. Wash your clothes. Know that you are worth it. Know that you are loved.
If you are in crisis, I encourage you to seek help. Call 911. Call a hotline. Call a friend. Text a friend.
I don’t know you, but I love you. I hope you live. I hope you choose to live.
