Many people told me I was “strong” when I was deep in grief. I think it’s meant as a compliment. It doesn’t help, though. I don’t feel strong. I feel broken. This life isn’t a choice I made, like running a marathon or getting a PhD. It isn’t something I prepared for and overcame. My loss is a traumatic event over which I never had a choice. And I’m not strong, because I don’t want to be.
“Strong” is a straw man.
“Strong” is how we describe someone with no humanity.
“Strong” is a word we use when someone is in pain and we want them to hurry up out of it and be okay. I will never be okay. I don’t want to be that resilient person who “bounces back” and “moves on,” as if loss were just another chapter in a long and happy life.
My loss is a permanent part of me. I will always grieve.
Grief is hard in our culture. We don’t often talk about it, and when we do, we feel the need to try to explain:
“It probably happened for a reason”
“At least you didn’t get to know him”
“You must be better off this way”
I don’t think people realize these words can hurt. I know most people speak from the kindest place. And the griever is often asked to consider these kind intentions when words fall short. We certainly try.
I hear you when you say you aren’t trying to hurt me. I hear you, and I give you the benefit of assuming your intentions. Because I know it’s out of good intentions that you say these things to me. And I appreciate, if not your words, then at least your love. It helps so much that you love me.
I have a request, though. And I ask you (as you often ask me), please consider my intentions, and try not to take offense:
When a grieving person tells you a comment is unhelpful, absorb it. Learn and ask questions on what you could say differently. We aren’t trying to shame you; we are only trying to educate. We know you don’t intend to be hurtful, and we want to show you a better way. Grief is hard, and if I, in my grief, become your teacher in how to treat me, please listen. It should be a conversation. And your intentions shine the brightest when this conversation goes both ways.
~
Grievers are individuals. Grief is unique. So I can’t, in this letter, give you words that are universal. But if you want to know a starting point, a place that opens this conversation, some of the best words are also simple:
“I’m sorry”
“I love you”
“I’m here”
And for many, those words may be all you ever need.
I don’t personally know anything about football and I haven’t had cable in a few years, so I haven’t seen the Super Bowl for a while. But I was reading an article yesterday, and it pointed me to the existence of a commercial that aired in 2015. It was a commercial for Nationwide insurance, and it dealt with common accidents that have been shown to cause the majority of childhood deaths.
I understand, to many, this sounds macabre. I’m not really surprised, then, that this commercial received so much backlash. Reading the YouTube comments is definitely interesting. I want to say though, as a mother who has lost a child, I actually appreciate what this commercial was trying to do.
When I was pregnant for the first time, I read all the books. I went to pregnancy and infant care classes, I asked so many questions at my appointments. I was pretty much a pregnancy nerd. And I was still taken by surprise when my son was unexpectedly stillborn. I didn’t know. I didn’t know that 1 in 160 pregnancies ends in the death of the child at or after 20 weeks gestation. I didn’t know this was a thing that really happened, and the shock was almost as bad as the grief.
I am pregnant now for the second time, and again, I am researching everything. But this time, I’m looking deeper. I’m looking for the scary things no one likes to talk about. I’m looking for the things that happen, and parents think afterwards, “Why didn’t somebody warn me?” I will always wish someone had warned me about the worst thing that could happen to my son.
So Nationwide creates this commercial, and there are images of overflowing bathtubs and toppled furniture and open second story windows, and people are upset. “This is the Super Bowl,” they said. “This is supposed to be a happy time. I don’t want to see these things.”
And I think this is the problem. Because honestly, there really never is an appropriate time to talk about tragedy. There really never is a time when the innocent are ready to listen. And that’s sad, and it’s also wrong. Because death isn’t the thing that only happens to other people. Tragedy isn’t the thing you can ignore and it won’t hurt you. And speaking as a mother who lost one child, and is determined to do anything in my power to protect the one inside me, I would rather know. I would rather know everything.
And so I salute Nationwide, because they told the truth. And they told it in the biggest way possible. And people are uncomfortable, because the truth can have that effect sometimes. That doesn’t mean it’s not important. And I say, “Thank you.”
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)
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.
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.
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.
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~
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.
When I was pregnant, I was enchanted with my physical body. Despite the minor inconveniences, I loved knowing I was growing a human being. When I “popped” at 10 weeks, I was proud of my belly, excited for the need for maternity clothing. I loved the tiger stripes of my stretch marks. I treasured every hiccup and kick. I talked and sang to my son. I am glad now I was so present then. I am thankful for every moment shared between us.
When the doctor told me there was no heart beat, my first instinct was to reach for my belly. I could still feel his body, pushing against his favorite spot under my right ribs. My thoughts ran in circles: “He can’t be dead. He’s still righthere.” My voice screamed: “No!”
But there is a physical immediacy to pregnancy loss that can’t be delayed. Even while I was processing, the doctor was rushing me to a delivery room. And my first thought, when I was capable of thinking, was that it couldn’t be possible that I still had to deliver him. A detached part of me had automatically assumed there would be a C-section.
I think if I had asked, surgical birth would have been an option. I know I’m not alone in that initial feeling. I am thankful now, though, that I chose to deliver vaginally. Adrian’s delivery is my most intense and one of my most valuable memories. It was part of the process of saying goodbye.
After Adrian’s delivery, I spent 24 hours with him in the hospital. That first night, I wasn’t able to sleep until they laid him in my arms. I needed to feel the weight of his body. Throughout that 24 hours, I held and cuddled my son. I know this sounds strange; it still sounds strange to me, but it was also necessary. I took photos with him. I inhaled his scent. I traced the lines of his fingers and his tiny nose. I felt an instinctive need to develop those tactile memories. If I had had a choice, I would never have let him go.
At home, I did the same with his things. His nursery was set up in my room. His clothes were washed and folded and everything was waiting. I slept with a weighted bear they had given me at the hospital, and one of Adrian’s blankets. I think if I could have fit inside his crib, I would have slept there. I wanted to be surrounded by his things.
Physically, I experienced the typical physical realities of the postpartum period. I was sore from four hours of pushing. There was pain from where I tore. I experienced hot flashes and an incontinent bladder. I bled nonstop for days and intermittently for weeks. Everything normal for a woman who had just given birth. Everything a painful reminder of my son out of reach.
The hardest physical sensation was the one without a name. It was the thing I felt when I woke up in the morning and my son wasn’t crying. It was the feeling in my arms when they curled around the teddy bear from the hospital, but still felt empty. It was the physical feeling of absence. It felt so heavy.
Even today, I often sleep with the urn of his ashes.
Milk
While I was in the hospital, the midwife gave me advice on how to stop my milk. When I told her that I wanted to donate it, she seemed surprised, but I needed something meaningful to come out of this experience.
I requested a consultation with the lactation specialist. She brought me bottles and brochures, and told me how to contact the milk bank for coordination. What she didn’t tell me was that it would be so physically difficult.
When I woke up that first morning after coming home from the hospital, I wasn’t prepared for the pain. My milk had come in quickly and my breasts were engorged; painfully swollen and warm to touch. My doula sent some information and visited that evening. With her help, I produced about a thimble’s worth of milk, gradually growing into larger amounts during the following days.
Baby photos and visualization are generally recommended to stimulate the let-down response while pumping, but that exercise was more difficult for me. I don’t believe I ever developed a true let-down. I did notice, though, that when I pumped, I often felt very faint contractions in my lower belly. More rarely, I also felt the ghost of kicking in Adrian’s favorite spot on my right ribs. These sensations were both beautiful and painful to me.
It is difficult, though possible, to establish and maintain a milk supply through exclusive pumping, but it requires commitment. Most consultants recommend pumping between 8-12 times per day to build a strong supply. Although I wanted to pump, I didn’t have the physical or emotional energy for that schedule. Because of this, my supply never grew beyond a few ounces a day.
As an unexpected side effect, pumping was physically good for me. It gave me a reason to eat right and drink enough water. And although the milk bank allowed consumption of alcohol in limited quantities, it gave me a reason to choose not to drink. It was also part of my motivation. On my darker days, when I might have never left my bed, I had to get up to fulfill this commitment.
Three weeks after Adrian’s death, I flew to California to stay with family. There wasn’t a local milk bank there, but I researched means of transporting the milk back with me. I purchased an insulated cooler and small blocks of blue ice, and the bank emailed a letter I could carry with me.
About a week into my trip, I pumped over an hour to produce less than an ounce of milk. As much as I wanted to do this beautiful thing, I discovered I couldn’t sustain it. I decided that day I was done. In four weeks, I had pumped twice daily, producing a total of 48 ounces of milk.
Because my supply was so low, I thought it would fade completely when I stopped pumping. Although I never again felt the intense pain of the early days, I leaked milk off and on for several more weeks. It was a bittersweet feeling.
My first of only two deliveries to the milk bank. The smallest bottles were from the earliest days; the bags from when my supply was stronger. I never produced more than three ounces in a single day (Miranda Hernandez)
Physical Appearance
Going home from the hospital, I was not surprised that I still looked about six months pregnant. This was normal. What bothered me was having a body that was still a subject of conversation. Strangers could still look at me, ask for my baby’s name or when I was due. No one intends to be hurtful, but these questions would break my heart.
I stayed home for three days. When I finally had to leave the house, I tried on everything in my closet. But I had never been a fan of oversized clothing, and almost nothing fit me. The few things that did fit were tight across my belly.
Most women who have given birth continue to wear maternity clothing. Emotionally, that wasn’t an option for me. When I had to go to the funeral home, I borrowed a shirt from my sister, paired with ratty sweatpant capris. I looked ridiculous, but it was preferable to looking pregnant. Afterwards, I wore the same three shirts for the next week.
My doula brought me a belly wrap. When properly applied, it helped to minimize the swelling in my belly. Unfortunately, it also aggravated my back pain, and I couldn’t handle wearing it for more than a few hours.
My sister reminded me I needed something to wear for the funeral. Deep into summer, the black dresses for sale were mostly short and geared towards dating. I bought an oversized maxi skirt and a selection of black chiffon tops online. I had no idea what size I would be, so I bought one of everything. I also realized that even when the swelling finally left my feet, they were permanently larger. I got rid of all my shoes.
By the day of the funeral, much of the swelling had gone down in my belly. In the flowy chiffon top, I mostly only looked overweight. It was a feeling I could handle. I didn’t care if people thought I was fat.
Caption: Miranda at Adrian’s funeral, 11 days postpartum.
The funeral was the first and only day I tried wearing makeup. It used to be a ritual; I wouldn’t leave the house without at least powder and concealer. When I came home from the hospital, it was no longer important to me. I tried wearing makeup that day mostly to hide the heavy dark circles under my eyes, but it felt empty to me. Makeup didn’t become habit again until I returned to work, and very rarely on the weekends.
By the time of my trip to California, a few more items from my closet fit, but barely enough to fill one small suitcase. My aunt and my cousin’s wife March* took me shopping. I found more flowy clothing. It helped me feel like I didn’t have to hide my body.
Physical Activity
I have always been a moderately active person. In the ten years before Adrian was born, I ran two marathons and multiple 5Ks and obstacle races. It is one of my regrets that I didn’t exercise as much during my pregnancy.
While recovering from delivery, I was unexpectedly sore in my arms and upper back. Labor had become a full-body activity. Even after the soreness faded, my lower back continued to hurt. I also continued to experience the wrist and arm pain that had developed during my ninth month, but I was reluctant to see my regular doctor to take care of it. I still didn’t know how to talk to my providers about what had happened to me.
I started sleeping on my back again. One morning, I woke from a sound sleep, gasping from the electric shock running down my right arm. I literally could not move it from the pillow next to me; it felt like my nerves were on fire. My sister brought ice packs and helped to reposition me. The next morning, I was able to fit into a cancellation at my doctor’s office, but he couldn’t find anything wrong with me. The pain revisited a few times, but eventually faded with no explanation.
While in California, March asked me to join her for yoga. It was the first physical activity I had tried since giving birth. About halfway through, I stopped and sank into child’s pose, exhausted. Even incomplete, I was thankful I had shown up. The activity was the first time I was able to turn off the thoughts whirling through my head. It also woke me up from the nearly dissociative state I’d lived in with my body.
At a second class with March, I discovered my stamina increasing, but during my third downward dog, my wrists objected to the strain. I rested for a few days, but the moment I tried weight-bearing activity, the pain returned. It continues today, though I have learned to do many activities on my forearms. This pain is also unexplained.
When I returned home, I discovered restorative yoga. It became my Tuesday evening activity. It was the perfect balance of body and mind, and I often found myself writing afterwards. I also often cried. When I was feeling up to it, I would attend hatha classes, periodically at first, then with greater regularity. In September, I attended a yoga-centered retreat for mothers who had lost children. Today, I alternate between hatha and yin yoga, though I’ve petitioned my local studio to start an evening restorative session. All of this feels right to me.
My prenatal providers had told me back pain was normal during pregnancy, but when I continued to feel pain two months after delivery, I returned to my chiropractor. I saw him for three adjustments before I moved from my old city. The pain decreased greatly, but returned on a handful of occasions for no discernible reason. The last time, in mid December, I bent over to pick up a piece of paper, and pain shot from the top of my right buttock to the center of my back. After finding a chiropractor in my new city to control the flare-up, I started physical therapy, strength training, and Pilates. Combined with yoga, this has all seemed to help.
When I returned to work seven weeks after delivery, I think many people assumed I was fully recovered. Few women openly discuss the complications of delivery. It wasn’t surprising then when a very well-meaning colleague suggested intense workouts to work through my grief. She had never been pregnant. She didn’t understand that the walk from the parking lot was a workout for me.
In late December, I started walking for exercise. When the back pain was strong, it made walking difficult, but as I’ve made progress in therapy, I’ve been able to walk greater distances. At the end of January, I achieved 20,000 steps for the first time since my pregnancy. I also find a lot of clarity while walking. It is often where I complete the first drafts of my writing, talking to the speech detection engine on my phone.
As I’ve recovered more physical ability, I’ve been able to resume some old activities. Prior to pregnancy, I had spent several seasons alternating between snowboarding and SCUBA diving. This winter, I picked up my snowboard for the first time in four seasons and was surprised at how quickly the ability returned. I was also surprised at the emotional pain. Even when my physical body has recovered, my heart will never be the same.
One of the hardest activities to resume was bodywork. I had previously found comfort in massage therapy as a complement to physical activity, but after giving birth, it was emotionally difficult. My first massage took place on the cruise six weeks after Adrian’s death, and I cried during the consultation. I don’t remember much of the massage itself.
At home, although I had developed a relationship with a neighborhood massage therapist during my pregnancy, I couldn’t summon the courage to call her. It was still difficult to talk to people who knew me when I was pregnant and who didn’t know my son had died. One day, when my back pain was so bad I didn’t want to get up off the floor, I asked my sister to call her for me. That small act re-opened the door to massage therapy again, which physically helped me tremendously.
During my trip to California, I learned about the emotional aspects of other types of bodywork when March’s sister treated me with acupuncture targeted to both my physical pain and my grief. Something of a skeptic, I surprised myself by crying during the quiet portion of the first session. It was intense and brief, and felt like a miniature release. After moving to California, I found an acupuncturist in my new city who stimulated these same deep feelings. I also found a massage therapist who specialized in cranial-sacral therapy. Although I can’t speak to the medical efficacy of either of these treatments, I can state that I feel safe and open enough in session to relax and explore my feelings, and this is important enough for me.
Failure of my Body
So long committed to the idea of the natural order, the death of my son forced me to choose between two beliefs — was nature wrong, or had my body simply failed me?
After I returned from California, my midwife reviewed the pathology report on my placenta. Although my son was perfect, the report revealed multiple previously unidentified problems with my pregnancy. While none of them individually could be identified as a definite cause of his death, all of them contributed to my feelings of inadequacy.
After this meeting, I did a lot of reading. I examined every piece of my pregnancy, looking for possible causes. I met with multiple specialists. I needed to understand what had happened to me. I needed to know I wasn’t physically broken. But that, too, brought complications — if there was nothing wrong with me, then why did my body fail at one of its most basic functions?
Still having no answers, I questioned everything. I wondered if my hand or arm pain could be indicative of more serious issues. I worried that my phantom kicks were signs of liver damage or gallstones, something that was reinforced when blood tests revealed a single mysteriously and unexplainably high liver enzyme. Every minor twinge and ache felt worrisome to me. I wondered often if there was something seriously wrong with me.
I also waited with anticipation for the return of my period. Viewed by many women as a burden to be tolerated, to me it was a sign that at least part of my body had returned to normalcy. I needed to know I could still function as a woman. When it did return in mid September, it felt like the first physical thing to go right for me.
About six months after Adrian’s death, I realized I had never been physically examined following delivery. I asked my new doctor for a referral to an OB. I needed someone to actually look at me. The OB was patient and kind, and he took time to sit with me, answering all of my answerable questions. But there will always be unanswerable questions. There will always be “what ifs?”
This will always be painful to me.
Screaming & Tears
When the doctor told me Adrian had died, the tears poured out of me. I didn’t think I would ever stop crying. The tears dried up in the immediacy of his birth, but returned quickly afterwards. For days, they slipped out of me, often prompted by literally nothing. I felt like I was made of water.
I discovered, though, that there are other acts of grieving. Sometimes, I cried soundlessly. Sometimes, I screamed. In my more intense moments, I devolved into numbness, physically unable to cry. This happened at Adrian’s funeral.
The following day, I barely got out of bed. I pumped in the late morning, then collapsed on the couch, emotionally exhausted. That evening, running my hands over his things, the tears overwhelmed me. I was just thankful they had returned.
In the dark days that followed, when his death started to sink in, my crying often turned to screams. During several dark nights, when I almost couldn’t breathe, I learned what it meant to keen.
I cry out of nowhere now. I cry when I’m writing. I cry when I see a small child. I cry when I’m happy and I realize he will never physically join me.
I still go through periods of numbness, and it still feels physically painful to me. I am always thankful for the return of my tears. They are so very important to me.
The Baby Weight & My Belly
I came home from the hospital at 187 pounds; 27 pounds higher than when I became pregnant.
For several months, I held on to the weight. I lost exactly enough to fit into my largest work clothes with the top button undone around my waist. I probably often ate my feelings, though never enough to change the scale. My body felt like a link to my son.
Around October, I found motivation to lose weight. I started tracking my calories, and most days I made healthier choices. It was a slow process, but it worked for me. By November, I had lost five pounds. The clothes I had purchased in California became loose on me.
By the end of December, I pulled on a pair of pre-pregnancy jeans, startled that they fit. It wasn’t a victory.
I think we often view weight loss as a beautiful thing, the ultimate achievement. But while my weight loss was necessary, it wasn’t beautiful to me. I was far happier in my ninth month of pregnancy. I was far happier with the weight to remind me. Being able to put on my pre-pregnancy clothing was a painful reminder and one more layer to my loss, even though necessary.
I continued losing weight. I had been overweight to start with, and it was important to me. By March, I was five pounds below my starting weight, with a goal of ten pounds lower. When I looked in the mirror those days, my image felt like a stranger. It will probably never not be painful that my outside doesn’t mirror what’s within.
Throughout this time, while the pounds melted away, my belly remained. This is normal; many women retain a “pooch” after delivery. It’s a physical reminder that my body is forever changed. Most days, it keeps me in flowy tops and empire waistlines, though I will always be proud and thankful for my body. Some days, even now, I still look a little bit pregnant. This will always be publicly painful and privately beautiful to me.
