“Is this your first baby?”
It’s a question I’m asked often on days when I’m alone. If my oldest daughter, Emmarie, is bobbing alongside of me with her bouncy towhead pigtails and sticky little fingers, I’m asked if it’s my second child.
It’s a natural question. I’m 33 weeks pregnant and look every bit of it. My body knows what to do. It’s on track to give birth to three full-term babies in two years and ten months. My belly has been stretching and growing ahead of schedule, ballooning up and out even though our current baby is measuring on the small side. As any pregnant woman can attest, walking around with a tightly wound baby belly at this stage is like having your own exhibit at the zoo. People can’t help but stop and stare. They smile at you and reach in to pet that luscious tummy. Call it curiosity, call it love, they want to learn more about the precious life you are helping grow whether or not you want to be on display.
I don’t mind the interest. I really don’t. I loved talking about Emmarie when I was pregnant with her. A year later, I loved talking about Clara. The same applies to David now. The catch this time around is there is often no way to talk about our newest addition without talking about the girls. This wouldn’t be a problem if both were still here. One of them isn’t. And, the chasm left by Clara is uncomfortable and unexpected. I felt it just the other day.
“Is this your first baby?” a women asked in the store.
“No, it’s my third,” I answered, rubbing my belly.
“You must be busy! How far apart are they?” she added, a mix of surprise in her voice because two children still really must be the good old American dream.
“My oldest daughter Emmarie is two and a half. Our middle child, Clara, would be one.” Because I could already feel her anxious breathing and how-the-heck-did-I-ask-a-normal question-and-end-up-in-this-uncomfortable-situation-where-I-am-starting-to-sweat moment, I added as fast I could: “We lost her last summer. She had a really rare genetic condition and an inoperable congenital heart defect. We are so thankful we got to meet her. We actually got to spend two days with her.”
The air grew thick and uncomfortable. I quickly filled it with, “And baby David, our third, is due in November. So far he is perfectly healthy. We are praying that stays the case.”
“I’m so sorry,” the lady softly replied as she looked down, not sure how to continue on the conversation. I knew she didn’t know what to say. I wanted to tell her I didn’t mind; that I didn’t know what to say either before losing Clara. I honestly still don’t always. The only difference is I understand the heart better now. I know your child doesn’t have to be here for you to welcome the chance to talk about them.
“Don’t be sorry,” I settled on answering. “I love my children. All of them. I love talking about them.” I wanted to give her a hug and reassure her I was okay. I wanted to tell her she hadn’t wronged me in any way. The past had taught me she wouldn’t be convinced.
I know if I could peak into her mind I’d overhear some internal dialogue, some quick whispering, about how awful she felt for bringing up something so horrifically sad. Did she ruin my day? Could she have avoided this situation? What should she say now? I wish I could pause her wondering–and yours–with this truth: I have a variant of this conversation multiple times a week and am constantly calculating, as any loss mom is, if there is any way to answer these questions honestly without creating discomfort. Sometimes there is. Often, there isn’t.
When there isn’t, I truthfully, honestly, wish I could convince you when I say, I don’t mind. It’s not my discomfort I’m not worried about. I love talking about my daughter, regardless of how she was brought up in conversation.
Yes, it’s hard Clara isn’t here. Some days unimaginably more so than others. But if we’re talking about my daughter, know that you just gave me the opportunity to say her name. I got to tell you I love her. In the words I said, and in those I didn’t, I told you she matters. Clara’s life had and continues to have value whether it is spoken about or not. I want to remember every second of it. Not because I can’t move on, but because I love her as I love all my children. I simply didn’t get to share her life with anyone besides my husband and immediate family. You gave me the opportunity, the tiny crack of an opening in a dark, tightly boarded up room, to share her life with you.
I often wonder what it would be like if I could share her life more.
Loss moms, like all moms, wonder. We wonder from the very first moment we learn we are carrying a new life how God will meld his or her powerful little cells into a person. Will this precious baby be a girl or boy? Will his or her head be covered in straight hair like mom or soft curls like dad? Will he have a button nose like his sister? Will she have her grandfather’s love of service? His auntie’s love of people?
Once the dreaming starts, it can’t be stopped. It’s like the moon. In perfect harmony it circles the sun as day fades to night and night grows into day.
The difference with pregnancy or infant loss is there is no answer to this wondering. When the moon gives way to daylight, we don’t see the beautiful face of our child. If we are among the fortunate, we were gifted a fleeting moment to see our precious child—a flicker of movement on an ultrasound, the face of our beloved as they entered this world sleeping, or, perhaps, even the chance to look into our baby’s eyes and gently trace the profile earth-side that we felt for so long beneath our skin.
These moments skip across our life like a rock across the pond. No matter how hard we try to hold onto the shimmering ripple the rock leaves behind, it fades into the water. We spot it here and there, but it slowly becomes indecipherable from the lake no matter how hard we stare at its surface.
“Come back. Come back.”
We speak these words into the silence. We yell these words in the car. We cry these words to God clutching our baby’s blanket. My child is gone. Now, I cannot even remember her?
We struggle to remember, we dream without answers. I do this every day. When Emmarie slides next to me in bed in the morning and presses her warm face to my cheek, I wonder what this moment would be like if Clara were still here. Would she be lying next to me, exhausted from drinking her fill with a faint trace of milk outlining her lips? Would Emmarie say “Hi Cwara,” and hold her small, sleepy hand? Would she be captured in her father’s arms, a reminder of his kindness as he tried to soothe her to sleep so I could rest before rushing to get ready for work? What would it actually be like to live with the craziness that accompanies having three kids under three?
There is no end to this wondering for us. If you ask a mom who has lost a child, young or old, many will say not a day goes by where they don’t imagine what life would be like if he or she were still here. We are making peace with this reality; with the truth we can’t share the lives of our children with you every single day. We can’t talk about what size clothes they wear, whether they are sleeping through the night or if it’s been the terrible twos or threes. But, what we can share, we desperately long to. We don’t want our children to be our hidden secret. We want to share what we can of the beautiful lives that shaped ours forever. We want to show the world they were and are a part of us. We want to speak their value into being. We long to say their names.
The Wonderfully Made Life 