To the Mother Who Has Lost

I’ve always been struck by the fact that society doesn’t have a word for a mother who has lost her child.  I’m not a widow, I’m not an orphan, I’m something different altogether. When I lost my first pregnancy to miscarriage, it felt like my heart was ripped from my chest.  Where my belly once showed early signs of pregnancy, it was suddenly and starkly empty. During my second pregnancy, I held my breath for 12 weeks, feeling relief that making it the second trimester meant everything would be fine.  But then, at 23 weeks, I started bleeding and having contractions. My son would be born at 25 weeks, only living for three days. And this time, it felt like my soul was ripped from my body. My hopes and dreams for his life were mercilessly taken from me.  I spent my Christmas Eve, picking out the tiniest urn available at the funeral home. I felt numb for a long time after that. When we picked up the pieces of our lives, and became pregnant with our third child, I spent most of my days vacillating between terror and hope.  All I wanted was her here, safe and alive. And our rainbow came! Her life, which will always carry the memory of her missing siblings, is one of duality; sorrow and joy, gratitude and grief, absence and belonging. This is my story of motherhood, and I wouldn’t rewrite it if I could.

I am forever changed by the loss of my children.  It informs how I parent my daughter, how I confront trauma, and how I move through the world.  In fact, the only thing that hasn’t changed is my ardent love for my kids. And this is likely why there isn’t a good word for me, because a mother who has lost her child, is still a mother.  Always and forever.

Love,
Martha