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Before my baby died, I have to admit that I didn’t know a lot about infant loss or grief. Despite experiencing primary and secondary infertility, I had never miscarried, and my first pregnancy was uneventful until the arrival of my healthy baby boy at 41 weeks. I had heard of a few families who lost a baby, but I thought it was very rare beyond the first trimester. I heard about a couple of infant losses during my second pregnancy. I was saddened by the news and clutched my belly protectively, hoping and praying my baby would make it into the world safe and sound. Before my loss, I knew that when a baby died they wouldn’t be here on earth anymore. I thought about the fact that they lost their baby at that point in time, but not about their grieving process and what it felt like not having their baby there with them.

I didn’t think about how the parents had to tell their extended family and other children that the baby wouldn’t be coming home. I didn’t think about how they gave birth in the maternity wing of the hospital, surrounded by celebrating families on the worst day of their life. I didn’t think about the silence in the room as their baby entered the world without a cry, how they never moved or opened their eyes. I didn’t think about how they held their dead child in their arms with just as much love, gentleness, and admiration as if he was still alive, saying hello and goodbye at the same time. They took pictures, rocked their baby, maybe even bathed and dresses them. They stroked their hair, counted fingers and toes, talked and sang to them. I didn’t realize their child grew colder and more purple with every passing hour. I didn’t think about how they gazed upon, kissed, and touched their child for the last time before walking out of the hospital without them. They resisted every parental instinct to run back into the hospital and get their baby as they heard the cries of healthy newborns around them. They anticipated the arrival of their child for months and instead only held a box of memories.

I didn’t think about how the mother’s body would still produce milk for a baby it couldn’t feed. She would long to hide her maternity clothes from view bit not fit into her pre-pregnancy clothes. She would go to her postpartum check-up and sit in a waiting room full of expectant parents discussing upcoming ultrasounds with excitement, when the last ultrasound she saw was of her baby’s heart not moving.

I didn’t think about how the parents would see babies and constantly think about how theirs was missing. I didn’t think about how the parents would long to hold babies or even change diapers. I didn’t think about how the parents would long to talk about their child, but hardly get a chance to mention their name. They would deal with people who pretended their child never existed. I didn’t think about how well-intentioned people who were unaware would ask, “How’s the new baby?”. I didn’t know that “How many children do you have?” would become one of the hardest questions to answer. I didn’t realize…

Finn, Infant Loss, Stillbirth

Today as I celebrate four months since Finn’s birth and mourn the 4-month old baby who isn’t here with me,  I looked back at Jaxton as a 4-month-old, and I see what I am missing out on right now. I have a video of Jaxton, a chubby baby with arm and leg rolls, his face lighting up as Phillip tickled him. I have another video of him sleeping peacefully with a full belly, occasionally peeking through one eye to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. Now I watch as Jaxton talks, sings, plays, and grows into a smart and independent little boy. I will only ever be able to imagine what it would be like to see Finn grow up, only guess who he would look like and act like. I’m not just idealizing; I also think about the sleepless nights, numerous diaper changes, tantrums and messes. Last week after Jaxton flooded our bathroom, I actually felt sad that Finn would never be able to do that. Even as I think about what I am missing with him, I know that in his death he is more alive than I will ever be here on Earth, and by heaven’s standards he is experiencing far more than I could ever imagine. Here’s to 4 months of missing Finn, and 4 months closer to being with him again.

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