"Put one foot in front of the other."
That use to sound like something you'd say to encourage people, but now it is an order. It's a reminder.
Each of your organs are cinder blocks, making every step heavier and making it almost impossible to scoot without stumbling.
Your brain is pulling away from gravity- stretched far above treetops, "head in the clouds". Your heart is in your feet, appropriately broken to fit in the different sides. There's suddenly a mile between your vocal cords and your tongue- good luck saying what you need.
How has your body become so rearranged? How come no one can see it from the outside?
I know where you are. You are in anticipatory grief for the child in your womb. You feel almost alone on this journey. And lost. Every moment is another that putting one foot in front of the other is an impossible request to make of you.
Waiting to lose is bad. I can't say that it is the worst. I've never truly lost before now. I've witnessed others' sudden and unexpected loss, I've witnessed others' peaceful letting-go. But I've never witnessed firsthand another getting prepared for the birth and death of someone they love until myself.
Have you? Are you no stranger to loss?
If you aren't, I'm afraid this will still be a bit different. Because every loss is different.
And my stumbling upon this new normal will look so much different from yours. We are creating together a beautiful community of different hurts that may only live until we are gone, so that there is room in the space for the next different hurts.
Call this space -baby loss- "Alaska". Imagine the dreams we'd had for our babies prior to learning about life-limiting or fatal diagnoses in another space called "Jamaica".
Some of us arrive to Alaska by taking the long way around- driving from peninsular Florida through the continental US and then through Canada. Perhaps we barely knew we were pregnant, the pee may still be wet on the stick when we learn that our babes have a different fate than we'd hoped. So starting from 8 weeks gestation, we begin to carry the burden of waiting on losing. And we carry it the whole way to birth. The climate changes every few hundred miles (some days are colder than others in anticipatory loss), and we have to stop often for gas (someone please pour encouragement into me). But when we finally arrive to Alaska, we've still got some sweet memories of the trip there.
Some of us get there by boat. We hop on our own glacier bound titanic midway through pregnancy. We had smooth sailing through the first and second trimester but waters became rough at a nerve-wrecking diagnosis appointment. We just gave our voyage a name we'd picked out dependent on its gender ultrasound... and now we must accept that the voyage will end in Alaska, when we arrive there. We still have a little time to make these next days (months) count, so immediately every sunset on the water becomes more precious.
Then some of us arrive by plane. In the home stretch of our pregnancies, we feel irregular kicking patterns and just think we have lazy babies. So we visit doctors and go to specialists and learn that something has gone terribly wrong and we are days away from loss. It only takes a few hours to fly to Alaska from where we are. We don't have time to pack, we don't have time to wait in line for a Cinnabon.. We check in and hop on for a turbulent ride, hoping for a moment to look out the window and gather that everything will change once we land, thankful for ignorance before this point.
We all get to the same Alaska, but it looks different to each of us because of the way we got there. I can't tell you exactly how Alaska is going to look to you. We can all agree on one thing though: it is cold and it isn't the place we wanted to be.
You are wishing for the days before you knew what you're carrying with your baby: before you knew all the uncertainty that you were oblivious to before this point. Certain Uncertainty? You wish you didn't have that.
You are wishing for the days where you were planning for Jamaica. When the biggest worries you had were over diaper brands, nursery themes, feeding options, parenting styles. You are watching all the other expectant mothers in Jamaica. You're glad for them, you're sad for you.
While you're on the way to and in Alaska, the mothers on the way to and in Jamaica are going to try to reach out to you. They may not be able to know what you're going through, but they can certainly empathize- easier than most can. It hits close to home when one is looking at her friends in Alaska while she's in Jamaica.
Let them, mama. Our small village waiting for you in Alaska is support, but you will never have enough. Don't push them away if they just want to love on you.
Sometimes a woman in Jamaica will assume that, being in Alaska, you can be nothing but jealous and bitter. You know better, though. Love that mother from a distance. Find comfort in praying that that mother will never TRULY know how you feel- pray she will never need to visit Alaska.
Sometimes a woman who looks like she's always been in Jamaica will surprise you, she's visited Alaska too. One day you may be in her shoes. One day you may not. Just know she's been in yours.
You're still expecting. You're still on the way to Alaska, and there will be so much struggle to enjoy the ride. If you are driving, you're carsick. If you're sailing, your boat is steadily sinking. If you're flying, its on a small plane and through thunderstorms. And on top of it all, there is no map to our Alaska. We are wandering, on a certain path.
It's going to be hard. But I urge you, mama... Rebuke the end of your trip until it comes. Speak life into your baby, speak life into your self.
Don't give up, don't have a passive trip. Tell people about your journey.
When you meet a stranger along the way, you don't have to let them think you're on your way to Jamaica just so they aren't uncomfortable.
And then, somedays, if you want to let the trip happen while you just rest, I urge you to do that too.
Stay in bed, cry, holler, and cuss.
Feel what you need to feel. Know that your feelings are OK.
If you are glad- don't let anyone make you think you should be sad.
If you are sad- don't let anyone make you think you should be glad.
You're expecting a baby. Your baby is a blessing! Your sick baby is a blessing! Your broken baby is a blessing! Your dying baby is a blessing!
You're expecting to be a bereaved mother. Grief, in its own way, is also a blessing. You do NOT have to view it that way. But waiting for it will give you a different outlook on yourself, on your baby, and on life.
When you get to Alaska, it's okay to be disappointed. It's okay to be angry. This is not the trip you planned. This is not Jamaica. And when you get here, that's when you'll realize you didn't pack a jacket.
You can't pack anything, actually. Nothing ample enough to protect yourself from the cold weather you're facing. Remember you were packing for Jamaica when this trip went the other way.
Though you are expecting it, you don't know exactly what kind of grief awaits you in Alaska.
In Alaska, you will be babylost. And I didn't know until I arrived here that the pain is a new one, different and more amplified. I want to warn you of that.
This post will not ease it, your family will not ease it, your friends will not ease it. They will love on you (yes, even more than they are right now) but they will never be able to put your baby back in your arms. And I'm sorry to know that.
I'm sorry that you are terrified. I'm sorry that you cannot turn around and just stay home. I'm sorry that we aren't going to Jamaica this time.
There will still be an element of beauty. Alaska is still a nice place to see. It is still a new place. You will still be a mother! Don't let anyone ever tell you any different. In your grief, you will be THE mother. How amazing you will be to parent a baby you can no longer see.
But I want you to know that once you arrive, you will long for the days when you were just waiting for it, just like you now long for the days when you knew you were going to certainly bring home a healthy and happy baby to protect and love.
I know you are heavy. I know that in addition to all you're carrying with your baby, your own self is becoming tough to pull. But you can do it. I believe our babies get to choose us. Your baby picked you, mama. Your baby knows you can finish the journey it was sent to you for. Your baby knows you can somehow get all the way to Alaska, no matter how far or close it seems.
Just put one foot in front of the other.
