what a stillbirth is. and isn't.

1. 
   

   
   “When fetal death occurs after 20 weeks of pregnancy, it is called stillbirth. These tragic deaths occur in about 1 in 160 pregnancies (1). Most stillbirthsoccur before labor begins. The pregnant woman may suspect that something is wrong if the fetus suddenly stops moving around and kicking.” 

   
   

   I've stayed quiet and stopped writing the past four years or so. In the beginning I found writing to be a helpful outlet for loss and an opportunity to invite others into a place people rarely share for the sake of learning what the grief process is like. During my absence from here, my grief took several turns and God used our trip to Disney in November 2014 to lift me out of a very dark place that I had been in since April of that same year. While I made progress, the holidays came, a new year, my birthday, and then the one year mark. Add in Minnie in 2015 and my realization that I struggle with PPD and PPA. While I enjoyed the outlet this blog allowed I went quiet partly because I felt like I had nothing new to say and as time passed, it wasn't healing all wounds. Additionally, getting to the place where I am “well” was and is a priority of paramount importance. 

   
   

   I'm back to writing and sharing because there have been some things from the past few years that I haven't talked about due to their sensitive nature. I knew I wanted to be in a better place to craft my words, that they would come from a place of processed emotions and not a reaction to something that caused me to struggle. I want to be clear that this post is not coming from a place of bitterness, judgement, anger, or resentment. I've found that sometimes things need to be said and if they aren't the trend continues. I'm speaking to this topic because it is something that can deeply wound and hurt a mom who has had a stillbirth experience. Im also writing because there is very little publicly written on this topic and it is a common experience for a stillbirth mother to have. 

   
   

   Simply put: 

   
   

   A miscarriage is NOT a stillbirth. 

   
   

   In the wake of our loss and the hours and days and weeks and years that followed the hell we lived in, a near constant refrain that my husband and I would often get as a preface to many conversations was: 

   
   

   "I had a miscarriage at (fill in the blank) weeks..." 

   
   

   Before I continue on, I want to be clear, if you said this to me, I am not upset with you. I'm not writing this to give you a backhanded passive aggressive correction. To be perfectly honest, I received this comment from so many people, I stopped keeping track who said it and going back to each individual would be far too much. So here I write, my attempt to explain why that's unhelpful and how it hurts. It is something that upset me those first few weeks and was a consistent topic in my meetings with my grief counselor. I say that not to guilt, but to give an accurate window into the place I was coming from. Ultimately, I hope what I share is a means to caring for moms better in the future and to learn. 

   
   

   Don't make someone else's loss about you. 

   
   

   A statement like that can make a Mom or Dad feel like they have to enter into your sadness and pain in the midst of a time that is complete and total emotional turmoil. Simply put, they do NOT have the capacity to do this. If you have walked through the grief of losing a child this way, you would probably understand why, if you haven't I honestly pray you never have to know the pain. I often felt bewildered after receiving these comments via text, email, and comments on social media. I did not know how to process or respond. Time has given me the ability to reflect. My initial reaction was confusion because let's face it, no one sits down and explains to you from a medical standpoint that this is a stillbirth (they really should, it would be incredibly helpful and affirming) and what that means from a simple definition standpoint. When moms would make references to miscarriage it never felt like a place I belonged and I did not feel any ability to relate to their circumstances, nor them to mine. Yes, child loss is a common thread that weaves together moms and takes on different forms, but the experiences of that loss are not the same. I am not minimizing the horror, pain, or suffering that comes from a miscarriage either and seeking to elevate my experiences above theirs. I'm simply trying to explain how they're not the same and using that as a platform to reach out is not helpful. Here's some ways it's different. 

   
   

   I felt him move in my womb and when he died, experienced an absence of that movement. 

   We knew him as a boy, our son, for several weeks before he died. 

   I was admitted to the hospital to induce labor and waited 24 hours to hold my child. 

   I held my baby in my arms and delivered him the exact same way I did my other children. 

   When the day was through and it was clear his body was made for heaven and not earth, and you literally watched the decay happen to his body before your very eyes, we said goodbye. 

   Two days later we buried him in the ground out of respect for human life and in his sacred memory. 

   For three straight weeks I had to stave off my milk coming in by wearing a sports bra around the clock 24/7 and could only take a shower every few days to keep my milk from letting down. Sorry if that's tmi for some. But the horror of that experience is still very real to me. 

   
   

   Good intentions are not always good. I fully recognize and am aware that that statement comes from a good place, a desire to share and say: “hey, you're not alone, I care.” I think there's better ways to do that. Having struggled through these years, I have learned I could never fully relate to a mom who was lost her still born child at full term, or a mom who's baby died in her arms post delivery, or a mom who's baby died of cancer at two years old. 

   
   

   But that's my point. The sharing or stories and the creating a bond comes at a different time. In the wake of raw and unimaginable grief, a simple statement of care can simply be: 

   
   

   "I'm so sorry for your loss, I can't imagine the pain you are walking through, but I am thinking of you and carrying you on my heart. I will remember your son." 

   
   

   That's enough. It doesn't have to be a download of here's how we can relate. A simple statement doesn't seem like a lot but it speaks volumes. 

   
   

   “I'm so sorry for your loss”: it acknowledges that child, what the family is walking through and the pain they are experiencing from that loss. A loss that is so unnatural, a father and mother were never made to bury their child and say goodbye. 

   
   

   “I can't imagine the pain you are walking through”: you can't because it isn't you and no amount of shared experience will ever build that bridge. Every loss is unique and no two losses are ever the same. 

   
   

   “I'm thinking of you and will remember your son” : this is what most parents want. Their child to be remembered forever and always. It stings that they will not raise them in an earthly home with earthly arms, but they will always be counted among them. I am a mother of four, not three, and people who affirm that, they will never know how much that means. I had one mom email me on every 10th for the entire year just saying she was thinking of me, remembering Bobby and praying. I will never forget her and what that meant to me. She wasn't flowery in her words, she was simply acknowledging my pain and grief and letting me know she cared. 

   
   

   I don't want this to be a copy and paste statement. I just felt it was important to provide an alternative and the whys behind the word choices. 

   
   

   We all have a lot to learn. It’s a part of life. I hope my voice and experiences can be something that helps change our approach and ways of caring for people in the wake of their loss(es). 

   
   

   
   

   
   

   Sent from my iPhone