parent submission:

By Anonymous: A Brief Encounters Parent

I've wanted to be a Mom for as long as I can remember. I was raised as an only child and I longed for a larger family. I began dating my future husband when I was 15 years old, he was 16. We fell in love right away and we spent so much time together. When I went away for college I wrote a letter to him everyday. This was pre-internet and phone calls were too expensive. I was offered a job with his family business the following Summer. I stayed in town and went to college locally. We were married after dating for 6 years. We both wanted a family. We bought a van, a house and began trying to build our family. For 2 years we tried to get pregnant without any success. We sought help from my gynecologist and after lots of testing it was discovered that I had endometriosis. I had the surgery and took birth control pills for a year so my body could heal. We took many pregnancy tests once we were cleared to try again. One December before the company Christmas party the pregnancy test was positive. We were so overjoyed and we shared the exciting news with our friends and family. We went to our doctor's appointments, took tests and listened to her heartbeat. On March 17th we got the news that a blood test came back with the devastating news that our baby wasn't healthy. When the doctor listened for a heartbeat, there wasn't one. We went to another part of the hospital to have a an ultrasound. I saw my baby in the ultrasound. No heartbeat. I can still see her beautiful profile in my mind. The doctor scheduled a D&C and sent us home to return the following day. We were very sad. My birthday was a few weeks later and I didn't want anything. We sold our van and bought a sports car. Two months later we were pregnant again. We went to the beach to celebrate our 6th wedding Anniversary and I began to hemorrhage. We drove home in the middle of the night and went directly to the hospital. Our second child was no longer alive. No heartbeat. My husband couldn't handle the losses and he needed to be hospitalized. He was diagnosed with Manic depression and Schizophrenia. He remained in the hospital for 3 days. He was never the same person. I was expected to do my job, his job, make sure that he took his medications, and keep the family business afloat. There was no time for me to grieve. I was ignored and dismissed. I've tried over the years to process my loss and grief. Some days are easier than others for sure. I think of my babies. I have worked to be present and in the moment. I am curious as to what I have learned and how my experiences can help other people who have had similar losses.

By Diandra Dzib 

When the rainbow doesn’t come.

Rain tends to slowly drizzle out until there is nothing but grey clouds and an endless steady mist.

The air feels like it should start to warm because the rain has all but passed, but it never does.

The day started with pouring rain and it should clear up, that’s what everyone says.

 You are still hopeful that you will make the most of your day when that sun breaks through.

Anticipation turns to anxiety, turns into an obsession. Constantly looking out the window, opening the doors, is it there?

My day cannot start until a rainbow comes out and tells me that the rain has stopped, and I can begin my day.

I feel trapped in my home, unprepared for this weather.

No one told me that it rains this time of year this way.

I am standing in the middle of my living room at a loss, confused, uncertain and beating myself up for not knowing what to do. For not knowing better.

I do not know how to live in this state of being.

This state of constant rain.

My husband and I go stir crazy, it’s just us in this house.

Us inside and the rain outside keeping us bound and angry. We both had hopes for the day, all the moments we would live in, be present for, and all of things we would accomplish.

Both of our days being wasted.

Others who live in the sunniest of places have called to tell me that the rain has to stop eventually and to ride out the storm.

Others tell us we could just go pay for a sunny vacation.

Others suggest maybe if I would just pray, god would bring his promise of a rainbow.

Some have even told me that the rain is all in my head.

I become hopeless and feel there is no point to this day.

I look outside and see others with their rainboots and their jackets and their umbrellas.

Some I see with nothing but a summer dress. They are all hugging, crying, embracing the rain and all that it brings. They are embracing the rain together.

Something starts to change inside of me, and I begin to wonder.

Everyone around me but that does not actually live in this rain has made me feel that the rain needs to be gone in order to love, to carry on, to enjoy my day.

But these complete strangers that I watch from a distance have shown me that I didn't need the sun for a spotlight or a rainbow as a banner to be able to walk through life happy, proud and loved. 

They showed me it was possible to accept the rain when the rainbow doesn't come and dance in it anyway.

By Eileen Cowen

 I had the dream again. My husband and I, holding a tiny baby. Marveling over the universe, as you do when you hold new life in your arms. Sensing that you are cradling something special to give to the earth.

It seems like the same dream every time, but this time it was different. It oozed innocence in ways that I hadn't felt since I held my eldest son in my arms, almost 13 years ago now. Innocence that we no longer have, and never will again. My daughter Rosie's death and birth marked yet another part of our married life – the fact that there would be no more babies.

Why is life, something that seems so simple, full of complexity? Our pregnancy with Rosie was unexpected: we had three kids, ages seven, six, and four. We were past with the baby phase of family. Tiny baby clothes, cribs, toys, all gone from our home. Onward, to different stages! Children were thriving in elementary and preschool, and I was finishing my Bachelor's degree. For the first time since having children, we worried with the idea of adding another voice to our family. How old will we be when this child goes to college? I was 36 and staring down a “geriatric” pregnancy, which really doesn't seem old at all. My husband was 43. Middle age. Is THIS where we are supposed to spend our middle age, nearly 16 years into our marriage?

This description seems so dramatic.

We loved our daughter. We love our daughter. When she died and was born at 20 weeks gestation, we cradled her tiny body, marveling at the universe, as you do when you hold a human in your arms. The difference was, we were cradling a perfectly beautiful death in our arms. Was her birth, like the birth of her siblings, a special gift to the earth? Was it the gift of eternal heartache, or the gift of never-ending love? Maybe they are one and the same.

We struggled with the idea of having another child after Rosie. At first, it seemed like a chance for redemption: perhaps my body wouldn't fail this time. Maybe we could fix what went wrong. There would be no replacement of Rosie, rather a rescue of opportunity lost. Could we provide another possibility at happiness for our living children who had just been through a huge ordeal in their own young lives? We looked at our broken hearts and knew we couldn't do it again. My broken brain couldn't psychologically deal with what felt like a “do-over.” In the game of life and death, we all know there are no do-overs. We may try, but it is impossible to reclaim the past. Our family certainly couldn't reclaim the naive life we once lived: the harsh realization that babies die is a heavy burden that continues to sap energy long after the event.

Rosie was born five years ago, on June 25th. When we first decided we would not have another child, it opened a small door to keeping her alive. I thought we wouldn't be distracted with another baby. Rosie could stay, forever, as our tiny lost love. We know that that isn't true, either. There is no stasis; we constantly move forward with time. We grapple with the guilt of forgetting her. We know, as she would have started kindergarten this autumn, that the school is missing another student... someone they never knew. Someone who most people forget even existed. Her fifth birthday passed without much fanfare for most, but with immense heartache for us.

Back to the dream. I have this dream often. Sometimes it hurts, and I wake with damp cheeks. This time, it didn't hurt. It felt pure, like we hadn't lived through the hell of a dead child. I don't have the luxury of living without knowing the burden of death. However, the dream felt like how it used to be: parenting with uncomplicated hope for the future. It gives me light for what lies ahead for our family as we move together through the mess of life.