what loss can look like

We had almost exactly twenty four hours from when we found out that Oliver had died until I delivered him. 

And do you know what happened in those twenty four hours? 

We laughed. Yeah of fucking course we cried and grieved and wept. But there was also laughter. 

Because that kind of loss is unimaginable and impossible to handle. Your body and mind do extraordinary things to protect you from reality. So during the twenty four hours I was being induced, as my family and friends drove and flew to be by my side, we made fun of Daniel for being so cold in the hospital room. We made jokes as nurse after nurse kept bringing him blankets and he sat bundled by the window. We literally laughed when my mom admonished me for swearing. Can you imagine, being alarmed at your kid for dropping the f bomb as she prepared to deliver a baby that wouldn’t come home? Habits are strong though, so we laughed at the absurdity when she couldn’t help herself and scolded, “oh Rachel!” And then yes we all came up with a combination of her least favorite words and repeated them to remind ourselves joy was possible, that we could delight in saying “booger booger fuck” over and over to watch her squirm, and distract ourselves from the matter at hand. 

Your body and mind disconnect in these moments in ways you can’t comprehend. I (hater of hugs and human contact) let people hug me, and kiss my head, and hold my hands, and lay with me, and rub my feet. Because nothing mattered. 

And yes, we took pictures. Of course. These were the last and only moments we were going to have with our son. I wish I believed in hell, because then I could be sure that people who judge this act would have solidified their place in its fiery pit. 

Pictures matter. They’re more important than you know. Baby loss is such an unreal thing, it’s truly hard for people to comprehend and it’s easier to forget if you don’t see the reality of the loss. I’ve had the honor of friends who want to see his picture. Friends who know how important is it to acknowledge and confirm his personhood and existence. 

These pictures allow Oliver’s siblings to see the brother they will never get to meet. 

This memory file of his pictures sits on my dresser, and it’s certainly the only thing I’d be sure to grab if the house was on fire. 

And yes, we posted about our loss on social media. (My pragmatic sister had already turned off my facebook wall within hours of losing him, so no one could inadvertently upset me by asking for updates or if he had been born.) But when it came time to share, I know exactly where I sat as I had to come up with the words to let people know what had happened, “Our sweet boy is gone. We are devastated but grateful for all the love and support...” No words could convey what happened, nothing was enough, but still we posted because it was the only way to feel less alone. 

I’m writing this all to say, in reaction to Chrissy Teigen’s gift of sharing their loss, that the list of people who gets to decide how someone grieves begins and ends with: the person who lost the baby. The person who, at whatever stage their loss, has to deal with the logistics of losing or delivering a baby they will not bring home. That person gets to decide how and what they share about this most person loss and trauma. 

Everyone else can shut the actual fuck up. 

thoughts on other olivers

I had two irrational thoughts after Oliver died. (Okay, really, I had a lot. But let’s focus on two right now.) 

One, I thought he’d be the last baby to die. I couldn’t fathom that this tragic thing would keep happening over and over again. I figured we should be the last ones and then the universe should figure out a way to make sure that no one else ever had to go through it. 

And two, I kinda hoped I’d never come across anyone named Oliver ever again in my life. I wanted the name to be his and his alone. 

Neither of these things are true unfortunately. It keeps happening to parents every single day. And I didn’t pick a unique enough name to prevent ever having to see or hear it elsewhere. Last week I was looking through the interwebs for a picture of a cake for Sam’s upcoming birthday. The week before Sam’s birthday traditionally holds some feelings as I process never getting to see Oliver grow up. I hate that we never got to celebrate each year with him and I get a little crabby that Sam’s new age is the first time we get to experience it, not the second time around like I wish. The feelings don’t knock me down or anything, they just pop up to say hi and I acknowledge them and move right along. Of course as I scrolled through cake after cake I saw this one. For some other Oliver out there. Age 8. Just like mine should be. 

And it reminded me of that irrational thought. The wish I had (still have sometimes) that our Oliver was the only one. 

It came up a couple years ago, and this time it did in fact knock me over. As a preschool teacher I knew someday I’d cross paths with another Oliver at my school. I wasn’t looking forward to it and irrationally hoped I could avoid it forever. Every time we have a new kid, or a family of ours gets pregnant with a new younger sibling, I hold my breath when I ask their name. Anything but Oliver is all I hope for. A sigh of relief every time I hear a different name. 

And then one day a family came in for a tour at school and introduced their tiny blonde son to me, their Oliver. I made it through the conversation politely but I broke down later. (To make matters worse I was largely pregnant at the time and, surprising no one, my subsequent pregnancies after Oliver were always experiences of extreme heightened emotions.) 

The idea that I’d have to say this kid’s name over and over again, hear my coteachers use it every day, was too much. And what if he sucked. Like what if he ruined the name with a terrible personality or behavior. (Ask any teacher, it happens.)

I hated the idea of it all. 

He didn’t end up coming to our school and I haven’t come across another one since. (When it has happened that I have a distant acquaintance name their kid Oliver, I remove them from my feed. Watching another Oliver get to grow up just isn’t something I need to see.) But when I saw that cake it reminded me of the feeling. 

And after all these years I realize why it’s such an emotional thought for me. 

When a parent loses a baby (or really when anyone loses someone they love) the worst thing that could happen is that they’ll be forgotten. That people will move along with their lives and simply forget. People say they won’t. But it happens. I know it. I know it every time someone who knows about Oliver tells me I have three kids. 

Today I realized my fear of meeting and knowing other Olivers is a fear of him being replaced in name. A real visceral fear of his memory being diluted by some other Oliver out there coming into our lives. Filling our family and friends with memories and experiences our Oliver never got to do. 

It hit me that I’m not afraid of meeting another Oliver and being reminded of mine, I’m afraid of another Oliver existing in my world and people forgetting mine as a result. 

The cool thing about grief though is that our feelings grow and change and shift as the years go on. Never over it, but different. And I know lots of loss parents who love hearing their children’s names out in the world, being reminded of their beloved. Maybe that’ll be something I feel one day. Maybe it won’t. The other cool thing about doing grief this long and this deep is that I know I will be okay either way. 💚

runaway sam

Sam packed his pillowcase today. Filled it up halfway with a small pillow, blanket, stuffed animal, two pairs of pajamas and underwear and twisted it up to the top so he could throw it over his shoulder. The drama of it all. He was leaving, he told me, because his brother “is just a big ball of meanness” and he needed to go “somewhere where no one is annoying” him. 

I told him no, he’s not going anywhere. For one thing, we’re sheltering in place so it’s not an option. Two, it’s my job to take care of him and I can’t do that if he’s gone, so for the next eleven and a half years he’s stuck with us. 

He begs to differ. 

We snuggled for a bit because he “wanted to soak up every last second” with me before he left. We did sympathy for a while and talked about how frustrated he feels and what could we do to change the situation here instead of abandoning ship. Then we did empathy and I talked about how I used to pack bags when I was a kid too. I told him what a terrible roommate my sister was and how she used to torture me for kicks. (But left out specifics, because the last thing that kid needs is ideas.) 

He listened patiently, snuggled tightly. 

And nevertheless he persisted, framing everything for the following hour around his imminent departure. 

“I need to eat something...before I leave.” 

“Can you get me a nightlight that doesn’t need to be plugged in? For when I’m gone.” 

I maybe blasted Leaving On A Jet Plane from my phone. 

He was not amused. 

He grabbed his packed pillowcase and walked towards the front door. Opened it. Bleary eyed and determined. 

I turned him around and we snuggled back up in the chair. He repeated, “I’m leaving. I don’t want to live in this house anymore.” 

So I did the only thing left I could do, I lifted him off my lap and pointed to the door. 

“Okay. Leave.” 

He sobbed. Back in the lap. 

The feelings are big with this one. And while I knew this milestone was coming eventually, I have to imagine our current circumstances fast forwarded its arrival. 

Who doesn’t want to run away right now? Who isn’t desperate for a change of scenery and a new cast of characters?? I don’t blame him. 

And if I’m being honest, it filled me with nothing but pride and laughter when he laid the news on me, so determined and sincere, his earnestness overflowing. A milestone for him and a level up in parenting for me. 

He hasn’t mentioned it since the final sobbing so I think he’s sticking with us for the foreseeable future. I hope so. Because if he threatens to run away again, I just might join him. 

don’t know when I’ll be back again