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.