I'm pregnant again.
It surprised me how hesitant I was to share this news. I have always been very open about our journey to parenthood, and find comfort in not having to carry the emotional burdens of infertility alone. I’ve also never subscribed to the “don’t tell people until after the first trimester” belief, for two reasons. First, I know all too well that making it safely through the first trimester does not guarantee a healthy baby. Second, I want to celebrate and share my babies for however long they are here. If I lose a baby in the early stages, I do not want that baby to be a secret, so I see no reason to wait until the second trimester to tell people.
And yet...it took me until I was 22 weeks along to make the announcement, and even now, I still felt apprehensive about the news being out in the world. I did not keep quiet for the reasons you might think. It had nothing to do with the fears I carry daily about losing this child, which are very real and very intense most days. It had more to do with the fear of being misunderstood, as the feelings and circumstances around this pregnancy are very complicated and difficult to express.
I know I am not the only mama expecting after loss who has dealt with these same anxieties. I have wanted for a while to shed some light on what this experience is like, but every time I try to explain it, I just can’t find the words to accurately capture how I feel. I do not share all these thoughts to make people second guess themselves or to tell you what to say or what not to say. I share it simply because you cannot know what it is like until you are here. Pregnancy after loss is fucking hard. It’s the second hardest thing I’ve ever done, and it is terribly lonely to feel as though no one can understand. I share all of these thoughts and feelings for those of you who want to understand but are fortunate enough not to, and for those of you who understand all too well and might feel slightly less alone, knowing someone else is here with you. While everyone is different, here are some of the things I hope people can begin to understand about my particular journey.
It is wonderful, joyful news….and it is also very hard to be happy some days. We celebrate this new baby every day. I cherish every wiggle I feel and every picture or chance we get to hear his heartbeat. We even let ourselves imagine what he might be like once he is born, though it sometimes feels like we are tempting fate to do so. In the midst of all that joy are thick ropes of sadness and grief. This baby will never meet his older brother. For every moment we get to have with him, it is something we will not get to have with Reed. Having another baby is the biggest thing we could have hoped for after losing Reed, and it does not “fix” or “undo” our grief or replace our first son. There have been days where we have gotten positive checkups from the doctor, and I am flooded with a sense of relief and delight that this baby is still doing well...only to then be knocked back by the realization that, no matter what goes right this time, it will not change the fact that there is a different little boy I do not get to hold. I often feel that people can make space for the joyful feelings, but are not willing to offer the same space for the feelings of sorrow and loss that have regained some of their early intensity in this season.
A new baby does not mean our grief is “over”. Grief doesn’t end. There will always be a hole in our family and in our hearts, and there will always be days where the intensity of that ache comes back full force. Babies born after a loss or infertility are often referred to as rainbow babies, the idea being that something beautiful comes after the storm has ended. I am not a big fan of this term. First of all, Reed was a rainbow baby, too. That didn’t mean we got to bring him home. Secondly, it implies the storm has ended, the struggles are over, and everything that lies ahead is beauty and light and hope. This is not the case. Beauty and light and hope are so much more present now that we have someone new to hope for, and our vision of a future with children is still possible. However...our family will never be complete. Reed will always be missing, no matter how many wonderful moments we have. This is the biggest misunderstanding I fear people will carry - that a new baby means we are “better,” or that we have “moved on.” We are ready to hope again. We are ready to make room for another child. Those are beautiful steps, and they feel like immense progress. But grief doesn’t end, and though this new little boy will weave threads of immense joy and gratitude into our lives, he will not erase the heartache we feel, nor will he replace the little boy we didn’t get to bring home.
Yes, you can ask me about my pregnancy. Many people who we told early on were oddly silent about this pregnancy. They didn’t ask the questions one might expect, but instead sometimes behaved as though I am not pregnant at all. I am certain this is done out of respect for me, because people don’t know whether I am comfortable talking about it or not. There is probably also some fear there, the kind of fear us grievers are used to, where people avoid potentially emotional subjects because they are so terrified we might show any emotion other than happiness, and they don’t want to deal with that. Whatever the reason, I understand. But...I am pleasantly surprised to find that I do want to talk about this baby. So if you want to ask what it has been like, or when he is due, or whether I have cravings...ask away. It reminds me this baby is real, too, even if he doesn’t get to stay. It also lets me feel just like a normal mom, because this is the only time I know what it was like for both of my babies. I like having a chance to tell stories about how this pregnancy is similar to or different from my experience with Reed. It helps me connect to both of my boys, and is an opportunity I will only have for this brief moment...after this baby is born, every new experience will be one he and Reed never got to share.
But...the question, “How are you feeling?” confuses me. It has surprised me how difficult I find this question. It has been a way for people to ask how the pregnancy is going without actually using the word “pregnant.” I never know exactly what they are asking. Do they mean physically, inquiring about whether I’ve been nauseous or tired or felt the baby move yet? Or are they asking what the experience has actually been like, emotionally? This question is hard for me to answer because I prefer to be honest, but that’s not always what people are really asking about. They don’t all want to hear about how some days are happy and comforting, as I delight in the fact that this little life exists at all, that I was able to become pregnant again when that was never a certainty. They certainly don’t want to hear about the hard days, when I am consumed by fears, or how the weekly heart rate checks that used to comfort me are no longer enough to reassure me that this baby is getting everything he needs, and that my body won’t fail another one of my children. They aren’t asking about the guilt that comes with pregnancy after loss, because we are being monitored so closely and I can’t stop asking...could any of this have saved Reed? It’s a complicated question to answer, so I usually just say, “Mostly good,” and let it be done, simply because I don’t know who I can trust to hear me and understand, instead of just minimizing my fears or telling me they can’t imagine what it is like. And yet...I am desperate to find someone who does want to know, who can listen to all the ugly, scary parts of this pregnancy and not turn away from me, but simply hold my hand and say, “I know.”
This baby is not a guarantee. A pregnancy is a huge step forward for us, and certainly something to celebrate. But we know all too well that a pregnancy does not guarantee a healthy baby. We know we could leave the hospital empty-handed again. I will never again be as naïve or as innocent as I was when I was pregnant with Reed, or even the baby we lost before him. Please, do not tell me this time will be different. I hope it will be, but I don’t know that and neither do you. Please, do not tell me we are “past the scary part.” I am much more afraid the closer we get to delivery, as our scary part last time didn’t start until after Reed was born. Please, do not tell me we deserve this. Whether or not someone “deserves” a baby doesn’t mean they get to keep one, and this phrase implies we didn’t deserve Reed enough. Understand that this is my third pregnancy and I still have an empty crib and a silent home...my perspective is different from yours, and I do not share the certainty that we will bring home a healthy baby this time.
Mostly, I am terrified people will forget Reed. I hate having an invisible child. I hate that, when Marc and I go out, people see my swollen belly and must imagine it is our first because we are not also holding the hand of a 20 month old boy. I hate how easy it is for others to casually tell stories about their children, but when I mention Reed’s name, the conversation abruptly shifts as people become visibly uncomfortable. Please, don’t let this second child replace my first. Don't let him be the only little boy you see in our family. Don’t tell me we will be good parents - we already are. Continue to ask about Reed, to say his name, to tell us when something makes you think of him. Continue to acknowledge his existence, in absolutely any way you can. Not just now, but always.
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