Some would point to marital difficulties in the wake of abortion and say, "Well that's what you get for choosing this way." But the fact is, that's what you get if you choose to carry to term and your baby dies. That's what you get if your baby lives with illness and disability. Challenge in your marriage is what you get whenever there is challenge in your life, and the intensity of conflict is going to closely mirror the intensity of your grief.
My husband and I celebrate 12 years married this week; 5 years married with loss. We seem to be surviving it.
I wrote a guest blog about it for a friend over at Defending Grace. It should be showing up there in the next couple of weeks. It's here, below, now.
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| Just one of the many beautiful pictures my husband, avid nature photographer, has captured over the years. |
We were lucky, my husband and I, to be of one mind.
The neurologist delivered our daughter’s prognosis: she wouldn’t walk, she wouldn’t talk, she wouldn’t swallow, she would be in too much pain to ever smile very much — too much pain to sleep. Palliative care was not available to us, for this was a “non fatal” diagnosis — whatever that means. My husband and I agreed that we would prioritize her peace absolutely. Most children get to enjoy both peace and life together, but for our daughter, peace cost life, and life cost peace.
The cost of our daughter’s peace was steep: Peace cost our daughter her life. It cost us, her parents, our chance to ever hold her in our arms, any real knowing of our baby beyond the instinctive connection we already felt. It cost my extended family approximately $30,000, all told, for the travel and medical care to safely, legally let her go.
My husband and I took all of it on together. We held each other through the crisis, flew, together, to Colorado. Drove, together into the Rockies. Walked, together, into the clinic. Ate, together, between appointments. He stood with me while I labored her stillbirth, right up to the moment of delivery. We viewed our baby’s body together at the end. She looked like her sister. We both noticed it. Hand in hand, step by step, hearts, it seemed, beating as one, that week in Colorado.
We flew home in different sections of the plane. The diagnosis had come only two days before the flight. There were no window or aisle seats left, only lonely middle seats, bookended by strangers. I splurged a few dollars on extra leg room, hoping the few inches of freedom would reduce my chance of blood clots. One really shouldn’t get on an airplane the day after giving birth.
My husband and I found each other in the airport. We must have, I imagine, though the specific memory of that is lost in the fog. We would have gathered our luggage, stood at the taxi stand, and sat, together, in the back of the cab on our short ride home. I don’t remember when we were reunited with our living daughter, that night? The next morning at — of all things — my somber 30th birthday party? Our small, grieving family together under one tiny roof, roses blooming in the garden.
We were lucky, my husband and I, to have weathered our crisis together. Not all couples do. But no matter how much we love each other, and how completely we agree that we did the right thing, there is no together in grief.
“You and he are going to go through this differently.” A wise friend of my mother told me. “You’re going to need different things at different times, and it’s hard.”
She should have a daughter my age, my mother’s friend. There’s a picture of three woman, taken in the 80s: this friend is the first bump, then my mother, then a third friend, all lined up, ready to burst, beaming smiles on their flushed, round faces, huge, swollen bellies all in a line under bib-style jumpers red and blue — the baby train. The first bump’s name is Emily. Emily was stillborn 30 years ago, days before my own live birth. This friend knows what she’s talking about, but I still have to learn it.
I try to talk to my husband about our baby girl, about my grief. He doesn’t want to hear it. I want him to talk to me about his feelings. He clams up tight. Finally, one day, he says he’s worried he’ll never get his wife back, that I’m just going to let this make me sad forever. That maybe our lives are just ruined now. The implication is this: ruined by my attitude. Ruined by my feelings. Ruined by my weakness. He wants me to “get over it.” I’m horrified.
I need him to see how strong I’m being, how much I’m growing, that I’m surviving. Every damn day, I am surviving. I’m proud of myself, and I want him to be proud of me, too, but all he can see is my pain — which is huge — and none of the strength and beauty shining through it. He reflects back a winy, needy, pathetic image. No wonder he doesn’t even seem to like me anymore.
I find support groups. I want him to come, too, but he won’t.
At some point, I decide I need the support of friends, too. My story is bursting out of me. It’s going to kill me if I keep it trapped much longer. All our friends know that our baby died, that she was stillborn. You can’t make it to 36 weeks under wraps. They were all expecting our baby right along with us. They know she’s gone, and they have been showing up with meals and hugs and flowers. The cards keep flooding in. Twenty eight cards that I keep in a shoebox with my baby’s footprints to remind me of how thoroughly loved my family is, how strong our community.
I want my husband’s blessing to talk to a friend — the third baby girl born that same week, 30 years ago, in June. The third bump from the photograph, now a beautiful woman, and my life’s longest friend.
He won’t give me his blessing. He won’t give me his grudging permission. All he gives me is guilt. “Betrayal” gets thrown around in that conversation. He makes me feel that meeting my own needs will compromise his needs and injure our relationship in ways that can never be mended.
I try. I really try to keep it close for him, but the taboo and the anguish of it are killing me. The shame is killing me. There is only one good antidote to shame, and it is not isolation. I decide that marriage is never more important than either of the people in it. I decide to save myself now and worry about my marriage later.
I tell my friend, and she is amazing. She holds me gently through the story, she sees my strength, she honors my sacrifice, she acknowledges all of my complex feelings, never asking me to change or justify them. She has been fighting for me — with me — from that day on. She calls me on my baby’s birthday. She calls me when there’s a vilifying story in the news. She never, ever wants me to “get over it.” She is exactly the person I needed her to be, and exactly the person my husband couldn’t be in that moment.
***
Several years have passed since that point, and I have become more and more outspoken with my story. I still struggle with the ethics of this. They aren’t clear cut. There is no easy answer.
I have stopped asking for my husband’s permission. He does not own me. I have stopped asking for his blessing, too, because I finally hear him: he can not give it. I balance my dignity and respect for myself with my love and respect for my husband. I do what I believe is right.
Somewhere along the line, I learned to love and trust my husband more deeply than before. My husband grieves very differently than I do. I don’t understand his grief, but I TRUST it. I have faith that he loves our baby as much as I do, even if he doesn’t say so aloud. I believe that he knows what he’s doing, and I honor him in his grief. If he’s a high functioning griever, well, lucky for me! We keep making our mortgage payments.
I trust myself, too. I had to take an entire year off of full time work to process my grief. I melted into a puddle of tears on my kitchen floor more times than I can count. I ugly cried at PTA meetings. That doesn’t make me weak or pathetic. I did what I had to do. It is right and good, and I’m proud of myself. If that sometimes made my husband uncomfortable, well, that’s his deal. He’ll work it out eventually. He’s a wise, strong, and resilient person.
The cost of our daughter’s peace was steep: Peace cost our daughter her life. It cost us, her parents, our chance to ever hold her in our arms, any real knowing of our baby beyond the instinctive connection we already felt. It cost my extended family approximately $30,000, all told, for the travel and medical care to safely, legally let her go.
My husband and I took all of it on together. We held each other through the crisis, flew, together, to Colorado. Drove, together into the Rockies. Walked, together, into the clinic. Ate, together, between appointments. He stood with me while I labored her stillbirth, right up to the moment of delivery. We viewed our baby’s body together at the end. She looked like her sister. We both noticed it. Hand in hand, step by step, hearts, it seemed, beating as one, that week in Colorado.
We flew home in different sections of the plane. The diagnosis had come only two days before the flight. There were no window or aisle seats left, only lonely middle seats, bookended by strangers. I splurged a few dollars on extra leg room, hoping the few inches of freedom would reduce my chance of blood clots. One really shouldn’t get on an airplane the day after giving birth.
My husband and I found each other in the airport. We must have, I imagine, though the specific memory of that is lost in the fog. We would have gathered our luggage, stood at the taxi stand, and sat, together, in the back of the cab on our short ride home. I don’t remember when we were reunited with our living daughter, that night? The next morning at — of all things — my somber 30th birthday party? Our small, grieving family together under one tiny roof, roses blooming in the garden.
We were lucky, my husband and I, to have weathered our crisis together. Not all couples do. But no matter how much we love each other, and how completely we agree that we did the right thing, there is no together in grief.
“You and he are going to go through this differently.” A wise friend of my mother told me. “You’re going to need different things at different times, and it’s hard.”
She should have a daughter my age, my mother’s friend. There’s a picture of three woman, taken in the 80s: this friend is the first bump, then my mother, then a third friend, all lined up, ready to burst, beaming smiles on their flushed, round faces, huge, swollen bellies all in a line under bib-style jumpers red and blue — the baby train. The first bump’s name is Emily. Emily was stillborn 30 years ago, days before my own live birth. This friend knows what she’s talking about, but I still have to learn it.
I try to talk to my husband about our baby girl, about my grief. He doesn’t want to hear it. I want him to talk to me about his feelings. He clams up tight. Finally, one day, he says he’s worried he’ll never get his wife back, that I’m just going to let this make me sad forever. That maybe our lives are just ruined now. The implication is this: ruined by my attitude. Ruined by my feelings. Ruined by my weakness. He wants me to “get over it.” I’m horrified.
I need him to see how strong I’m being, how much I’m growing, that I’m surviving. Every damn day, I am surviving. I’m proud of myself, and I want him to be proud of me, too, but all he can see is my pain — which is huge — and none of the strength and beauty shining through it. He reflects back a winy, needy, pathetic image. No wonder he doesn’t even seem to like me anymore.
I find support groups. I want him to come, too, but he won’t.
At some point, I decide I need the support of friends, too. My story is bursting out of me. It’s going to kill me if I keep it trapped much longer. All our friends know that our baby died, that she was stillborn. You can’t make it to 36 weeks under wraps. They were all expecting our baby right along with us. They know she’s gone, and they have been showing up with meals and hugs and flowers. The cards keep flooding in. Twenty eight cards that I keep in a shoebox with my baby’s footprints to remind me of how thoroughly loved my family is, how strong our community.
I want my husband’s blessing to talk to a friend — the third baby girl born that same week, 30 years ago, in June. The third bump from the photograph, now a beautiful woman, and my life’s longest friend.
He won’t give me his blessing. He won’t give me his grudging permission. All he gives me is guilt. “Betrayal” gets thrown around in that conversation. He makes me feel that meeting my own needs will compromise his needs and injure our relationship in ways that can never be mended.
I try. I really try to keep it close for him, but the taboo and the anguish of it are killing me. The shame is killing me. There is only one good antidote to shame, and it is not isolation. I decide that marriage is never more important than either of the people in it. I decide to save myself now and worry about my marriage later.
I tell my friend, and she is amazing. She holds me gently through the story, she sees my strength, she honors my sacrifice, she acknowledges all of my complex feelings, never asking me to change or justify them. She has been fighting for me — with me — from that day on. She calls me on my baby’s birthday. She calls me when there’s a vilifying story in the news. She never, ever wants me to “get over it.” She is exactly the person I needed her to be, and exactly the person my husband couldn’t be in that moment.
***
Several years have passed since that point, and I have become more and more outspoken with my story. I still struggle with the ethics of this. They aren’t clear cut. There is no easy answer.
I have stopped asking for my husband’s permission. He does not own me. I have stopped asking for his blessing, too, because I finally hear him: he can not give it. I balance my dignity and respect for myself with my love and respect for my husband. I do what I believe is right.
Somewhere along the line, I learned to love and trust my husband more deeply than before. My husband grieves very differently than I do. I don’t understand his grief, but I TRUST it. I have faith that he loves our baby as much as I do, even if he doesn’t say so aloud. I believe that he knows what he’s doing, and I honor him in his grief. If he’s a high functioning griever, well, lucky for me! We keep making our mortgage payments.
I trust myself, too. I had to take an entire year off of full time work to process my grief. I melted into a puddle of tears on my kitchen floor more times than I can count. I ugly cried at PTA meetings. That doesn’t make me weak or pathetic. I did what I had to do. It is right and good, and I’m proud of myself. If that sometimes made my husband uncomfortable, well, that’s his deal. He’ll work it out eventually. He’s a wise, strong, and resilient person.
Most importantly, I have learned that no one person (least of all someone in grief) can be the entire support network of any other. I cast a wide net. I call friends and family and I tell them exactly how they can support me. I ask for the help that I need. Wouldn’t it be nicer not to have to ask? Of course. Wouldn’t it be nicer if the support came from my #1 choice of humans who I want to provide it, every time? Absolutely! But any support at all is better than no support, and disappointment is far easier to integrate and process when basic needs are met.
I no longer worry that grief will destroy my marriage. I accept that grief is a lonely road, and I won’t try to pull my husband over to walk my road with me anymore. I love him across that distance.
When the next crisis comes, we will, once again, weather it together. We can survive the lonesome afterwards feelings with love and respect.
I no longer worry that grief will destroy my marriage. I accept that grief is a lonely road, and I won’t try to pull my husband over to walk my road with me anymore. I love him across that distance.
When the next crisis comes, we will, once again, weather it together. We can survive the lonesome afterwards feelings with love and respect.
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