Death's not Contagious
"It's in the water around here," the saying goes where I work. A few nurses announce they are expecting a baby and soon the jokes begin. "Don't get near her; it's contagious!" I always laughed at that because in a female-dominated field, someone is always pregnant. It even seems to go in waves, like a spreading disease, with multitudes of bellies peeking out of scrub jackets some months, then calm waters in the birth pools during others. We all realize that building families comes with the territory of working with young women, and it isn't unusual to see someone posting the expected third or fourth new addition to the family.
Not all that long ago that woman was me. I had our due date on the Baby Board- January 2014, and a little ? behind because we were expecting a surprise.Around the same time that I posted on the baby board at work, I started sharing our expectation with the world.
Three girls in tow, I'd run all over town: to school, Girl Scouts, and ballet. I flaunted that belly in tight shirts and skinny jeans. We talked about him or her with anyone that asked. School and Girl Scouts were excited for us, chatting about it often. But at ballet I was not chatty; I was the most content to sit quietly and watch the other parents and kids. Having trialed a snooty dance studio with my oldest daughter, I had found a very laid back one this year for my middle child. Because of its reasonably priced lessons and I imagine, its culture of letting the kids enjoy themselves, I ended up watching families of three, four, and five kids parade in and out during Eden's lessons.
One such mom seemed just like me- two daughters parked on the chairs next to her, another daughter (the middle one) in class. My girls and hers would play for the forty-five minutes of their sisters' lessons and this other mom and I would smile politely at each other and make minimal small talk sometimes. We were hardly friendly but we were just alike and knew it.
I was largely pregnant (I'd say huge but I like to remember it not as dramatic as huge would seem) the last time we saw each other at a dance class in January. I took Eden to class two weeks later, no longer large, and no longer pregnant. There was no mistaking the absence of belly and there would be no mistaking the absence of baby. But there was no polite conversation, no question about it. I took a phone call during class, my sister or my cousin, to discuss funeral arrangements for my son. I was sitting next to this other mom and I know she heard me. And still no "I couldn't help but overhear..." or other segway.
A few weeks later at ballet, my oldest daughter pulled Griffin's photo album out of my purse (I carry it with me whenever I can, in case we get to share him or in case I need to see him) and started showing it around to other moms while I was in the bathroom. This mother to three daughters looked at it, smiled at Charlotte and then at me. An invitation I thought, sidling up in the chair behind her, waiting to be engaged, to talk about my son. Nothing came of it. She didn't look at me again, didn't acknowledge his life or death or existence. This wasn't the first time that it happened, and I'm sure it won't be the last. After all, stillbirth is difficult for even the strongest of us. I just sighed and shrugged it away that day, cataloging her with the other mothers that had somewhat brushed us off.
I saw her today in a new light though. She caught my eye through the studio glass, she on one side taking pictures and I, quarantined on the other, still getting my own daughter ready for her photo. She caught my eye and drew her hand up, I thought perhaps to wave hello for a moment, then placed it protectively on her stomach. I'm sure my heart stopped, skipped a beat inside my chest, because I know now why she has avoided me. I missed her blossoming belly, the healthy glow in her cheeks these last few months, sick as I was, swallowed up in my symptoms of Grief. She didn't hold my gaze for long, she smiled at another mother and began chatting. I too, finished getting Eden ready and moved on, taking my pestilence far away.
I'm sure it's difficult to see me, with my three daughters and missing son. I'd imagine it's nearly impossible for her to talk to me about him. Maybe I don't know what goes through those other mothers' minds, the ones that brush us off, but sometimes it feels like they can't get away fast enough. Like they want to close up his photo book, give it back, and sanitize their hands...Perhaps it feels as though by connecting with me, they invite a miasma in, an invisible illness that they want to avoid like the plague. I'm not sure why they worry. After all, it's just a coincidence that all those women are pregnant together, it's not really 'in the water.' I want to offer them all a sympathy smile, an understanding olive branch, "Don't worry mama, death's not contagious."
Not all that long ago that woman was me. I had our due date on the Baby Board- January 2014, and a little ? behind because we were expecting a surprise.Around the same time that I posted on the baby board at work, I started sharing our expectation with the world.
Three girls in tow, I'd run all over town: to school, Girl Scouts, and ballet. I flaunted that belly in tight shirts and skinny jeans. We talked about him or her with anyone that asked. School and Girl Scouts were excited for us, chatting about it often. But at ballet I was not chatty; I was the most content to sit quietly and watch the other parents and kids. Having trialed a snooty dance studio with my oldest daughter, I had found a very laid back one this year for my middle child. Because of its reasonably priced lessons and I imagine, its culture of letting the kids enjoy themselves, I ended up watching families of three, four, and five kids parade in and out during Eden's lessons.
One such mom seemed just like me- two daughters parked on the chairs next to her, another daughter (the middle one) in class. My girls and hers would play for the forty-five minutes of their sisters' lessons and this other mom and I would smile politely at each other and make minimal small talk sometimes. We were hardly friendly but we were just alike and knew it.
I was largely pregnant (I'd say huge but I like to remember it not as dramatic as huge would seem) the last time we saw each other at a dance class in January. I took Eden to class two weeks later, no longer large, and no longer pregnant. There was no mistaking the absence of belly and there would be no mistaking the absence of baby. But there was no polite conversation, no question about it. I took a phone call during class, my sister or my cousin, to discuss funeral arrangements for my son. I was sitting next to this other mom and I know she heard me. And still no "I couldn't help but overhear..." or other segway.
A few weeks later at ballet, my oldest daughter pulled Griffin's photo album out of my purse (I carry it with me whenever I can, in case we get to share him or in case I need to see him) and started showing it around to other moms while I was in the bathroom. This mother to three daughters looked at it, smiled at Charlotte and then at me. An invitation I thought, sidling up in the chair behind her, waiting to be engaged, to talk about my son. Nothing came of it. She didn't look at me again, didn't acknowledge his life or death or existence. This wasn't the first time that it happened, and I'm sure it won't be the last. After all, stillbirth is difficult for even the strongest of us. I just sighed and shrugged it away that day, cataloging her with the other mothers that had somewhat brushed us off.
I saw her today in a new light though. She caught my eye through the studio glass, she on one side taking pictures and I, quarantined on the other, still getting my own daughter ready for her photo. She caught my eye and drew her hand up, I thought perhaps to wave hello for a moment, then placed it protectively on her stomach. I'm sure my heart stopped, skipped a beat inside my chest, because I know now why she has avoided me. I missed her blossoming belly, the healthy glow in her cheeks these last few months, sick as I was, swallowed up in my symptoms of Grief. She didn't hold my gaze for long, she smiled at another mother and began chatting. I too, finished getting Eden ready and moved on, taking my pestilence far away.
I'm sure it's difficult to see me, with my three daughters and missing son. I'd imagine it's nearly impossible for her to talk to me about him. Maybe I don't know what goes through those other mothers' minds, the ones that brush us off, but sometimes it feels like they can't get away fast enough. Like they want to close up his photo book, give it back, and sanitize their hands...Perhaps it feels as though by connecting with me, they invite a miasma in, an invisible illness that they want to avoid like the plague. I'm not sure why they worry. After all, it's just a coincidence that all those women are pregnant together, it's not really 'in the water.' I want to offer them all a sympathy smile, an understanding olive branch, "Don't worry mama, death's not contagious."
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