Loss

            The moment a woman suspects she might be pregnant, she begins to love that baby.  She may give up her favorite vice—caffeine or nicotine, perhaps.  She eats healthy food in place of junk, maybe.  She starts taking vitamins more consistently.  She wears her seatbelt in the car, even if she hates it.  Why?  Because she knows hers is not the only life affected by what she does.  Everything she takes into her body, or puts her body into, has an effect on someone else now.  She can’t pretend to be her own person anymore. 

            One day she is sure.  She tells her husband, and he changes his behavior, too.  He notices how small and fragile his wife is.  He spoils her, takes care of her, coaxes her to take care of herself.  He loves her more than he did before, because she is building this whole new person that is also a part of him.  He makes her feel so loved and cherished that she begins to wonder why she didn’t get pregnant months ago.

            The two of them start to talk.  They talk about names, about money, about how to arrange the furniture to accommodate a tiny person.  They debate the merits of a family bed, private preschools, the children’s program at their church.  They laugh over his conviction that the baby will be a boy, and commiserate over her conviction that the baby will be a hellion. 

            It’s too early to tell their families yet, but they talk about how to tell, and when to tell, and wonder what their reactions will be.  Is this a long anticipated baby that the entire family will be thrilled to welcome?  Is this a complete surprise that will shock the family into a few—rare!—moments of quiet?  Will the baby’s older siblings be delighted or jealous?  Will the baby’s grandparents laugh with delight over a first grandchild?  Or with outright hilarity that she is forty (40!) and pregnant, again?

            It’s a secret the two parents share.  They wink at each other when people talk about babies, sneak smiles at tiny people in the grocery store, walk slowly past the baby department at Target, holding hands.  It’s a lovely secret that they whisper about late at night after the kids are in bed and the dogs are asleep.  They plan and dream together, and they love the tiny mass of cells that will become their baby.

            Sometimes, at five or six weeks, or eight or nine, there are tiny signs that all is not well.  These become unmistakable signs that this baby will not be coming into the family.  This realization is devastatingly, wrenchingly sad.  She cries, and he holds her in helpless frustration.  He can’t fix this for her, and he can’t fix it for himself, either. 

            Their dreams die without a chance to really live.  They are sad for all the things they will never get to do: the cradle they will never buy, the room they will not repaint, the swing set they will not build, the first date they will never meet (and perhaps, the low-heeled shoes she will never wear).  Their hearts break over the loss of this unborn person.

            If this were an older person, the neighbors would bring dinners in, the family would gather, friends would call from all over the world.  But this is not an older person.  This grieving couple is completely isolated.  This is a new secret they share.  No one knows, so no one cares.  No one cries with them or visits them; no one sends sweet cards or kind words.  The world goes on without pause, carrying these two broken people along in its wake. 

            Somehow, they put on public faces and go out to meet the world.  There are bills to pay and jobs to do and life to live.  They stumble through those first days and weeks without really noticing.  They say nothing to their friends and families.  This society does not discuss such things.  This society pushes death and loss into the background, out of sight and out of mind.  There is no language to talk about this loss.  If they did talk, their loss would be minimized, belittled, brushed aside as a small glitch in the universe.  “There will be other babies.”  “It’s probably for the best.”  “It’s nature’s way of taking care of problems.”  Dreading these awful words of sympathy, the grieving parents say nothing. 

            But their sadness is real, their tears are real, their aching hearts and empty arms are real.  Millions of couples know this same heartbreak, these same dying dreams.  They may never know which of their friends most understands, but someone certainly does.  Someone knows just how bad this feels.  They are not alone, not really.