You Will Prefer Silence
They call it the silent sorrow.
The unspoken grief that parents go through with pregnancy loss and stillbirth.
Silent because nobody speaks it? Or silent because nobody wants to hear it?
What should we say, really, to make ourselves louder and somehow more defined? Cry louder? Yell harder? Scream at strangers in parking lots?
What should I say when the lady at the dentist office asks if I’m sure that I don’t want to come in for my cleaning today. Or when the clerk at the grocery store asks if I had a happy Thanksgiving?
Should I tell them that I spent six days in the hospital, pleading with my uterus to release my dead child.
That my daughter was born in the toilet. Two nurses, two doctors, and an army of my sobs the only witness to her never beginning.
How she was 31/2 inches long, and I was too scared to ever touch her skin because I didn’t want to break the last bit of beauty I could hold onto.
How my body, which had already defied me in the most brutal way imaginable, wouldn’t release her placenta, and only surgery at 11:30PM–5 hours after her birth–could convince it with scalpels and suction to let go. The way they had to squeeze me, every few hours, to wring me of blood, and life, and hope, throughout the night.
That they won’t burry her for several months, and I’m not sure if I’ll fully sleep until then.
Maybe, it isn’t that parents just don’t want to talk about it. Maybe, it is that the loss is so traumatic, that they don’t want to burden anyone with the reality of their experience.
I would say anything, and everything, to change one second of this but there just aren’t adequate words.
My Thanksgiving was fine. I’ll come in next week to get my teeth cleaned.