Pushing to end preventable stillbirth in memory of Owen Nathaniel Vick

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Grief (Uncensored)

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Here she is again; That viscous, heartless bitch, grief. She has no care for what day it is. She storms in, flinging the door wide open whenever she damn well pleases and ruins everything; Holidays, anniversaries, special occasions are all fair game. Four years after loss, her arrival has gotten a bit more predictable. We don’t feel the weight of her constant, daily presence like we did the first couple years. She’s more like the annoying uncle everyone puts up with at Thanksgiving and tries not to engage in conversation to avoid his off-color jokes. But that doesn’t mean she can’t show up without a moment’s notice and turn your whole world upside down again. People say grief comes in waves. In my experience she’s more of a tsunami attack. You can’t just wade in the shallow side of grief, she’ll drag you into the deep end and dunk you under as you gasp for air, crying out in vein for someone to save you. All it takes is a small trigger or a bad day for her to see her way in. Kick you while you’re down, that’s her style. A real bitch I tell you. But you know the weirdest part of this toxic relationship? Sometimes I see her coming and I invite her in. I welcome her like a long lost friend. Ah (sigh of relief), there she is, just when I was afraid I had “moved on”. That the pain of loss had decided to let go of my heart and somehow that means I miss him less. After a long spell of her silence, of being able to go through my daily routine without a tear, I feel somehow thankful when she returns and she reminds me of how much I lost, how badly I still long for my baby boy. She’s the only one who knows how truly broken I still am. She heard my guttural screams when I was told the news, “I’m sorry, we couldn’t save him. Your son died”, or some similar matter of fact statement that I couldn’t believe I was hearing as I was coming out of the black fog of anesthesia. My husband held my hand, tears flowing. Cries followed that sounded so foreign, but somehow were coming from deep within me; uncontrollable and piercing wails like a wounded animal. Only she knows how we sat together in the darkness every hour of every day after for months on end. I couldn’t imagine life without our son. The only moments I could see the light were when my sunshine came to my bedside to sit with me. My four year old girl, sitting sweetly in my rocking chair smiling at me and instinctively coming to my bedside to hold my face within her tiny hands making mommy smile back at her when I was at my worst. She kept me from being swallowed whole by grief in those early days. My husband too, with his rock solid strength, pushing forward, going back to work to keep us afloat and putting on a brave face though he was also fighting off grief and severe PTSD. God was there too, silent but steady, understanding all to well the pain of losing a child. He never left my side and kept promising me beauty for ashes, asking me to trust Him. Then inexplicably, somehow life continues moving on. We learn to cope, figure out ways to honor our lost loved one and by some miracle we can experience joy and hope again too. Grief takes a break, maybe she finds some other poor unsuspecting soul to ambush. Yet she won’t let you forget her, she comes back unannounced and as much as I dread that day, I can’t help but smile because I know she’s going to bring me right back to that place. That moment I held him in my arms for the first time, smelled his fresh baby skin, took in his perfection, every inch from his soft blonde hair, handsome cleft chin, long, thin body, down to his slightly crooked toes (just like daddy’s). He’s gone now, but he was here. He died in delivery, but he lived in me, and that’s where he continues to live today. Always in my heart, my son, Owen Nathaniel Vick. Grief lasts forever just like our love, they coexist hand-in-hand, and I’ve learned to accept the crashing waves that allow me to feel the depth of that endless love.

Indifference or Apathy Towards Loss; It’s Time to Talk

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Lately my expression of grief has been lingering in the anger phase more than usual. Probably because all my emotions of frustration and anger regarding the loss resurface every time we celebrate our son’s “birth” day (October 3rd). I inadvertently return to that earlier stage of trying to make sense of why we lost him and who was at fault. It’s an extremely lonely and depressing place to be, but I can’t escape it, it keeps me up at night and tortures my mind endlessly. Couple that with the perceived indifference or apathy that I feel others have toward our loss, especially now three years later, it’s a dark and alienating feeling I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Clearly no one would dare say anything suggesting we move on or that they don’t see why I’m still grieving, but it’s what they don’t say. The difficult moments when I or my husband decide to tell someone we lost a son don’t happen as often as before. But when we do, especially when he shares our loss story (because he doesn’t express his grief as much as I do so when he opens up about our son I know it took a lot), I would expect that the person listening could offer their condolences. It doesn’t have to be a lengthy conversation, but a simple “I’m sorry for your loss” would be much less cruel than silence and a change of topic. Why is it that people skirt passed uncomfortable conversations about grief? I guess maybe they think if they talk about the loss then we’ll be reminded and somehow hurt more? I know it’s hard to go there and feel empathy for someone when they’ve experienced the unspeakable and some people are surprised by the shocking, sudden knowledge that we lost a baby so they just don’t know what to say. But coming from a loss mom, if you don’t know how to react just say whatever you can come up with: “I’m sorry”, “That must be so hard”, “I am here for you”, “Can you tell me about him?”, anything, just don’t stay quiet please. It breaks our hearts our child is no longer here and your avoidance of talking about him doesn’t help. If anything it dishonors his memory and makes us feel even more alone.

And since social media is where many interactions take place these days, if you see a post about a person’s loss, please don’t “Like” it or nod and keep on scrolling. And if you planned on just tapping the sad faced emoji (????), reconsider and kindly take a moment to write out a sentence. Again it can be brief, but it means so much if you acknowledge our pain with a few words. I hope my advice doesn’t come off preachy, but I’ve experienced this enough times in three years and I know people mean well, so I’ve decided to share my feelings to tell others who want to be there for us and anyone else who lost a child that it’s okay to talk about our babies. We crave hearing their name and knowing you still care.

If you’re a loss parent reading this and you feel alone, you aren’t. I’m sorry we are here in this unfortunate club together, but I am glad that we can offer each other support knowing exactly what one another is going through. I will always be honored to hear about your child and grieve them with you. Please tell me about them. Comment with your baby’s name and story below, share my post, and let’s keep talking and honoring their little lives. I miss my son, Owen, just as much yesterday, today and always. It is still so hard, but on the good days something or someone reminds me of him and I can smile because he is mine and I am his forever. ????

A Difficult Question

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“Is she your only child?” That’s a question I’m still struggling to decide how to answer. Often asked harmlessly by acquaintances, like last week at a kid’s party, it’s a question that throws me into a downward spiral for days. Of course, they see my perfect, sweet four year old daughter running happily about and wonder if I would like to have more beautiful children like her; Or even more importantly, do I plan on giving her a sibling? And the obvious answer to me is, We have other children. We have a son. My equally treasured and loved baby, Owen, whom we lost unexplainably towards the end of my pregnancy this October. And, if we’re speaking honestly, I also had another child I miscarried too early to know his or her gender, so technically we have three.

But how honest should I get with those who don’t know my circumstances or how devastating their question is to me? I try to be candid of course; I explain my losses, trying not to get upset, and hoping that it won’t make me into the “Debbie Downer” of the party. Most woman are sympathetic, especially those who are finished growing their families and have no fear of my bad luck rubbing off on them. But I get this feeling from other young moms who are still in their childbearing years that what I’m saying might be too much for casual conversation. Though they listen (with terror in their eyes), I feel like I need to censor what I say so as to not worry them if they plan on having more kids. Truth be told, I am worried whenever I hear of anyone getting pregnant and all I can do is secretly pray that everything goes better for them; That they can get to keep their healthy babies. Please God. Don’t let this happen to anyone else. 

My son is gone and that’s a pain I have to continue to endure until I get to hold him again. Meanwhile I am trying to wholeheartedly enjoy the special moments I get to share with his sister. I know I am lucky and have a lot to be thankful for, but I am still struggling to be okay; the pain, sadness, loneliness, emptiness, hurt and anger of losing our son makes my postpartum depression even worse. Our loss has changed our lives and challenged me to try to rebuild my heart from all the shattered pieces. I’m not there yet, but I’m in therapy and trying to focus on the good, taking it one moment at a time.

At the end of the day, I just have to tell myself this is God’s plan. I heard a DJ on the radio yesterday say, “we have one child in the target and the others still in the quiver”. With that he was saying, our children are like arrows and the target is heaven, so we have to remind ourselves that the ones we have lost have already made it to that amazing place. Meanwhile we all must continue to take aim at that bullseye and try to earn our way in. It somehow gives me a little peace knowing we have our son waiting in the target and the rest of us will hopefully join him when it’s our time. Our three children will still get to play joyfully together some day; This is God’s promise of eternal life for all who follow him and a truth I cling to when I am desperately missing my son.

So I guess I’ll just keep on trying to be honest when I reply to that no longer simple question… It may be painful, but it’s true; We have three children, although only one is with us now.