"You get what you pay for, but I just had no intention of living this way." -Counting Crows

Why We're Here...

My husband David and I delivered a stillborn Baby Boy that we loved, and wanted. Our first and only son, Logan, had Down Syndrome. Our daughter's smile is a little light in the darkness. She turned one year old three days after our sweet Logan tip-toed away on January 24, 2009. After 2 1/2 years we found out we were having another baby, whom we affectionatly called Rudy. Just shy of 6 weeks we found out Rudy was Ectopic. Rudy was surgically removed on May 26, 2011 delivering another blow to our already broken hearts.

Why so quiet?

I don't live near my family. I don't live near my friends. I don't have to see them on a regular basis and experience the pitiful looks. I don't have to experience the uncomfortable silence, the shifting feet, the awkward glances to the side of someone desperately trying to get out of having to "say" anything to me. I wonder how much of what I perceive is in my head? Why is the silence that surrounds the mention of my sons name deafening? Why do people look away? Why do people talk about the dumbest things, when it is clearly an effort to avoid the elephant in the room?
There's Heather. Her baby died.
Why do people start shifting when I say dead baby? Why is it something I can't talk about? Why does it make people uncomfortable? Why do I care? I read a blog today, she was hilarious. She kept referring to "us" as dead-baby-mama's. I liked it. I am a dead baby's mama. It's a fact. Why do we sugar coat it? Why do we say things like; angel baby, lost, passed, went home, born sleeping??? I gave birth to a dead baby. It's not meant to sound ugly. It just is what it is. But then, I've never been one to sugar coat.
My name is Heather. My baby died.
But I don't like that I feel labeled now. And it's a label that I give to myself too. But I guess it's like anything else in life. She's a mother, she's a wife, she's a lawyer (I wish!)... She's a dead-baby-mama. I desperately don't want to define my life. But I guess for better or for worse my life has a definite definition now. Many definitions I suppose. I'm a mama to a living baby too, not just a dead baby. I talk about my daughter all the time. People ask about her. People want to know. But not my son. Very few people ask me about my son. I talk about him. What little I knew of him. Very few people in the "real world" are receptive. In fact two. Two people are receptive. Two people ask questions and aren't afraid. And I appreciate them. Two people. The two people who I previously would have thought would be the last two people to do that. Those two people are my go-to people. Those two people are the ones that I feel the most accepted whilst talking about my sweet baby. Those two people let me know it's ok to talk about my son too. They accept that he was a part of my life. They accept that I have a son too. They're not afraid of a dead-baby-mama. They're not afraid to look me in the eye. Two people.
Why so quiet?


Emily said...

I do think that we find out who are real friends are- and they are often different than who we would have guessed.

Sherry said...

Yes, I'm going to agree with Emily.

The people I expected to be there to support me when Ryan died instead abandoned me - and the ones I didn't think would be steadfast in their support were.

I think the uneasiness comes from people not being able to accept that babies DO die. It goes against the grain of people's beliefs, and to actually know someone who's experienced that tragedy is sometimes more than they can handle. It's as if they think their nightmare has come true just by knowing a dead-baby mama.

If only they really knew ...

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