Miscarriages

This is something I don’t talk about often, or very openly. So it seems odd to write about this and post it on my blog. I guess I don’t really have a good reason to share this now. I imagine only my family and friends reading this, but maybe there are others out there, and I guess I’m okay with that. It is not something I am proud of, but it is my history, and it has helped shape me to be the person I am today.

I am a mom with no child.

It happens in every country and in every culture. The cause is blamed on a variety of things, ranging from sorcery to bad maternal health. It can happen to any woman at any time during her childbearing years. For me, it happened when I was 19. Even after an autopsy, there was no solid explanation for it. Which almost made things worse. I needed to know why. What did I do wrong? Did I not take care of my unborn child? Did I not take care of myself? Would I have been a bad mom? What was the reason that perfect little baby boy couldn’t breathe and live after being born? Why did I have to go through such a hell? Why give me a false belief of becoming a mom? Why let my milk come in if there was no baby to drink it? What would life have been like if the doctor’s would’ve saved him when I begged them to? Would I still be married if he survived? Would I be happy? Would he be healthy? Would I be a mean mom? So many unanswered questions. So many “what if” questions.

More women than you think have miscarriages. Once you ask, or once it comes up in conversations, you will be surprised how many women have suffered such a painful experience. I mean painful emotionally and physically. It is giving birth but there is no happiness afterwards. Instead, you have to leave your baby in the hospital. You have a child to bury. You have to get a headstone for his gravesite. You have to accept the unimaginable. You have to answer “no” to the question “do you have kids?” You have to hear your parents say they have four grandkids, not five. You have to accept that your sisters have nieces and one nephew, not two (all these numbers are old). You have to take flowers, toys, and balloons out to the cemetery when you want to talk to and “see” your child. You have to miss his birthday when you’re not near his grave. It is a terrible feeling to be such an empty and unattached mom.

Friday, April 25, 2014, will mark 8 years. Anthony would be 8-years-old. How can it feel like so long ago and, yet, I remember it so vividly? I still feel guilt. I still feel sadness. I still feel a sharp pain when people ask me why I don’t have kids. I still struggle to laugh at jokes about giving up your firstborn. I still perk up when I hear “Anthony.” I pity myself on Mother’s Day, when a few people awkwardly wish me a “Happy Mother’s Day.” I still want to go out to the cemetery and talk to you, sometimes cry, or just sit on the grass in silence next to you. I still get upset when I can’t take you flowers on your birthday. I’m sorry I can’t come clean off your headstone. I know no one thinks of you like I do; even your father has a child of his own now. There are many who love you and wanted to meet you, but there is no one who would have loved you like I do. You are on my mind often. You will always be my firstborn. I will never forget what you taught me. I will never forget the amazement of hearing and seeing you inside of me.

I don’t know how to move on. How will I ever become pregnant again without thinking of you? I don’t think it is possible. I will never again try to starve myself. I will never again only eat because I have someone growing inside me. I will never take for granted a child’s heartbeat. I will never be able to be pregnant and nurse without thinking of Anthony. Anthony, you are my baby boy. Perfect, tiny, strong. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to keep you alive. I would’ve done anything for you. I would’ve done anything to keep you breathing, to keep that tiny heart beating.

Many say, “it was for the better” or “it happened for a reason.” When I have no scientific reason on his autopsy report, what reason was that? Who decided? Why him? Why didn’t he deserve a chance? Why didn’t I deserve a chance to be a mom? Why let me hear that fast heartbeat if he was never going to walk or talk?

I know I may not be where I am today if I had an 8-year-old child. But, I would have an 8-year-old Anthony who I would love dearly. Maybe I never would’ve gone back to college. Maybe I never would have gotten my college degree. I may never have gone to graduate school. And, I certainly would not be in Peace Corps at 27 years old. Maybe it was a “blessing in disguise” like some tell me. But I can’t help but cringe at that saying. Why should I get to go on and better myself when this helpless little child never even got a chance? I’m sorry, Anthony. I wish I would’ve taken better care of myself, and of you. If I would’ve eaten better, would you be here with me now?

I do feel lucky to be where I am today, in my life. So, I can accept the sayings like, “it happened for a reason” or “it was meant to be” a little easier. I understand I would’ve struggled like hell to take care of that little guy and be a happy, healthy mom. It would’ve been hard to get a divorce with a child to think about. I am fortunate to have had the chance to finish university and graduate school and join Peace Corps. I know if I had a child, life would be stressful, difficult, and very different. It is just hard to accept losing him and embrace this part of my past. I still think of him when I see a pregnant lady or when I see a newborn.

While this is not about my experience here, in Cameroon, it is a constant battle for me, especially working with kids and women here. Cameroonians love to ask how old you are, if you are married, and if you have children. I hate comments about how I don’t know what it is like to be pregnant. I want to scream every time they ask me why I’m not married or why I don’t have kids. I WAS married; I HAVE a child. My husband and I chose very different paths. My child died the same minute he was born. He flinched in my arms before I asked the doctors to save him. I left my child on a counter in the hospital, wrapped in a blanket, motionless. What kind of mother does that? I just left him there. I don’t even know who took him off that counter after I left. I couldn’t take him home. I couldn’t feed him when my milk came in. I could only cry and sit in shock as the flowers and cards arrived from family and friends. I could only think of everything I did wrong as people told me they were sorry for my loss.

My loved ones were the reason I was able to continue my life after losing Anthony. I have caring sisters, understanding parents, amazing girlfriends, and very compassionate extended family. While the specifics are mine only, this experience is not unique to me, and I don’t write for pity or to make you sad. I write to get this out of my head. And, maybe if someone has experienced a similar pain, they can have some comfort in knowing they are not alone. It is difficult to talk about this when I don’t have my family and close friends here with me. Usually someone understands why I’m a little down on the 25th of April. Here, I can choose to stay quiet and say “I’m fine” or I can choose to share it with people and have to tell a long story.

It is difficult to see sick kids and hear about young children passing away. I guess I feel like the struggles we deal with in America are more in my face and more common here in Cameroon. There are strong women back home but the women here have a whole different kind of strength within them. In both countries, women go through things you can’t even imagine. While Anthony’s father lost a child too, he didn’t have the responsibility of being unable to keep the child healthy. Women suffer miscarriages; they live through the loss of their children or husbands. I don’t know how they do it. I barely survived the loss of a child I never even got to know. I would never wish such a terrible pain on anyone. A pain that lasts years. And, while it is true, time makes it easier, it definitely doesn’t make it go away. There is not a week goes by without thinking about my baby boy. I wish I were there this week to take care of your headstone and bring you flowers, balloons, or a toy. Happy 8th birthday Anthony, you are on my mind often. Your caring Grandma will come and check on you.

“I fought for you the hardest, it made me the strongest. So tell me your secrets, I just can’t stand to see you leaving, but heaven couldn’t wait for you.” ~ Beyoncé’s new song “Heaven” about her miscarriage (aka my new obsession)