Told by: Amy
Mom to Solomon Born and Died on March 8th, 2000 and Z, Miscarried October 23rd, 2000. Solomon was the name I gave my son, it means “peace.” Solomon I chose, by myself, as my husband could not deal with the loss. In retrospect I couldn’t either. But when we learned he in fact was a he, I did what I always do – I searched on the Internet to find a name suitable for the son I would never have. So happy was I to be pregnant with my first child. I tried so hard to keep the pregnancy a secret but upon confirming I was pregnant the day my husband and I returned from our honeymoon in Israel, the joy was overwhelming. There are photos of me at Thanksgiving dinner a few days later, just beaming with the secret I was keeping until. Until I could see my doctor, until I could hear a heartbeat. Until. Until. Until. And as I shared my joyous news with family, friends and co-workers, I was able to relive all the joy I felt in my heart. Maybe I was too happy, maybe I had done something ‘wrong’ and karma was coming around to bite me in the butt. When my water broke, because this was more than a trickle of fluid many times associated with a rupture, my heart stopped. The defining moment of my life, I was forever changed in those few seconds of realization that something was terribly wrong. The ER nurse tried to be reassuring, the intern who first examined me was too young to know how to contort his face into something that looked less than horrified. My OB must have known upon his first examination, my baby would probably not live. I lie in the hospital for over sixty hours, experience a myriad of emotions. The first few hours I was hopeful this would be corrected, that somehow my body would do a complete 180 and create another mucous plug and regenerate its amniotic fluid. What else could I think? But as the hours ticked away the reality would set in. My body wouldn’t heal and my child wouldn’t live. In the moments of labor with my OB telling me to push and my husband holding onto me, my world would come crumbling down like a house of cards. Counseled not to see or hold my child, my husband and I left the hospital and tried to resume our lives. Poor E, a divorced father newlywed to me, and now I was not me anymore. The immediate days following the loss of our child brought us close but the weeks and months that followed highlighted how very far apart we were. I grieved openly, wherever and whenever I felt like it. There was no censoring on my part and I am sure I offended people accidentally but I just couldn’t help myself. My husband eventually asked me not to discuss this with him for a year. A few weeks after the birth, when I learned my child was a boy, I cried tears of joy. I was given photos of him the nurses had taken but my husband took one look and asked never to see them again. Already numb from the whole ordeal it wouldn’t register with me for awhile how much my husband needed to put this behind him and move us forward. So I sat at work and googled, doesn’t everyone? And somehow came to the name Solomon. I called my husband and told him, and I called my grief counselor and told her. And the funny thing is, this made me smile – discussing my stillborn child over the telephone as if it were just another conversation taking place in my life. Fast forward to today. I am still Amy, mom to Solomon b/d March 8, 2000. I am also Amy mom to baby Z miscarried and D&C’d on October 23, 2000. But I am also mommy to Alison Rachel, cerclage-baby, born through a completely stressful pregnancy where I denied any normalcy and hermitted myself for 9 months and mommy to Adam Jeremy, cerclage-baby number 2 born after three months on terbulatine for premature labor. After my children’s birth, I edited my book, Journeys: Stories of Pregnancy After Loss, and launched my website. It’s a niche book and one I hope is never on the bestseller list. The most important thing I did was I stopped asking myself “why?” Sometimes there is no answer. While medically my OB can explain the technicalities of my pregnancy and loss thereof, he can never answer why this happened to me. My heart is permanently scarred but no longer broken. Sometimes I think about Solomon, and sometimes I do not. While sitting in the valley of my grief in my darkest days, I did not want to live. I did not want to die either. I just wanted to be with my baby. I never thought I would see light again or have joy in my life. Somehow I have survived the loss of Solomon and the loss of my self but I am still here.