The Shame of a Childless Parent

     August 2012, I had entered my eighth month of pregnancy.  I had many friends, several of whom had children of their own, who were eagerly awaiting the arrival of my little one and even went so far as to claim "dibs" on baby snuggles.  However, the anxiety of possibly becoming a single mother was mounting and I craved community, even beyond the backbone of support that was my existing friends and family.  I wanted to feel a sense of kinship and belonging to a community of likeminded young families; families who believed in the methods of attachment parenting, natural home births, cloth diapering, breastfeeding, and the like.  After asking for guidance on the subject, my midwife's apprentice lead me to a support group with an online forum and an active real life presence full of potlucks, craft swaps, nights out, play dates, the works.  The parents, mostly mothers, were diverse in background, but all were drawn to the attachment parenting lifestyle.  The moment I joined I felt fully held by the members of this group.  An abundance of empathy, compassion, help, hope, laughter, and love exists there.
     I immediately felt comfortable posting queries with concerns and felt like a valuable member when I was able to weigh in on someone else's.  I even was able to put my social anxieties aside and I allowed myself to be present at Mom's Night Out gatherings.  I attended mother blessings for women, who like me, were soon to birth a life into the world.  A support group mother, pregnant as well, even shared her  own mother blessing with me so I too cold have the experience of receiving gifts, rituals, poems, stories, and blessings of strength and hope from heartfelt mothers.  In a short time, these women, many of whom I had not and may never meet in real life, became my sisters in a way I had never imagined. Therefore, when on October 2 at 4:30 AM I was kneeling on pillow posting my "ok, I'm in labor!" thread in the midst of a long strong contraction, I thought it to be a completely normal action.  Though I was in no position to read the posts at that time, I knew that messages of support, excitement and easy labor vibes were pouring in.  I imagined myself as a conduit to receive such blessings and let them flow through me to my child and thus into the world.  
     Somehow, all my preparations, all my imagery, all the support I had received could not protect me from the trauma of this labor.  Somewhere near the border that morning and afternoon share, the peace of birth died and took with it my beautiful child, my heart, and my hope.  My lack of activity on my support group labor thread was understood to mean that I was still working to birth my child.  Many eager mamas continued to post sending encouragement and good vibes.  At 4:55 PM my "ok, I'm in labor" thread changed names to read "ok, I'm in labor! UPDATE: Baby's here."  This is what was written by my midwife's apprentice, my friend: "I will let Lisa update more later.  Her baby is here but please send Lisa all of your prayers and good vibes." Vague as it was it sent the message that something was wrong.  Still, many had hope that perhaps I or the baby were suffering a minor complication.  Support poured in as fast as my tears could flow and on October 3 at 5:45 AM, I informed my online community of sisters that my baby, my beloved Celia Jane, had died.  
     I thought perhaps the death of my child might also mean that my affiliation with the parenting group would die as well.  However, the support from this group continued to flow both virtually and physically.  Threads containing prayers and thoughts for myself and my Celia checkered the online board.  A thread containing information on how to send money to help me cope with my financial burdens was started.  A still separate thread began where mothers could organize the preparation and delivery of meals to my home.  The outpouring of heartfelt and tearful support from this community of parents has left me touched and eternally grateful.  
     The truth of all that has been said about this online parenting support group makes it so much more shameful to say what I am about to say.  But, as does everything since the death of my daughter, this parenting group looks different to me.  Where once I saw a community with which I shared a kinship, I now see a group that has a bond I cannot share.  The members of this group are parents, mothers.  I do not know what that is like, not as they do.  These mothers have children they get to hold in their arms, snuggle with at night, children with which they can laugh, and create new experiences.   They have children who will draw them a picture, sing them a song, tell them they love them.  Yet, I am mother without a child.  It is this fact, this truth, the pain of mothering a dead child and having no others, that leaves me with the sting of envy.  I find myself jealous of these women.  I would never place any of them or anyone for that matter in the shoes that I now stand.  But still the jealousy of their lives, difficult and stressful though they may be, presents itself every time I see the pictures of their babies who were granted life.  I now struggle with my membership of this community.  Childless though I may be, I am still a mother of sorts and that longing for community has not left me.  Nevertheless, I fear the loss of my child and my true emotions, may prevent me from truly belonging.  
     

Time Heals All Wounds?

     Time has passed.  It is now early into January and still the only date I know is October second.  October 2, 2012 is when the linear continuity of time ceased to be.  Since that date time has moved both too slowly and too quickly all at once.  Often it seems as though time for me refuses to move at all while time for others speeds ahead out of control.  With the passage of time comes the responsibility to become a functioning member of society again; a member of society who can shop and cook, work and smile.  And so, I accepted that responsibility as my own despite the fact that the word "functioning" has yet to describe my post trauma self.   

     The decision to return to work was one that was made for me.  It was made by the passage of time.  I had taken my twelve weeks of leave afforded to me by the Family Medical Leave Act.  "Oh it'll be scary," everyone would recite.  "But, you'll find it to be a welcome distraction."  I thought distraction was an interesting choice of words to use. But, it was a word that everyone seemed to surreptitiously agree upon.  What I am sure people meant by stating that it would be a distraction was that I would be distracted from the agony of the grief that has engulfed me.  Be as that may, a distraction was something that drew attention away and distracted was exactly what I expected to be.   Some people have a job where a moment of distraction away from their duties, while not desirable, is still tolerable.  However, as a teacher of 35 first grade students at a Title I school, distracted is something I cannot afford to be.  Distraction was not the only thing making me apprehensive about my return to work.  I worried that I could not muster enough energy to give any to my teaching.  These children, who come from households where little to no attention is paid to the child, need a teacher who can give and I was afraid I could not.  They need someone who can show them what being strong through the pain looks like and strength was something I did not feel I possessed. I was afraid that now that I know what true emotional suffering feels like, I may get lost in the empathy for these children and be of no help to them.  I also intensely feared how I would be able to tolerate the intolerance of the parental community at my school.  Many, dare I say most, of the parents whose children attend the school where I work, have no appreciation for the wonder that is their child.  If you have seen a move that highlights the family life of a disadvantaged child and thought "no parent could act like that," I will tell you they can and they do.  There is a high level of apathy and even hostility towards children in these communities.  How would I look these parents in the eye and not command they do better?  Their children are gifts, after all, and they should be treated as such.  Lastly, I feared that I may have lost the ability to interact with my peers.  The other teachers at the school had all watched my belly grow and when my baby died, their world continued to spin.  They knew how to laugh without crying.  They knew how to have a conversation without mentally being somewhere else.  How could I be near them, speak to them, without feeling like a fraud?   

     Despite all of these fears, time had chosen to pass and so I found myself faced with the duty to prepare.  This duty brought me to Kohls department store to purchase clothing suitable for work.  I wandered around the store in a seemingly aimless fashion. What should have taken an hour or less took me two and a half at best and the store became the site of what felt like an unprovoked episode of uncontrollable tears.  I pushed through the tears, however, not due to strength.  I knew that the time and effort I had invested in shopping for clothing when I cared not about my appearance was not a task I could repeat anytime soon.  I waited in the checkout line hoping that someone's discomfort with the situation would lead them to allow me to move ahead of them.  Instead, I was met with silence and a lack of eye contact and acknowledgement.  As I reached the checkout counter the freshman college male cashier pretended not to notice my emotion.  "Did you find everything you were looking for today?"  He quoted straight from his training script no doubt.  What I was looking for?  Now what was that exactly?  Sanity? Purpose?  I surely did not know.  None the less, I nodded as I wiped a tear that had escaped my face and now was rounding the bend from my chin to my neck.  "Are you a member of our email club?" He continued to quote.

     "No?" I peered at him with narrow questioning eyes; eyes that were puddled and red.  I waited for him to show some acknowledgement that I was experiencing emotional distress.  Just as in the checkout line, no such acknowledgment occurred.  

     "Are you sure?  You'll get a $5 off coupon just for signing up today and you can use it on your very next purchase."  He continued to recite his script enthusiastically. 

     "No!" I replied more emphatically the second time.

     "Okay, well would you like to apply for our in store credit card and save 20% today?"  It was shocking to me that he kept so close to his script. 

     "No! Please just ring me up."  I am sure our exchange puzzled this young man, it certainly puzzled me.  But my goal was clear.  Get the clothes, pay for them and get as far from the inside of that store as possible.  

     Again, without my knowledge or permission, time passed and the date was January seventh, the day that was to be my first day back at work.  I awoke at 5:40 AM unaided by an alarm clock after having slept on my oversized chair in the living room.  I fed my dogs and let them out.  I showered, brushed my teeth and got dressed.  I packed a lunch a friend had made for me and made a breakfast shake from a pre made powder pouch.  All of these things, these preparations seemed like they were happening to someone else.  Like I was just an observer in my own life.  It struck me, how calm I felt. As I drove to work I felt nothing.  Truly nothing.  It must have been cold because the temperature gauge in my car read 35 degrees fahrenheit, but I didn't feel cold.  I rode to school in silence, no radio, no phone.  I thought, perhaps I had gone numb.  Then, I pulled into the parking lot.  When my car came to a complete stop I began to cry, then I began to sob, then wail.  Breathing was suddenly difficult.  I could hear other cars pull in and I could see the glare of their headlights on the snowy lot.  I shielded my face from them.  I didn't want to be faced with conversations with staff members.  I didn't want to admit that I had been sitting there paralyzed by grief, unable to leave my car.  The word had spread that I had arrived and so two staff members approached me tentatively; one on either side of my vehicle.  As soon as they got close enough to see that I was crying they backed away and retreated inside.  Twenty minutes after I initially parked, I walked into the school building accompanied by a friend.  I thought perhaps the tears would stop once I entered, but I misjudged myself.  "Are you okay?" someone asked.  No, I certainly was not okay.  The weight of being inside the school became overwhelming and too heavy to bare.  I entered what had been my classroom.  I don't think I wanted to enter the room at all, but my need to escape the vulnerability of the hallway overrode my choice to enter my classroom.  As I stood there looking around, it all felt unfamiliar to me.  The classroom no longer felt like it was mine.  The school's director came to welcome me back and all I could do was stand and cry.  She lead me down to her office where I cowered behind her locked door as she alerted the principal and HR coordinator of my state.  After only being in the school for a few minutes I left defeated by grief and four days later have yet to return.  

     Rose Kennedy once mused "It has been said that time heals all wounds. I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue, and the pain lessens, but it is never gone."  I am left to wonder, however, does the pain really lessen?  I think it is more likely that I am faced with a perpetual choice to find more ways to mask the pain, more ways to walk as if I do not feel pain with every step and every stop.  Sometimes my efforts to disguise my pain, however vigorous,  are for naught and the pain overtakes the moment.