Now that I’m more than halfway through pregnancy, I get semi-frequent questions from strangers, starting with: “Is this your first?”
It’s a hard question for me. I’d almost rather be asked about breastfeeding or vaccines or other controversial parenting decisions.
There’s a distinction in my response to this question, which most people don’t clarify. Lord willing, this will be my firstborn. But my first pregnancy? No, it is not. And that’s where I get tripped up in my answer, wanting to be truthful and honor my first daughter’s memory, but also not wanting to make things weird.
It would be so easy to keep it simple and just answer “Yes, it’s my first.” But my most typical answer is, “I have another daughter in heaven.” Most of the time, people nod in understanding, perhaps because they know exactly what I’m talking about from shared experience. Other people just say “Oh” and quickly change the subject.
Small talk has never been my strong suit. But I can’t say I feel bad about mentioning it, for two reasons: 1), our culture of death regularly dehumanizes the unborn, and 2) the stigma attached to pregnancy loss is ridiculous. In nearly every circumstance, the miscarriage was not the mother’s fault. There is often no medical explanation. So why do we act like it’s something shameful?
I’m truly convinced that the “12-week rule” for sharing news of a pregnancy has more to do with stigma and discomfort with grief than it does the well-being of the parents (though for many parents, keeping the news quiet until then is to protect their peace, and that’s perfectly okay).
The number of women who shared about their own loss after I bit the bullet and revealed mine first has been humbling. Most people understand the devastation of losing a parent, a sibling, or a spouse, but the grief of losing a child we never got to hold remains abstract. There is not always a name, a known gender, or specific face to attach to this being whose life felt no longer than a blink. And yet, it’s one of the most crushing losses I’ve ever experienced.
It may seem irrational, but part of me feels like a bad mother for not honoring her memory if I don’t mention her. Or that I’m erasing her 11-week existence somehow. No matter how awkward the conversation becomes, I’m always glad I said something because then my heart won’t break all over again. At the same time, there’s a gnawing in the back of my mind that I still haven’t earned the “right” of motherhood because I never got to hold that baby, or even feel her kick.
It seems like I still have some work to do in shattering the stigma within myself. That’s why I tattooed her name, the Hebrew word for “hope,” on my wrist so I remember that she lived and she mattered. That life is not measured by number of breaths, or how many people even knew she existed.
“Is this your first?” is such an innocuous question, but one that carries a world of complicated grief. Even today, as my second daughter makes her presence known with kicks every day now.
Artwork from Sola Gratia Co.
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