I cried today. I never expected to, but I cried.
I had made all the calls the day before. My voice had been professional and even toned, yet sensitive. I blended just the right amount of strong, I-have-a-mission with an equal measure of empathy and I-still-live-the-grief.
“Hi. My name is Cara… Yes, I am a bereaved mother…Yes, I will be stopping by your office tomorrow with brochures about Share Southern Vermont… Yes, we are an infant and pregnancy loss support system… Yes, thank you so much for helping us with our outreach.”
The next day, I dressed in atypical Wednesday clothes: a tailored green button up shirt and gray slacks. I did my hair and applied make up, and double checked my bag. Office cover letters addressed to each doctor were stapled to glossy business cards and ten pale lilac brochures. Taking a last sip of my morning coffee, I turned to my husband. He handed me the memory box with Emma’s picture framed in the center window.
“I think I’ve got everything,” I proclaimed with a smile. “I’m ready.” But I wasn’t. An hour later, I bore right on the Exit Two ramp, still unable to believe that I used to drive this everyday.
And the memories came.
Sitting at a hardwood desk, telling my boss I was pregnant. Watching my students sled that winter as I stood at the top of the hill, my belly growing daily. The thrill of the new school year when she could be born any day. Making the call to tell the school that Emma had died. My first day back at work – a blur. My friend, pulling me aside to give me a gift – a framed black and white portrait of Emma. Six months later, running into the doctor who delivered Emma. How is the baby? he asked as I steeled my gaze and answered, “She’s dead,” watching his smile fade.
I drove the familiar streets with a reflective eye, surprising myself with each turn I took. I hadn’t come this way in well over five years, but I had no need for directions. Emotional auto-pilot kicked in as I put the van in park, waiting my turn to cross the narrow covered bridge. My body felt heavy, weighted down by my past and the sudden obvious truth:
Emma lived here.
My eyes drifted to the empty walking path parallel to the bridge. Instantly, and without warning, the vision appeared.
* * *
They walked down the steep hill towards the playground, a troop of tank-topped and sandaled children, eager to get to the cool shade of the swings. In the lead, a very pregnant woman, and in the rear, another. What an odd crew they made, twelve deaf kids attempting single file, bookmarked by two forty-week bellies.
We had both been working in the dormitory our whole pregnancies. The kids had oooed and aaahed at the girth of our stomachs after a long summer break. Only two weeks into our new year, venturing out with this crew of animated, signing children on a hot early September day felt right. We were a family, eagerly awaiting the arrival of two more. One lived. The other died.
* * *
The car seemed to guide itself over the bridge and around the sharp bend. The sun appeared at horizon level, blinding me, like it had nearly every day in my past life. Reflectively, I glanced at my belly, praying that she was still there, that somehow as I crossed that bridge, I had passed through a time portal and my stomach would once again be pressing on the steering wheel, unintentionally turning it for me.
I can save her – I know I can.
As I passed the sign: The Austine School for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing, the first tear threatened. Emma had lived on this campus, touched by so many hands she never got to meet. She was with me during every set of evening activities and as we put the kids to bed. She did her evening jig as I finished and filed paperwork, then tackled my lesson plans for the next day.
My experience morphed. It was surreal to the point of all-encompassing. I felt like I’d stepped into an automatic ride, like at Disney World or a State fair. I recall feeling tentative on these types of rides, unsafe submitting to the will of the carriage; allowing myself to be moved, but having no control over where it was taking me.
Today, it felt natural to submit to the forces working around me, within me. My emotions were swirling yet oppositional: wistful yet bitter, accepting yet insolent, bursting with love yet heartbroken - again. I gave in to my former self, allowing Emma to lead. She knew where to go.
She led me to the first of six offices. I recognized the sign immediately, and my stomach lurched. Tears sprang. No! I cannot cry. I must be professional and reassuring. But they insisted, refusing to halt at my defensively contracting eyelids. Desperately I begged, are you sure? Does this need to be the first stop?
* * *
My list of potential doctors for our next pregnancy, the pregnancy after loss, wasn’t long. I knew I wanted someone who was sensitive to my fears and the panicky, neurotic tendencies I was already exhibiting. I wanted a doctor that would see me whenever I called, weekly, daily if necessary. I wanted a doctor that would develop a plan of action to keep my next child safe, induce early if necessary.
Essentially, I was looking for a medical super hero with prophetic tendencies who could wave his hands over me and promise – a healthy, screaming baby in nine months.
Our interview that day was with Dr. B. He smiled kindly as I shoved an autopsy report under his nose, and continued smiling as we told our story and stated our demands. He assured and respected, supported and re-assured, even suggesting a pre-pregnancy plan of action. He was hired. Two months later we were pregnant. Thirty-eight weeks later, he delivered a screaming, healthy, live baby.
* * *
Now, seven years later, I was standing in his office again, taking in the same pale walls and framed artwork. But this time, I was clutching infant loss brochures, not an autopsy report.
“Yes. Thank you so much for supporting our community outreach,” I said to the dark haired nurse.
I wish she shared the doctor’s famed prophetic talent. She would reach out to me with a soft hand to the wrist. ”Are you all right?” she would ask. And with a gentle look in her eyes she would continue, “Is it hard for you to be back here?” But, my grief went unnoticed as she smiled and nodded in a professional yet detached manner.
“You are doing a brave thing” she said as she placed the papers in a wire basket marked “inbox” and walked away.
I did my brave duty all around town. I watched receptionists’ faces size me up as I approached the window. Their defensively pleasant, sterile smiles said, Oh no, a lady with papers, brochures even. Here we go again. When I said my piece about our mission, their smiles changed only slightly, exuding relief that I wasn’t peddling anything requiring an exchange of funds. And then, the intense shift that happened every time – at every office. I slid a newspaper clipping and two pictures across the sliding glass window ledge.
“This is Emma Grace, our first. She was born still at forty weeks. And these are our two living angles. We are so blessed to have them.”
I watched as their faces transformed: rigid cheekbones softened, formal glances became direct eye contact, and their eyes filled with tears. Much to my surprise, mine did too, every time, at every office. We shared a long meaningful glance, these receptionists and I. Although no words passed between us, I wondered what their tears represented. Are you thinking of a patient who needs us, right now? Do you know someone, personally, who lost a baby? Did you?
Driving home, I could no longer hold back the volcano of emotions that had built all morning. They had come closer to the surface, threatening to erupt with every office and each receptionist’s transformation. Finally, I invited the tears, embraced them as they emerged through hard wracking sobs. I cried for my former self, who was so young and happy – so naïve to think that her pregnancy would end with a living baby. I cried for my current self, who reaches out to others even as I continue to learn about my grief, every day. I cried for my children, my husband, my parents, and all who walk my grieving road with me. I cried for the future, the unknown, as I continue to build my heavenly bridge because Emma re-defined my idea of love – from the inside out.
I cried today. I never expected to – but I cried.