Madeline

Child loss is quiet when you’re in the ultrasound room after hearing the words, “There is no heartbeat.” No one knows what to say. There is nothing to say. There is only the quiet sound of your tears and your breaking heart.

Child loss is quiet in the delivery room. Doctors and nurses struggle with what to say. You’re left alone to process the enormous loss you’ve been presented with.

Child loss is quiet after birth. There is no sound of your baby crying. There are no cheers, no laughs, no “congratulations.”

Child loss is quiet when you’re back in your room after delivery. You are put in the room furthest away from the babies who did get to live. You don’t hear babies crying, families celebrating.

Child loss is quiet on the drive home. No music, no words, just the ache of leaving L&D with no baby.

Child loss is quiet at the funeral home. Everyone looks at you with pity in their eyes. They know you’re there to make arrangements for your baby who never got to take a breath. There is no sound, only tears, as you pick out the smallest urn they offer for your baby.

Child loss is quiet in the nursery. There are no family members helping you put the final touches together, there is no baby giggling or crying. No toys making sounds, no books being read.

Child loss is quiet in counseling rooms, when you don’t know what to say when you’re told, “Tell me about your baby.” Because what do you say? “I had a son. His name is Oliver. I grew him and I loved him and I lost him and I will never be the same.”

Child loss is quiet on the phone, after a while. At first, texts and calls flood in. People reach out, offer love, want to see you. But then your grief becomes “too much.” You make people uncomfortable when you talk about your baby who died. People want you to just move on, though they’ll never say it. When people do ask how you are, they don’t want honesty. They want you to say, “I’m okay, I’m fine, I’m making it,” because they don’t actually want to know. When you answer truthfully, people shy away from you, until eventually they stop asking at all.

Child loss is quiet when you’re on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m. sobbing alone, because you don’t want to disturb anyone. It’s quiet because making a spectacle makes it real, and sometimes you want to pretend this is all just some horrible dream.

Child loss is quiet when you lose focus and zone out. Your brain takes you to memories of your baby, which are all quiet, because you never heard them at all.

Child loss is quiet as you lay in bed for the 71st day in a row and struggle to lift your head. It is quiet as you stare at the ceiling, no t.v. on, no music, no anything. You stare and wonder how this became your life and how you will live forever with this weight you now have to carry.

Child loss is quiet in your mind, when it used to be so loud with thoughts of your baby. Making plans for your baby, buying things for your baby, reading to your baby, talking to your baby, planning for the future that was ripped away so suddenly and abruptly and violently you still can’t process it.