Return to Zero

So, I guess it’s been over a month now since I attended a viewing party for the Lifetime movie, Return to Zero.  If you aren’t familiar with the film, it is based on the true story of a couple who unexpectedly loses their son in utero after carrying him full term.  It portrays their grief over the following year, how each of them copes with this tragedy--and how the others in their life respond, both in good and bad ways.  I attended the event in support of our dear friends the Dingles, who lost their son Gabriel after just 2 precious hours of life.

Obviously, you come to a gathering like this one prepared to be rocked emotionally.  How could you not be?  But I was surprised that while sitting among this group of parents touched by infant loss, I also felt my heart tugging (violently at times) within me.

Infertility, the unspecified grief.  I actually looked up the definition of “unspecified” to determine if it was the right descriptive word here.  Merriam-Webster confirmed my choice by defining unspecified as “known but not named.”  And I thought that hit the nail right on the head.  At one point during the movie, the main character is speaking with her mom about the loss of her son.  The mom finally reveals to her daughter that she had a miscarriage many years ago.  Then she tearfully identifies with her daughter’s grief by saying, “....I lost the possibility of a baby and that’s the same thing {as losing a baby}.”

While I certainly do NOT completely agree with the mother, her words struck a chord in me.  Nothing can compare to the loss of a child, an infant you’ve dreamed about and carried in your womb.  Even though I suffered along with my friends after the passing of Gabriel, I don’t think anyone can comprehend that level of grief unless they’ve personally experienced it (which is why mandatory viewing of “Return to Zero” could promote so much enlightenment and empathy).  My pain though lies in the possibility.  The trouble with infertility is that you lack a specific event to grieve.  Not that I am callous enough to wish for an event of this kind, but the month after month of nothing leads to a different kind of brokenness.  As the author Sandra Glahn so aptly titled her book about this topic, “When Empty Arms Become a Heavy Burden.”

Secondary infertility puts me on the defensive, as I never want to sound flippant about the blessings I already have (especially considering some families will struggle/fail to have 1 child).  Yes, Elijah is the light of my life.  His sweet innocence could melt you.  He self-entertains, reads, and plays so well ALONE it kills David and I.  We want him to have a little brother to harass, wrestle with, and tell stories to.  I even have dusty boxes of Elijah’s old clothes in the attic waiting, waiting, waiting for this unlikely sibling.  I cannot bring myself to sort through them or give them away yet.  That slight possibility keeps them there gathering cobwebs.  And Elijah doesn’t complain about being lonely.  He has many good friends he sees regularly and the hope of his future sister helps keep his thoughts occupied.  But occasionally, something will slip.  Like after enjoying a fun evening with his cousin, he looked up at me as we were leaving and said, “Mama, I wish Landen was my brother.”  Those are the times I have to go home, lay on my bed, and take huge breaths--hoping my heart won’t break in two.

Grief is sneaky like that.  It hits you at weird times.  Very different situations will still lead you down a similar road: Recognizing that the timing for specific “milestone” behaviors has passed by your child with special needs, remembering you missed a lost loved one’s birthday, forgetting to acknowledge ALL your children (including those in heaven) when someone asks, “How many kids do you have?”  Sometimes the pain is so immediate, acute.  I confide to my friends, “I should be OVER this by now.  It’s ridiculous that I can completely lose it over something so small.”  But that’s the way the cycle of grief works.  Triggers can come out of nowhere.  And after watching “Return to Zero," I realized I wanted to take some control over the process, even if in a small way.  I lay awake that night, staring up at my ceiling, thinking about what I could do.

Here’s what I came up with: Naming my grief.  I’ve heard that when miscarriages happen, it helps the parents if they give their child a name.  Then they can speak of the infant in personal terms rather than vague generalities.  Their daughter, their son has a title and is “officially” included as a member of the family then.  So this is what I’ve done.  Granted, it may completely sound crazy to you, but I’m just throwing this out there in the tiny chance it could help other families in a similar situation.  Elijah’s little brother would have been named Henry.  Oh, how I wish he were here.  Henry, I don’t know if I will ever get to meet you, but you would’ve had the best Daddy and big brother in the whole entire world.  Also, a bunch of cool old books and clothes from Elijah.  And someday, you will have a sister too.

These two are the best!

I don’t know why, but this has helped me.  Although I’m still tremendously sad over the improbable “possibility” of our second son, acknowledging him in this little way is a balm for my grieving heart.  And I think it’s because our loss isn’t unspecified anymore.  It is both known and named: Henry.