Many years ago, a family friend asked me to help her in the delivery room when she gave birth to her daughter. In the middle of her labor, she decided she was giving up. She refused to push. The nurses and doctor tried everything to get her to push, but she just wouldn’t do it.
So I climbed in the bed behind her, grabbed her legs and held them in position and spoke words of encouragement in her ear. The nurses said they never saw anything like it.
I don’t know why I did it. I didn’t even think about it–I just did it. Upon reflection, a woman helping another woman during birth is primal–it’s what we do.
That’s a natural thing to do–helping a woman give birth, but what about when a mother loses a child?
When a mother loses a child, there’s no one who jumps in and whispers words of encouragement. There’s no one to sit for hours through the pain. People are more willing to sit and wait on the brink of a joyful event, but not when there’s emptiness.
My mom lost my brother when he was 16, and I would imagine she would offer advice, but there is none. She is still dealing with the pain of losing John and now a grand-daughter, and there’s only so much she can give.
There are moments that I want to talk, ask questions, hear words that will show me the way. And then, I think, no one can possibly imagine the loss I feel because they didn’t lose Rebecca. I did. I’m the one who carried her for 9 months, gave birth and cared for her. I’m her mom. How can someone share their experience with me when each pain, each loss, is unique.
There’s no insight in this post. There’s only the acknowledgment that losing a child is a lonely walk. I can talk about her with people who loved her–and some greatly–but no one was her mom–just me.
Labor is labor. Pain is pain. I’m a good coach, so I will talk myself through this. I feel that the payoff will be a feeling of closeness and peace with my girl, my baby.
