I’ll tell you that I’ve been dragging my feet on setting up a not-for-profit organization in memory of my son, Hank, but in reality maybe I just wasn’t ready to do anything about it until now. Sure, we’ve done a March of Dimes walk, we’ve got a Facebook page and a twitter (@HanksHope), and we have Hank’s Hope t-shirts. We have no signature project- that is, until now.
Many people have asked me (either as constructive criticism or pure conversation) what I’ve needed as I’ve started to come out of the hole that is stillbirth and climb back into the equally frustrating saddle of infertility. In the hospital, there were social workers, and nurses, and Percocet, and lactation consultants, and my beloved obstetrician, and chaplains, and literature. But, there was nothing to hold. Every bone in my body ached to hold something. Isn’t that why I was pregnant, after all? To take what my body has made and carried and HOLD IT? After giving birth to a stillborn, your body still reacts the same way as if your child was born breathing, although now your mind is compounded with the numbing reality that your body is betraying you now. It’s trying to do a job that isn’t needed anymore. More than anything, in the hospital and now at home, almost 11 months later, I still ache to hold something.
Taking the concept of tangible comfort to the next level is now something I’m ready to do. Maybe I just needed time? Maybe I needed a gentle nudge from a complete stranger who is now my inspiration, or maybe I finally needed to accept the support and cries of “whatever you need me to do, I’ll do!” from family and friends? Either way, it’s time. All part of the grieving process, I suppose. The support group at the hospital is called Loving Arms, and they’ll be the first beneficiary of our new project. Only now am I realizing how significant the name of this group is for me, and that the physical aspect of loss is just as hard as the mental part.
Empty arms and hands are heavier than anything that could ever fill them.
On the bad days, when I catch a glimpse of my C-section scar in the mirror and am momentarily reminded of the fact that I have a physical reminder of giving birth, or when I get a letter in the mail about the upcoming memorial at the hospital in October and I need to write a check for Hank to have his name on a leaf on the bronze tree, I think about the hope that maybe I can eventually give to someone else. And, on the really bad days, when I am reminded that another month has gone by without a positive pregnancy test, or when a friend has a baby or announces a pregnancy, or when the nights seem too orderly and calm without a cry every few hours coming from the spare room-turned nursery-turned spare room again, I can think that, wildly, maybe this will never happen to anyone else again. In the meantime, I can just keep tracking the good days and good moments and trying to forget about the bad ones, while continuously pressing against the weight that forever rests on my arms.
Copyright 2014 Anne Mathay