*****TRIGGER WARNING – The following is a conversation about grief, loss, the death of an unborn child, etc. It could be traumatic for readers. Proceed with caution. *****
Lots of things are heavy on my mind these days. These things keep me from moving forward. They keep me from making decisions. They keep me from being present.
They keep me from being alive.
So, let’s try something new. Let’s throw away the template (metaphorically, of course, because I’m not creative enough to start from scratch here) and burn all the bridges as we rebuild.
I have much to say in a world where nobody can hear my true voice. And I have this space I don’t use often enough to scream into the digital void. So, let’s combine the two.
Moving forward, you will notice “We need to talk…” posts, sharing my observations, experiences, and opinions about topics weighing heavily on me. Maybe nobody will ever read these. That’s okay. I need to get it out. Maybe people will read it. Maybe someone else who is also struggling will read it. Maybe they will agree with me. Maybe they won’t.
Hopefully, they will feel seen.
In a world of billions, everyone just wants to be seen. And heard.
So, if you hear me speaking to you, leave a comment. Share your story.
Together or alone, we can create a space where it is safe to be different.
Today, I want to talk about…Donovan.
Today, I accepted the death of my grandson, Donovan Alexander Niman. It’s been exactly three years since he died in the womb, a few weeks before he should have been born.
He should be here.
The thing is, we don’t talk about Donovan. Because it HURTS. The outside world barely acknowledges that he ever existed. It feels like since he never took a breath, he doesn’t count.
We never held his warm body. We never saw his eyes.
These things still existed. It’s just hard to connect them.
Since that day, I’ve spoken to several women who also delivered stillborn children. It’s devastating.
The stories are all so similar, it’s scary. You go to the hospital because something is wrong with your beautiful baby. The baby you’ve been carefully planning for, making room for, and falling in love with.
And then, that beautiful soul is gone. And everyone tells you how sorry they are but they keep giving you those “looks”. Was it something you did? Because babies don’t just die, right?
Then a day or two later, depending on how your insurance company feels about the situation, you’re sent home with a destroyed body, devastating grief and loss, and a box with the few personal belongings of your child. An ID wristband. A hat. If you are lucky, a card with your baby’s footprints.
And you’re expected to return to your previous life immediately as though nothing happened.
A few weeks (or months) go by and you think, maybe I’m okay. Then someone at the grocery store who hasn’t seen you since you were pregnant asks how the baby is doing. And it all comes crashing down.
For my daughter, those moments are the worst when her oldest child asks about Donovan.
The truth is that it brings me to my knees every single time too. But I have to be strong. I have to redirect my granddaughter and comfort my child. Because that is what moms (and grandmas) do. We come last. We have to.
But it sucks.
When Donovan died, I told myself over and over again that it was for the better. The odds were good that Donovan’s life would have been difficult. He might have gone to a foster home at some point. Or been put up for adoption. Or come to live with me and his sister, even if it had cost me my marriage. (**shrugs apologetically – Sorry to my husband, but the truth is, we both know I wouldn’t have said no. We can lie to ourselves forever, but it doesn’t change reality.)
I’ve been taking care of everyone else’s children my entire life. What is one more, really? I’d have found a way to make it work, even if it meant creating a new personality and breaking myself into even more pieces.
Dissociation is a miracle drug when you can’t handle reality.
When we lack physical evidence that a person existed, it’s easy to minimize our feelings for them. I only have two or three pictures of Donovan that are suitable for viewing. Evidence of him only exists in things we intended for him to use. He never used them. He never left his essence on the things, so they hold no power, no connection to him.
This same thing occurs in my brain when people talk about miscarriage. See, I’ve never experienced a miscarriage. My mother has. My daughters both have. But I never did. So, I don’t feel the same connection as they do. I don’t completely understand it.
Maybe I’ve been disconnected from these events in the past because I didn’t understand the significance until this moment. I’ve never seen the two as equal, but they are. Both are the death of a child. One results in a physical paper that documents the death and the other results in society gaslighting you into believing some cosmic force decided your baby didn’t deserve to be born.
Today the magnitude of Donavan’s death slammed into me.
Life is so overwhelming these days and I wonder if I’ve ever felt so much grief in my whole life mixed with stress and a feeling of being out of control. I remember spending hours at my computer working in Photoshop on the pictures of Donovan while crying hysterically but I had a deadline (the funeral) so I couldn’t stop until it was done because I desperately needed everyone who attended his funeral to be able to see a physical representation of him that didn’t scare everyone away. Could we have done it without the picture? YES. But I needed something to hyper-fixate on so I didn’t give up on life.
I didn’t talk to my daughter about this then (Maybe I did. It was a blur of pain and tears and barely hanging on but hiding it).
It’s always going to hurt. No matter what anyone says, there will be times when it hurts as much as the moment it happened. And there will be days when you don’t think about it at all because your brain has to do that for you to move on.
Grief days should be a thing. We should be allowed to stop everything when grief demands attention and we should be allowed to sit with grief for as long as it takes for grief to be ready to leave. We should also accept that grief is a friend that returns often over the years once he has visited for the first time. Sometimes grief for one thing or person brings along friends. Sometimes they fill the room. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could stop our lives and give these many faces of grief the time they deserve?
Today, I’m taking a grief day. Yes, there’s homework to do and dinner to cook. But that’s it. I’m gonna sit in my camper watching the rain for the next few hours and let Grief have some time.
I’ll cry. I’ll laugh. My thoughts will drift to my Grandma Margie, to my dad, to Grandma Katie, and all of the aunts, uncles, cousins, and relatives I have lost over the years. Remembering them is all we can do when they are gone to keep them close to our hearts.
Until Next Time,
Cathy Marie Bown
Cathy Marie Bown 