There are certain truths about life that I never wished to confront. Like the unsettling fact I discovered in elementary school regarding how many spiders I might unknowingly swallow while sleeping. Or the calorie count lurking in a glass of wine (I’m still blocking that one out). But the most agonizing reality I never wanted to face was the pain of losing a child. On October 27, 2014, I was thrust into the heart-wrenching world of grieving parents, a date that will always be etched in my memory as the darkest day of my life. On that day, my son, a vibrant 6-month-and-17-day-old boy with a radiant smile and fragile lungs, took his final breath in my arms.
I never wanted to experience the profound sorrow of holding a piece of my heart and saying farewell, never to kiss those soft lips again in this life. I never wanted to endure the relentless ache—physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually—for a boy who gazed into my eyes for merely 200 days. I never wanted to know the kind of tears that make your abs ache—deep, wrenching sobs that I stifled at night to avoid waking my older son.
I never wanted to feel the need to respond with emotional grenades when asked innocent questions like “How many children do you have?” followed by the gut-wrenching “How old are they?” I never desired to dry my eyes, pat my cheeks to erase the redness, and carry on with my day so that others wouldn’t bombard me with questions like, “What’s wrong?” as if I should have moved on by now.
I never wanted to experience the dread of forgetting—forgetting his scent, the softness of the tiny tuft of hair atop his head, and the joyful sounds he made while mesmerized by his little lion mobile. I never wanted to know the anger that simmers when well-meaning remarks are made in passing, such as “God doesn’t deny us good things when we pray.” If that were true, my son would still be with me.
I never wanted to learn how to put on a brave face, holding my chin up and shoulders back, even when my legs trembled. I took each step knowing he would want me to find joy, to love, and to embrace life ahead of me. I never wanted to feel the lack of understanding from others—the “at least” and “just” phrases that people offer with good intentions: “Well, he was just a baby,” or “At least he is no longer suffering.” They fail to grasp that any illness or struggle doesn’t diminish my child’s significance. He was mine. He is mine. There is no “at least” or “just.”
I never wished to comprehend, to empathize, or to look into the eyes of another grieving mother and assure her that she is not alone. I never wanted to share in the understanding that so many of us do. Yet, here I am, fully aware of this painful truth. I know that 1 in 4 women will endure the anguish of pregnancy or infant loss. I know that countless women will experience devastation because the child they lose is not just a fleeting moment in their journey—it is a part of them, forever gone.
I know. And so do far too many others.
For those seeking support and resources, you can explore more about pregnancy in detail at Healthline, or connect with others on this journey through Cryobaby at Home Insemination Kit. If you’re curious about egg freezing, trusted information is available at Intracervical Insemination.