It was a beautiful summer day. The sun was shining so bright I felt like it was reaching my soul. I had an extra pep in my step as I walked down the street to my neighbor’s house. The minute the front door opened, I gushed at the beautifully decorated tablescapes and the sound of laughter and socializing. The house was full of excitement for the bundle of joy that was soon to make her grand entrance.
But before we could even play one baby shower game or open a single present, the gushing turned to gasping. I escaped to the front porch trying to hide the fact that I couldn’t breathe. My neighbor took one look at me, and I gave her the “I’m panicked and can’t do this” look before making a mad dash back home.
I retreated to my bed for the rest of the weekend, filled with all the emotions that tag along with grief at once. My neighbor and one of my closest friends was getting ready to welcome her baby girl. A situation that used to be something I looked forward to. I was a mom of two living children at that point, so I knew how life-changing it was. When you talk about leaving a legacy, there is no greater place to make an impact than with your children.
But life was different for me now.
A few months before my friend was due to welcome her baby girl into this world, I lost my son Gabriel. I walked into my regular appointment at 24 weeks expecting a quick checkup after joyous celebrations the night before of feeling him move around in my belly. Instead I heard the words, “Mrs. Hayes, there is no heartbeat.”
I desperately wanted to be there for her, to share in her joy, but I wasn’t ready. My labor and delivery was so traumatic. Going through the full induction and delivery process, only to go home with no baby and no answers as to why my son didn’t make it. Despite lots of testing and questioning, the results of how Gabriel passed away in the 24th week of my pregnancy were inconclusive. My doctor team, the one place I thought I would get answers, didn’t have them, leaving me feeling even more lost. No matter how much I wished otherwise, the grief of having a stillborn baby was still too raw to celebrate at a baby shower.
The smiling faces, pregnant bellies and endless baby gear were a painful reminder of my loss; the loss I had learned to bury deep, to pretend I was “normal,” threatened to erupt in that room full of anticipation and joy. I felt my life was ending, while everyone else’s was moving forward.
Joining the “mothers who have experienced loss” club was a harsh reality check. It felt like I was enduring a hazing to join a club I wanted no part of. After the initial outpouring of support of meal trains and emphatic apologies, everyone seemed to go back to their normal lives. My son was rarely mentioned again—almost as if he’d never existed. It appears that what they say about being out of sight and out of mind is true.
I remember the very first time I realized this was going to be my new normal. It was Christmas Eve—almost 9 months to the day I had to pick out my son’s urn at the funeral home.
Sitting in my grandparents’ living room, packed in like sardines with all of the aunts, cousins, and grandkids, we started a conversation about how much the family had grown.
As the oldest grandchild, I was the first to have kids, and my kids were the family’s only great-grandchildren. And, as far as I knew, the only one who had publicly lost a child. The way I lived my life, especially as a parent, was so different from their beliefs that it was always a little awkward when we had a conversation. But the most awkward of them all was talking to my grandfather a couple of weeks after my son died. He asked me how I was doing after finally getting out of bed for the first time. There was one tiny gap in communication… he was asking superficially. He asked for a simple, above-the-surface response, which caught me in a fit of despair where I still had so many questions about how this could’ve happened, so he got to be the lucky participant to hear most of them.
In his best attempt at being supportive, he responded, “Well, everything happens for a reason and just be thankful you have two other healthy kids.” His words sliced my heart open.
Kids are not interchangeable objects, like cars or purses. They are irreplaceable, each with their own unique spirit and personality. I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud, but my first thought was, “I’m actually thankful I can decide how much of a relationship we have.” Because after that statement, I knew our connection would never be the same.
When the Christmas conversation took a turn to great-grandchildren, I knew something weird would happen, but what unfolded far exceeded my expectations.
Someone in the room asked, “So how many great-grandchildren are in the family?” Without any hesitation, “Two, only Gabs’ kids.” Yes, I walked through the door with two kids physically with me, but in total I had three—one who happened to be born with his angel wings, but still my son nonetheless.
In the most painful way possible, I found myself in another living room that took my breath away. Realizing my own flesh and blood erased my son right from our family. If my own family could do this, what would it be like with friends, colleagues or strangers?
I braced myself for a new year, realizing the grief journey was a roller coaster, and my ride was far from over. It soon began to feel like a child who introduced their imaginary friend. Telling people I had three kids when they could only see two.
I experienced my loss while living in the picture-perfect southern suburban neighborhood where golf carts were more common than cars and kids were outside playing day and night. I was smack in the middle of the place where every single conversation starts and ends with kids.
When I was finally able to leave the house two months after my loss, I knew I had to prepare for the dreaded “How many kids do you have?” question. The anxiety leading up to answering the question was worse than the awkward “I’m so sorry” that followed when I shared my real truth.
Because, truthfully, I didn’t know what response to prepare. No answer felt authentic and true. Saying, “two” felt like I was also moving on and erasing him from the family. Saying, “three” felt like I was masking and minimizing my pain. Deep down I was so angry, but desperately trying to showcase that I was okay.
The first few times I walked into a conversation featuring this dreaded question, I was a bumbling, emotional wreck. But, as time progressed, I learned how to narrow my responses to just two answers. In a situation where I knew I was likely to be emotional, it removed my panic and my decision fatigue, empowering me to talk about my son however I wanted, without worrying about others’ reactions.
Depending on the type of conversation I wanted to have each day, I decided which answer to use. I accepted that saying “two” meant the same thing in my heart as saying “three, two here with me earthside and one in the moon” because “two” felt safer in the energy of that room.
There is no wrong way to answer when asked about the size of your family—only what is in your heart and soul at the moment.
I was two years into my grief ride when I started to feel better about how I was coping, accepting that other people had already moved on without me and my grief. But that didn’t mean I needed to “move on” before I was ready. Grief takes time.
As a family, we talked to Gabriel every time we saw the moon. We honored his birthday with mini celebrations at home. And I finally started to believe that he would always be with me, never out of sight out of mind for me.
When we decided to try for a “rainbow baby,” the pain of my loss resurfaced. Calling to make my first appointment to confirm my pregnancy brought out a feeling of anxiety and pain that I wasn’t prepared for.
My desire to be seen early because I was so anxious and needed reassurance was just another day at the office for them. An office that had an entire file of everything that happened to me and to my son had seemingly already moved on too. This was a grief I hadn’t heard anyone talk about.
As my pregnancy progressed, so did my body in a state of pure post-traumatic stress disorder, leading to crazy weight gain and emotions that would not stabilize. The doctor’s office seemed dismissive, making me question my feelings.
What qualifies me to say my son passed away instead of my pregnancy ended with a stillborn birth? What gave me the right to say I had three kids and was pregnant with my fourth when Gabriel never lived at home with us? How do I explain my situation when I went through labor and delivery, but only had a death certificate to show for it instead of a birth certificate?
These questions and more continued despite having my rainbow baby. We hear of the joy of bringing a rainbow baby into this world, but I was never prepared for the despair that comes with worrying about that baby every single day of your pregnancy. And the vivid reminder that a healthy baby is out of my control when she quit growing in the womb and had to be taken at 35 weeks.
I wished for a rulebook that would tell me exactly what to say so I wouldn’t judge myself for my response. But grief has a funny way of making its own path and not following any rules. This was my emotion to process, to face head-on, and to learn how to vocalize what felt right to me. Even if that meant using different answers in different situations.
When I accepted that only I had the right answer for the phase of grief I was in, I realized that while it was painful for others to move on, it was part of the process. In a world where we only remember to tell friends “happy birthday” because social media reminds us, I accepted that, without birthdays and physical milestones, my son would live more vividly in my life than in anyone else’s. This mindset shift allows me to be intentionally present as my other kids continue to grow up and chase joy unapologetically.
It has been six years since I lost my son, and life as I knew it changed with four words, “there is no heartbeat.” Ever since I have had to mentally prepare for every single social interaction where kids come up. (It has to be up to 111,213 times by now.)
Each year, fewer people remember my son’s birthday, and I face more situations where I live in a constant state of duality of emotions. I’m either an inspiration or a downer when I share my story. My grief either fuels my journey or knocks me back to bed.
While I wish I could say that having my rainbow baby was the healing I needed in this grief journey, that hasn’t been my experience. It brought about a new set of questions to prepare for. How do I answer the questions about the joys of finally having a rainbow baby when the experience has been anything but for me? My rainbow baby is alive, and for that I am forever grateful. But my rainbow baby came with nine ICU stays before she turned four, a set of lungs that have tried to take her life so many times, and a resilience mixed in with a whole lot of attitude that leaves me in a constant juggle of life versus death.
Time doesn’t heal all wounds, but it does create more space between the free-falls on the rollercoaster of grief. As time passes, my grief shifts, and my social interactions become less awkward. I’ve learned to cope, to find my voice, and to accept that people react to trauma differently.
These days, the grief journey looks like talking about our baby boy, Gabriel, almost nightly. Seeing my four-year-old start conversations with strangers about her brother in the moon, ensuring his memory is always with us.
For now, I am enjoying the ride. Proud that my desire to be okay with other people moving on means I permitted myself to grieve in my way. My isolation became the catalyst for me being the support system I wish I had. The friend, sister, or stranger who opens the door for you to always talk about your child(ren), whether in a fit of frustration, disappointment, or uncertainty.
Remember, your grief is valid, no matter how much time has passed or how others may perceive it. Your journey is unique, and it’s okay to take the time you need to heal.
