“Do You Have Kids?”
“Do you have kids?” This one question is an uncomplicated yes or no for some people, while others dread it. It feels simple enough and can conjure suffering in many, including myself. Being a woman, I have accepted that this mundane question will forever be a part of my life.
The agony of being a bereaved mother is unique. It’s a quiet pain that lives in the deep crevices of our hearts. Wounds like this must be guarded while still given room to breathe. And giving this wound space to exist usually isn’t received well. A loss such as this scares people for a good reason, yet it’s my life.
I’m not the type to shrink down to make others feel comfortable, so I speak my truth. And on the rare occasion when there is another bereaved mother in the crowd, I know my story matters. After eight years of trying to become a parent, four miscarriages, a stillborn, working with a surrogate, and thousands of dollars spent… no, I don’t have kids. But when you share this answer, it kills the vibe. My life experience and truth make everyone sad.
I try to flip this reality. I have a sad story, but it’s mine. And to survive, I’ve learned to love my story. It’s true sometimes I’m not in the mood to educate others or share all of the details, but most of the time, I do want to acknowledge that I carried my daughter for eight months. When mothers gather and tell birth stories, I have one, too. But it changes things when I share.
My involvement with motherhood separates me from most. The baby shower was so much fun. There were kicks and lots of heartburn. And then, I went through labor pain and got an epidural. I stayed in the hospital for three days with my husband, who never left my side. People even came to visit me… But I walked out without a baby. I recall that my daughter would have been 2.5 years old. I think of her long legs the midwife commented on and how she’d be tall like me. I remember how she had my husband’s nose. I wonder who she would’ve become.
The facial reactions are usually of shock or pity. The conversation stops, and the silence is a reminder that my daughter died. My story of motherhood makes others feel terrified. “I can’t imagine what that’s like,” is a typical response. My guess is that you can imagine, you just don’t want to. I am living a life that provokes discomfort in others. And yet, what are you to do when this is your life? Sometimes I lie, sometimes I share the truth. No matter what, though, it always feels a bit dangerous.
“Do you have kids?” It feels so innocent, yet you can’t see the aching hearts of bereaved mothers. You might even think of us as rude when we discreetly leave the conversation. But you have no idea. The grief is invisible and often only shared with a select few. If you are one of those few, treasure that trust and connection. A bereaved mother carries this weight everywhere, and most are completely unaware.
