TWO

And just like that, it’s been two years.

Time has a way of both standing still and flying by. I can’t believe that two years have passed since I held my baby in my arms. These have been the longest and most challenging two years of my life. It feels like it was just yesterday that I was in the hospital, experiencing a complex mix of emotions – love and trauma enveloped into one memory.

Losing a child has been life-altering. It’s a pain that never truly goes away, a void that can’t be filled. These past two years have transformed me in ways I could never have imagined. Grief has the ability to change us, to reshape our identity. I struggle to figure out who I am post-stillbirth. It’s hard to recognize the woman I am now. Losing a child is losing a part of you, and a part of me will forever be missing.

I still struggle to cope with grief. I wish I could say that I have a solid toolbox filled with coping mechanisms, or that therapy has completely healed me. But the truth is that I still struggle to understand and navigate grief. It has a way of manifesting itself in unexpected ways – both emotionally and physically. I often try to stay busy, and ignore what I went though, with the hope that I can lead a ‘normal’ life. But I am quickly reminded that grief cannot be ignored. The thoughts and emotions need to be processed.

I still struggle with how to respond to the question, “Do you have kids?” If I answer yes and explain that Zade passed away, it often leads to an uncomfortable and pitying response, followed by an abrupt end to the conversation. If I say no, I feel a deep sense of guilt. It’s a dilemma that highlights society’s discomfort with talking about baby loss. Yet, 1 in 4 women experience loss.

I still haven’t processed that Zade had an unexplained stillbirth. How can death, especially the loss of an innocent life, be unexplained? It’s a question that will continue to baffle me. A puzzle that will remain unsolved.

It’s still tough to hear other mom’s talk about their child, knowing that my memories with Zade are so limited and that I’ll never get to experience the simple joys of parenting him. My memories with him are so precious. They’re ingrained in my mind and my heart and play on repeat. I wish I had more time with him, more memories with him. I wish I got to see his smile, or hear him laugh. But the silence that filled the operating room will always stay with me. An unforgettable silence.

Every day I still struggle with how to parent in absence. I often feel like I’m not doing enough to honor his memory. I continuously ask myself what can I do, or how can I include him into my daily life. I’ve started going for walks by the funeral home where Zade was cremated. It’s a beautiful cemetery connected to a park. I find peace knowing that I can connect with him there and remember his presence in my life. Two years ago, on Remembrance Day, was the last time I kissed my baby, and then we released balloons up into the clear skies, and that brings a smile to my face.

I used to have so much to say about my journey, but now, sadness is often at the fore-front, making it difficult to express my thoughts into words. But I still want to share my story, and help shine a light on baby loss.

Two years have passed since Zade left this world, and it feels like a lifetime and a moment all at once. All I can do is continue to learn to cope, to process my emotions as they come, and most importantly to find ways to honor Zade. This December, we will hold our third annual toy drive in his memory – a bittersweet tribute to my baby, who continues to inspire me to be better, to find joy alongside grief, and to make a positive impact on the lives of others. Zade’s legacy lives on, and I am committed to keeping his memory alive. I am so proud of the impact his life has already made.