Grey Skies

Losing our son Grayson was like being struck by lightening. It’s not something you ever expect to happen to you. No one ever tells you that babies die before they’re born. Not to me. Not our family. I’ve never even been stung by a bee, never broken a bone! I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs. Our life, our hopes, and all of our dreams were shattered in an instant.

I will never forget the screaming I heard that morning. Hearing those three words uttered: “There’s no heartbeat.” makes the screams rip through my mind as if they were happening all over again this very moment. They were mine. My screams. Instead of giving birth to life, I labored for 24 hours to deliver death. Hello meant goodbye all in the same second. While the hospital floor echoed with the screams of new babies, our room was silent. Instead of walking out with our arms and hearts full with joy and excitement, we left empty handed. With tears running down our faces, our hearts tattered in pieces, we were forced to walk away leaving our baby behind. We had to explain to our other children why their baby brother was being buried in the ground instead of growing up alongside them.

Our son died at almost 37 weeks of pregnancy. The finish line. We don’t have any definitive answers as to why our son died. He tested negative for any genetic conditions. He looked like a perfect newborn baby should. Only he never got to take his first breath. I would do anything to be able to find out why he died, but since there’s no test that’ll give us me that answer, I am faced with the reality that I will never know. Another layer to add to the already debilitating grief, and self doubt that follows the loss of a child.

Eighteen months have passed since our son died. Not a day goes by that his death doesn’t affect us. It has shaped who we are. Redefined us. Broken us. That feeling of brokenness. Oh, that feeling. Of complete heartbreak, disappointment and utter failure every month that passes by.

You see, we still haven’t been able to become pregnant.

We only wanted one.more.child. What was never something we ever had an issue with before, has become an ugly phrase. It’s not a diagnosis. It’s a white elephant in the room that mocks us wherever we go. We watch in pure agony as moms coo coo at their babies in stores and doctors offices. Pregnant women seemed to be everywhere. Baby aisles and products with pink cherub faces taunt us from their shelves. As if lightening were striking for a second time in the same place. Unexplained secondary infertility has become our new reality. Our second loss of sorts. The loss of the hopes and dreams to pick up the pieces and attempt to move on. Instead, we’re left with an indescribable yearning to see those two pink lines, and to give birth to a living breathing child. It’s enough to drive one mad. And sometimes I am mad. We were robbed. Robbed of our child, and now maybe our fertility.