The unbreakable bond of motherhood begins when we are told we are pregnant.  In my second trimester, I had some unusual spotting and was sent for an ultrasound.  This was my first pregnancy and I was a ‘high-risk’. I asked the technician if everything was ok.  She said nothing. She asked me to go to the change room and wait. I sat there, wearing the blue paper gown, hand on my tummy, waiting to hear the fate of my child. I had never experienced fear as deep or hope as high as in that moment.

 She tapped on the wall next to my curtain and called my name.  I poked my head out. She smiled and said; “Your baby is fine”.  I sat back on the bench.  Relief filled me and suddenly I was crying.  The assurance that my child was ok, that this little life growing inside me was still here.

I share this experience because the memory of that day came flooding back when I received the news that my nephew’s fiancé had a miscarriage. I didn’t even know they were pregnant. They had invited us over to which their plan was to share the happy news. Instead of an announcement of joy, we received a call that the unthinkable happened and they needed a little time alone. They are grieving.

I am at a loss. I learned of both the pregnancy and the death in the same call. I want to run over but they have shut the doors and unplugged in their deep agony. Their choice is such a different way of grieving than the one we made where dozens of friends and family came through our doors when Zane was killed.

Yes, everyone grieves different.  And yes, you will not know how you will grieve until you are there.  I naturally thought, as every parent would, that I would die right on the spot. Instead, we were welcoming Zane’s friends into our home with open arms.  My husband sat next to these friends, asking for stories and soaking in the memories they shared. And we could do this because we had 26 years of experiences with our son. My nephew had only months of knowing that he was to be a father and dreaming of what that would be like.

Now, they will begin to hear all the usual things one says about such a loss; you are young, you can have another child, it wasn’t meant to be, and you will get past this.  Because what else do you say to a couple whose lost a baby they hadn’t met?  The truth is whatever their future will contain, that life, that baby, is no longer an earthly little bundle of joy but rather a spirit of energy they cannot dress or hold. 

A loss is a loss. Regardless of the age of your child, this type of loss is catastrophic.  It sends you to live in a world where all the hopes and dreams and expectations are gone for that child and for your life as it would have been with that child.  I ache for them; for being so very young in their journey to have to experience this type of pain.  

So, I did what we do when we don’t know what else to do.  I made soup and muffins that I will drop off at their door. I will wait until they are ready to be hugged. And in the meantime, I will share their pain from a distance.