In the world of blogging and the internet, it allows us to feel less alone. We meet people who have similar experiences. I communicate with someone who gave birth to her baby, born still, on the same day Andrew was born. We share the same sad anniversaries of seeing our babies without life. We may have shared the same birthday had our children lived, as well. Oh, how I wish that were the case. Instead, we're bonded like sisters, forever carrying an equal void of sadness and loss that our babies are not here with us.
About 1 out of every 8 times I share our story, the person listening also shares that they knew someone or is a person whom has experienced the death of a baby. While I follow many blogs and have spoken to many wonderful, grieving mothers like myself, I'm also stunned at what a small world it really is. When I Google searched just a few hours ago, I saw women on message boards talking about their losses that I already know through blogging and email. Are we really the only ones? It feels like a small world in the grand scheme of the internet and the 12,100,000 results Google spits out onto my computer screen.
I sometimes look at the statistic of 26,000 stillbirths a year as astounding. 26,000 families (or some families with multiple losses. Gut punch.) going through the daily process of realizing their child will never walk on this earth. 26,000 babies that were loved, cherished, planned for, and desired. {When you add miscarriage and infant death to the number, it jumps to nearly 1 million. Not to diminish those losses or forget them, but just isolating one incident of sadness-- because God knows, they are all babies we will forever grieve.}
Then I think about the number of births each year at our local hospital alone (serving a community of about 150,000 and surrounding areas) being about 4,000 babies--though I specifically remember them saying it was more around 6,000 in 2009 alone at one of our baby prep classes (read: what a waste). I'm not sure if 4,000 is an old statistic. But even so, this one hospital alone accounts for such a small percentage of births in the US, yet 4,000 babies is quite a few when comparing it to the number of stillbirths in the entire US population. Then there's always the statistic of stillbirths with unknown reasons wavering between 25-50% (yeah, could they narrow that down more, please?). So that leaves us in the population of roughly 13,000 other unexplained baby loss in the entire US every year. Those odds are pretty freaking low. Lucky us.
In researching for this post, I read that in 2006, a poll of pregnant women indicated 13.2% smoked during their pregnancy at some point. And I bet those terrible people are
Just still stunned. In exactly 14 minutes, it will have been 4 months since I gave birth to my lifeless baby. I miss him still so much every single day. Still feeling cheated, angry, and often still living in shock that such a rare and life changing experience would happen to us. 1 of 26,000. And the odds are so unlikely. Never do I think to myself that I am not a part of the statistic.
When I dropped my husband off at the airport for his first flight out of the US since Andrew died on Saturday, I drove away hyperventilating. I probably should have pulled the car over. My eyes were filled with tears and I was crying the ugly cry. It's the one where you cannot catch your breath and ugly shrieking noises come out. I have not, to my knowledge, ever cried like this in my life until Andrew died. It even catches me off guard sometimes. I'm 28 years old and never experienced a deep cry quite like this. It may have taken 28 years for the onset, but it's apparently here to stay. I would normally drop him off nervous, but now that I know it is indeed possible to be that statistic and that bad things don't just happen to other people, I freak out. It felt just like I did in the hospital before and after giving birth to our baby. That sense of uncertainty and trepidation.
On this 4 month date, I miss that boy more than ever. That little boy we wanted so much.
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