Reflections on Mother's Day from a bereaved mother
I’m not good with Mother’s Day. I don’t think anyone else who has lost a child ever can be a hundred percent happy with celebrating motherhood when they will always be missing their child. It’s an ache that never really leaves you sometimes, it’s a dull throbbing you can almost put up with, and you seem to get on with life for a while.
On other days the grief is so powerful that it squeezes your inner organs and makes the tears well up whether you want to or not, and you have to stop, acknowledge it, and let it all flow out. I thought I could open and close the tap, but if the water pressure builds up, your pipes will burst. Who knew grief could be described so aptly with a plumbing metaphor? Life is surprising.
Lately, the emotions snuck up on me in a pretty unique way. It will be 15 years since I lost my firstborn little girl, Estella Carmela Desiree. She was stillborn.
Estella got all tangled up with her umbilical cord. The doctor who performed my cesarean and untangled her said her long cord was wrapped three times around her neck, and as she turned around into the birthing position, her foot pulled at it, and she suffocated. It was a freak accident, like a child playing, hitting its head, and suddenly dying. I still can’t believe such a thing can happen in the womb. You’d think the womb is the safest place to be. I didn’t feel anything, and it would have been impossible to know. Even the doctor said to save a child, you’d have to be lucky enough to be monitoring him at the precise moment he is in distress, and even then, there would be no guarantee that you’d be able to save them in time.
I lost Estella at thirty-eight weeks, towards the end of my pregnancy, when everyone knew and was preparing for her arrival. I was expecting to hold her in my arms.
Instead, I woke up with a terrible sense of emptiness and longing that had never left me. I remember the pain of the operation, the nurse who made me stand up, the blood that ran down my leg, staining my slippers, and the sense that the whole pregnancy and suffering had been for nothing.
The ripple effect of Estella’s loss was felt collectively through my friends and family. They were all as heartbroken as I was. But you try to be brave. You wake up in the morning and try to function even though you are missing a part of yourself. I felt as if I’d lost my faith, my hope, a piece of my identity or soul. I felt so lost for the longest time. Even today, there is nothing worse for your self-worth than losing a child.
If grief has ever taught me anything, it is that it comes from love. The more deeply you love the thing or person you grieve, the deeper and more heartfelt your grief will be. Even though losing Estella felt like dying, I am comforted that my grief comes from a love I’d never experienced before.
I have this theory about love; it’s something that you absolutely cannot control; you have to let it out of you, or else you’re going to burst a blood vessel. Love cannot be contained; it’s bigger than we are. That’s why people are said to be glowing when they fall in love. People do stupid things when they are in love because they don’t know how to express what they feel; it’s often overwhelming.
I find the love I have for Estella never really leaves me, whether you believe the child’s soul stays near or that she is somehow haunting me. I prefer to say she’s still in my mind, in my thoughts, and she manifests herself in one way or another. Her birth/death date is coming up on the fourteenth of May, so I know I’ll begin to feel emotional. I try to say a prayer, light a candle or visit her grave at the cemetery, something to commemorate her.
Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash
The fact that the year my daughter was born (2007), the date of her birth coincided with Mother’s Day etched itself into my subconscious. So much so that on the morning of Mother’s Day this year (the eighth of May). The other day I woke up at five am after the strangest dream. I dreamt that my house had been robbed.
Then the realization hit me. During the week, I’d been following the story of Denise Pipitone, who had disappeared at Mazara del Vallo in the province of Trapani nearly 20 years ago. Sympathizing with her mother, Piera Maggio, who still believes her daughter is alive. The press revisited the case after a Russian girl who had an uncanny resemblance to Denise was found. However, a DNA test confirmed she wasn’t Denise. I remember thinking that’s how I felt, as if my daughter had been stolen from me. An irrational part of me is still waiting, longing for her presence in my life. So the dream wasn’t about my house being robbed; it was about those emotions, the sensation I still have in the pit of my stomach that I’d been robbed of my daughter.
The tears came welling up. I hadn’t cried for Estella for a while, so I must have needed to express my love for her once again. So I let them flow. It is so unfair to be denied your child, but there is nothing much you can do when something like this happens. The best thing is always to remember them, say their name, include them in conversations, in everyday family life, and talk about them with your friends. If you have pictures, keep them close; visit them if you have a gravesite.
I have a particular little shrine in my house with photos of my grandparents and Dad. Estella is represented by a small glass vase of crystal flowers. I’m always speaking with Estella, and everything I write expresses my love for her. The grief therapist I saw after her loss said that I’d be fine because my writing would help me, and it does.
Mother’s Day is difficult because I lost Estella, but it is also tricky because of her little brother Matthias who was born two years after her. Because now I have to be a mother to him. I have to be brave for him; he cannot see me crying. I need to be present for him. We do speak of Estella, and he loves her very much. But he, too, is very much aware of her absence in our lives, and it is a void to fill.
It’s difficult for me to see so many expecting mothers on social media showing off their pregnant bellies. Don’t get me wrong, I love babies, and I’m always happy for other women having babies. But the sharing of intimate photos brings back so many memories of my trauma. I wish people would be more sensitive to others’ losses. One in four people has lost a child, whether it be through miscarriage, abortion, stillbirth, SIDS, illness, or other terrible incidents that steal children from their mothers, fathers, and family.
When my son was born, I kept him to myself. I shared his photos only with friends and family because I didn’t want to trigger other people’s grief. I’d very rarely share anything personal about Matthias; even now that he is 12 years old, I still don’t put him on public display.
I’d say to anyone on social media that yes, your child is beautiful, unique, and loved, but this public forum is not the place to share. You can share little proud moments and snippets, but this isn’t what social media is about. It’s more about advertising, selling products and networking, not sharing personal things. I’d also debate if social media is not even the place to share opinions, but that’s another topic.
There’s no harm in wishing everyone a happy Mother’s Day, celebrating your mother, or sharing a newborn photo. It’s just about being aware of other people’s struggles. Those that feel the sadness in their hearts when they remember their pregnancies. And those who are still struggling in their motherhood journeys.
A celebrity will always push their brand or sell their photos for more followers or influence. Honestly, there is no need to publish your entire maternity photoshoot; you aren’t famous.
So please be gentle to mothers who are suffering, to those crying into their pillows in the early morning of Mother’s Day or on their angel child’s Birthday.
Please, be kind, empathetic and sensitive to others.
