This is a featured article from our 2nd edition of the LIFTS Magazine.
Editor’s Note: This story is about infant loss. HMHB feels it is important to share stories about grief and loss because they are an important part of Montanans’ pregnancy and parenting experiences. That said, we also encourage you to take care of yourself. If this is a difficult topic for you, make sure you have the support you need before you read this article, or skip it if that’s the right thing for you to do.
Grieving with Grace: A Bereaved Mother’s Story
By Amanda Eby
I sensed hesitancy from the sonographer as she clicked incessantly on the keyboard. After hoping, waiting, and praying, I was more prepared for thispregnancy than I was for my first child, Olivia. But I was shocked when, as my bladder was near bursting, the sonographer exclaimed while she typed in all caps – “TWINS!”
My mother died three months before I became pregnant. I yearned to dream of her, to feel close to her again. When I finally did, it branded the creases of my brain. She came to my side, and in an uncharacteristically calm voice, she told me that one of my babies wasn’t going to make it. I didn’t share the dream with anyone, but I buried it in my shoulder like a quiet cross to bear. I couldn’t let go of it because it was a precious visitation of my mother I missed dearly, yet I fiercely blocked it as a possibility. Her peaceful presence then would resurface later to comfort me when my nightmare came true.
“We have Baby A who is doing well, Baby B is pretty sick, but all the nurses and doctors are trying to help her now.” I awoke to these words from my husband, struggling to comprehend as I tried desperately to awake from anesthesia. I was in disbelief. I was almost 37 weeks. My co- worker had just joked with me that they were just getting fat now and could come out anytime. My specialist had told me I could “write the book on having twins.” We would say goodbye forever to our Baby B, Jacqueline, just eight hours later. For eight powerful hours, we held her.
The first year was numb as we maintained survival mode. One lonely twin didn’t want to eat, an older sister didn’t know how to grieve, and two parents mourned in their corners yet still occasionally found each other. I searched for answers and signs of my daughter gone from earth. I had sudden moments of sorrow and angst, remembering not all my children are with me. We celebrated milestones, watched a personality emerge, and witnessed the discoveries of young childhood – all while quietly acknowledging the persistent, sad void that coupled each of those milestones. I found solace when I focused on my mother holding my baby, rocking her, just as if they were with me.
Caroline, our Baby A, has always talked about her twin. She asked why her twin Jacqueline got sick. I tried explaining twin-to-twin transfusion to a 4-year-old. She listened and asked if that was why she died and why everything had to go to her instead of Jacqueline. Then she curled into my arms and told me she was sad. Repeatedly through toddlerhood, she asked: “Where is Jacqueline? Did she die? Why did she die? How did she die?” While I strived for patience, I became robotic to maintain composure. I had moments of weakness where some days I just couldn’t act out the Groundhog Day rendition of my daughter’s death. Sometimes I was short with her. I was terse and shamefully irritated by her questions that seemed to lack concern for the gravity of the situation and my emotions.
Now, rather than verifying her reality, she recognizes and acknowledges it – when my tender heart least expects it. While planning her fifth birthday, Caroline said, “Wait, how are we celebrating Jacqueline’s birthday?!” I reminded her of the pink lantern we sent to the sky, and she smiled and commented matter-of-factly that it’s important because it’s her birthday too. One day, she went to play with schoolmates – twin girls her age. She told me about their lunch and the backyard surrounded by lilacs. It wasn’t until she was about to fall asleep that she elaborated. “Their room is so cool, Mom,” she said. “I wish I had that room to share with Jacqueline.”
I shared my story publicly a few times before Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day on October 15th and then I breathed a small sigh of relief. I was feeling, as Brené Brown puts it, a “vulnerability hangover.” I had been holding hard space for my grief, carrying a little suitcase in my gut, pulling on my heart with a comforting weight. And then I was ready to set it down. It was a ticket to validation.
I do not believe things happen for a reason or search for reasons why they happen. I resist the urge to step into a dark forest of twisted trees of blame, shadows of “should’ve,” screams of “but only,” and cries of “what if.” Grief overwhelms enough when my body aches as it cradles hollowness, it shudders with an insatiable hunger. No amount of blame, not an ounce of retraced steps, no spat of anger at broken systems or resentment of human error will fill that space that can’t hold a child. It only sharpens the ache to anger.
I have learned about “grieving with grace.” Our friends and family, or strangers in the supermarket, will inevitably make comments that sting. I try to extend patience, to recognize possible coping mechanisms of stoicism or nonchalance. I hope to teach them, wait for them.
Jacqueline shows up in our lives in many different ways. Amidst a stint of relentless bickering between Olivia and Caroline, we approached the store aisle containing a plethora of various gingerbread house kits. I dreaded yet another argument about which type to purchase as I listed them — Barbie, Mickey Mouse, and so on. Much to my surprise, they immediately agreed on a birdhouse with a red cardinal perched in front. A red cardinal can be a sign of hope from a departed loved one, a sign of their peace. It was as if they knew.
I am happy for you and your pregnancy and children, and I’m sorry if the pain of seeing what I dreamt for overshadows that happiness. We are all mothers, and I always want the absolute best for every single one of you. That said, please understand that I may not want to go to your baby shower, or even shop for a gift. Don’t ask me how many children I have; instead ask me about my family. When you talk with me, be prepared for discomfort. Please don’t encourage silent grieving, but listen and support me. Bereaved mothers are part of the motherhood story that connects us all.
Pregnancy and Infant Loss Resources:
– Ramsey Keller Memorial pays for infant funerals in the state of Montana. https://www.kisses2heaven.com/
– Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep provides the gift of remembrance portraits to parents experiencing the death of a baby. https://www.nowilaymedowntosleep.org/
– Still Standing Magazine is for all who are grieving child loss & infertility. https://stillstandingmag.com/
– Various “angel gown” organizations that you can find online convert donated wedding dresses into infant burial gowns.
On Tuesday, HMHB helped host the 
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