Category Archives: Parenthood

All of the official business related to Genevieve’s death ended last week. We got back our photos from Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, and they are heartbreaking and lovely. I met with my doctor, who told me that every test came back normal. I am healthy, and Genevieve had no chromosomal abnormalities. Her umbilical cord was wound very tightly, so the blood flow to her might have been cut. But that is only a guess.

I’m struggling with that now — the helplessness. I had too much amniotic fluid, another thing that the doctors can’t explain though they are certain it didn’t cause her death, so my pregnancy was considered high-risk. Because of that, I had ultrasounds every week, and every week the technician told me that Genevieve looked healthy. My doctor says that if Greg and I try for another baby, I will have ultrasounds twice a week. To what end?

Now I am left to move forward in a world that makes no sense. All of the cliches fail. Everything happens for a reason. Except when a seemingly perfect baby dies. I could never justify the loss of her chance to laugh and dance and love. Everything works out in the end. Except when your family is left with a hole that can’t be filled.

The books I’ve read on grief explain that I will never get over this, that I will have to incorporate it into my life. So that is what I do now, one slow step at a time.

(Photo by Sandy Allen of Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep)

That bad things sometimes happen for no reason. I’ve always thought that bad things happen to bad people, or that they happen to good people who are strong enough to cope. Other people. And the surest way to avoid tragedy was to live a safe, productive life. Exercise. Work hard. Give to charity. Wear your seatbelt. But somehow all of my efforts failed me 15 days ago, and now I’m one of those “other people.” I am neither bad nor particularly strong. I’m so much like you.

That mornings are the worst for me. When I awake each day, I pause for a moment to see whether I’m still stuck in this new life. My wonderful husband rests beside me, for which I am so grateful. But I am not pregnant. And my younger daughter’s ashes sit in an urn on the chest of drawers a few feet from the bed.

That one of the greatest gifts a person can give me is to say or write Genevieve’s name. I fretted for months over her name, and I drove Greg to the edge of his sanity with my questioning. Would anyone know how to spell Genevieve? Would she ever learn to spell it? Couldn’t we agree on a shorter name? But that was the one name that we both loved, the one that sounded so adorable tumbling from Eleanor’s mouth, the one that we kept a secret for so long. Now that name is an acknowledgment that, even though you did not know her, Genevieve existed.

That long after most people will think that I have recovered, I will mourn. Yes, I will slowly feel better. But Eleanor will not be opening Genevieve’s presents for her at Christmas. Or fighting over toys with her. Or holding her hand as she starts kindergarten. I am mourning a lifetime.