Continuing a Friendship After Losing a Baby

Knocked Around
By Monica LeMoine, Exhale Columnist
An Expired Carte Blanche

Recently, my husband and I were invited to the birthday party of
Kelly, the daughter of our close friend Cara. “Kelly’s First Birthday
Bash!” said the Evite in cheery orange font. At first, I checked the
“yes” box, for who wouldn’t want to hang out by a sunny poolside
and gobble Cara’s homemade cake with a bunch of jubilant kids and
adults, all in celebration of a beautiful blue-eyed toddler’s turning
one!

But then I saw on the invitation that another mutual friend, Nina,
was also going to be present, and suddenly the event seemed less
appealing. Nina, who I hadn’t seen or spoken to in months, would
be bringing her handsome, brown-haired son Rilo, about to turn one
himself. “Rilo is looking forward to seeing his older woman
celebrate her first, amazing year,” Nina wrote in her Evite response.

Oh, barf, I thought to myself.

Reading this seemingly benign comment – even just seeing Nina’s
name on the guest list – instantly made a cloud of gloom and anger
begin to spread in the core of my belly. Not anger at Nina or her
son, both completely innocent parties in all this, but anger at the
whole world for singling out me to treat unfairly. Anger at myself
for being unable to let go of old feelings of resentment and self-pity,
outdated worries, obsolete fantasies of the person I thought I’d be
today but had failed to become. I had thought I was over all of these
dark feelings, having moved on with my life, but I guess not.

So the next morning, I changed my response to “maybe,” really
meaning “no.” I didn’t feel bad about recanting my “yes," because
when people go though something traumatic like I had, society is
supposed to give us an eternal carte blanche to avoid potentially
upsetting events.

Right?

I’d gotten used to thinking this way for the past year, eliciting all
sorts of sympathy and understanding nods, so skipping the event
seemed perfectly appropriate. Besides, it was just a first birthday
party, with many more that I could attend in the future when I was
mentally and emotionally ready. Surely that day was right around the
corner - I could its bluish-white light on the horizon line, waiting for
my arrival. The day when I was finally over it, and could just be a
normal friend to others.

When I saw Cara later that morning, she asked me why I had
changed to a “maybe."

Frankly, I was a little surprised that she needed reminding that the
Nina-Rilo combo was the one thing that still got to me, that -
helloooo - I had lost a baby a year ago, that I just didn't do kids'
birthday parties. Remember?

I thought that Cara, of all people, would understand like everyone
else always does, glumly recalling a well-planned fantasy that never
materialized. That she and Nina and I had been best prego buddies
just over a year earlier, all three of our babies due the exact same
week. For almost eight months, the three of us had walked around
Green Lake together weekly, comparing belly sizes and talking
eagerly about how fabulously perfect it was that we would get to
raise our same-age children in unison. That I had lost a four-month
fetus the year before due to miscarriage, and was confident that
this baby was to be the one, because two pregnancy losses in a row
couldn’t possibly happen. Yet in the end, my baby was the one who
didn't make it.

In a voice that sounded sharper than usual, I reminded her of all of
these things, words tumbling automatically out of my mouth, as if it
were a rehearsed response. Which it sort of was. A rehearsed
thought, at least. A thought I had clung to for safety.

I was certain she wouldn't press the issue, that she would let up
immediately and feel bad for even asking. Of COURSE you shouldn’t
come to the party, she would say. Why surround yourself with Nina
and Rilo and hoards of other lovely babies and mommies on this
especially poignant date so close to the day of your own baby’s
demise? Monica, you should pamper yourself instead – stay home
and sip a glass of wine and take a Calgon bath. Maybe even hold a
candlelight séance around Zachary’s framed photographs and feel
rightfully miserable for a while.

But that’s not at all what she said.

“You know Monica, it would be so great if you’d come and support
us, and help us celebrate our child. I want you to be a part of my
life with Kelly, like all my other friends, but sometimes it feels like
you aren’t really there. You've got to start trying to get back
together with Nina, or you’ll never know if you’ve moved past your
issues with her having a baby. I try to understand your situation the
best I can, but sometimes I just want to be like, come on!”

My jaw dropped open and I looked at her closely, instantly hurt. Her
words stung, leaving me completely taken aback. Nobody had ever
suggested such a thing to me, ever ever ever. Come on? Come on,
as in move on? As in, get over myself? As in, news flash: Monica is
not the center of the fucking world, and needs to move past her
hang-ups with innocent babies and start getting back with the
program?

I fumbled to defend myself.

“Dude, you know how much it still hurts me to be around Nina,” I
said. “You know how much Rilo reminds me of what Zachary would
look like today. Why should I go to an event that I know is going to
upset me?”

She said something like "well, whatever you decide is fine..." and let
it go, her eyes drifting from mine. But our conversation weighed
heavily on my heart and mind for the rest of the day.

I sat on the couch for a long time afterward with my puppy in my
lap, feeling simultaneously lonely, sorry for myself, and pathetic for
being so self-absorbed that I completely overlooked Cara’s feelings. I
tried to put myself in her shoes. If my baby were turning one, would
I want all of my closest friends to be there? Heck yeah. Throughout
the afternoon, I had deep conversations with Kevin and other close
pals, and took an evening walk, thinking deep thoughts and blinking
back tears along the way. I drank a full glass of White Zinfandel and
looked at the window at pine tree swaying slightly in the breeze.

The world, spinning. Me, stuck in one place: grounded by negativity.

Finally, after days of soul searching, it dawned on me: Cara was
right. She hadn’t told me to come on! because she didn’t care. It
was because she did care, and – like a true friend – had the honesty
and courage to level with me.

The truth was, for a whole year I’d been wallowing in my own
intense fear of babies, of Nina and Rilo, of anything that might
remind me of Zachary and trigger sadness. I’d felt entitled and
accustomed to this fear, which, for the past year, had been a
perfect scapegoat for my negative attitude toward baby-filled events
and baby-having women. It was so much easier to cling to such a
fear than to rise above it and reengage with dear friends like Nina
and Cara, friends who had stood by my side even as I withdrew into
myself out of despair and shame. Cara was challenging me to ditch
that fear, and return to the world of the living.

A bit of tough love from Cara made me see - for the first time -
that I could release myself from fear, keeping Zachary’s memory
alive in my heart, while celebrating life and all the wonderful things
happening around me. It could be done, and I knew my time had
come to do it.

My "eternal carte blanch" to wallow had...well...expired.

I felt content that night, filled with a renewed inner strength and
clarity of perspective. It was as though a tremendous weight had
been lifted off my shoulders. Before going to bed, I took a long,
hard look at the framed photographs on our dresser of Zachary’s
perfect little profile and chubby feet, images I had studied time and
time again, trying to will my child – my fantasy as a happy mother –
back to life. This time, though, the sight of my baby’s silent image
didn’t fill me with longing for the past, but with hope for the
future.

I did – in fact – attend Kelly’s first birthday party a week later, giving
Nina and Cara huge hugs, laughing a lot, stuffing my face with
homemade cake, playing with Rilo and Kelly on the floor, and feeling
– for the first time in a year – like myself again. Unfettered by
fear. A small kernel of melancholy still lodged deep within me, but
not taking over.

“It’s so great to see you again, Mon,” said Nina. “You look…happy.”

“I am,” I said. “Hey, what’s your schedule like next week? We
haven’t walked around Green Lake in a while. Like, just over a
year, to be exact.”

“I can meet you any time,” she said. “Are you sure you’re ready for
this?”

“Yeah,” I responded, and I meant it.

Related Posts by Category