I’m a Bereaved Mother and I’m Tired

The house is dark, but I don’t sleep. Images flash through my brain, blindingly bright in a black sea of tears. I see the outline of a baby on a small screen and the doctor who told me that baby will die. I see a tiny heart pulsing and a body that’s broken. I see blood, lots of blood. And metal and machines. I see my dead baby.

I’m a bereaved mother. And I’m tired.

The house is quiet, but my mind rages in a fit of questions. Why did my baby die? Is he in heaven? Am I being punished? How am I going to survive? Why place a baby in my womb only to leave my arms empty? Is this a joke? A game? How did I end up here? Who am I? Who would my baby have been and why didn’t I get to keep him? I cannot stop the questioning, wondering and my head hurts.

I’m a bereaved mother. And I’m tired.

With the questioning comes the speculating. I must have done something to deserve this. It must have been the exercise, too much sugar. If I’d have chosen a different doctor this wouldn’t have happened. God must be punishing me. He hates me. I must be incapable of being a good mother. I must have done something – lots of things – wrong. I’m unworthy. That must be why my baby died.

I’m a bereaved mother. And I’m tired.

And then comes the hopelessness. Thoughts of doom, failure. I think about not waking up tomorrow. I think about how I hate my life. How it’s never going to get better. How I was so stupid to think I’d get to keep my baby. I don’t want to do this – I don’t want to keep going when my baby’s heart stopped. I tell myself I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

I’m a bereaved mother. And I’m tired.

Hopelessness combines with emptiness and I long for what I can’t have. I place my hands on my empty womb. My empty arms have nothing to wrap themselves around but my own chest. My hands grip my shoulders. I cry. Alone. In the night. I want my baby. I want my baby. I.just.want.my.baby.

I’m a bereaved mother. And I’m tired.

My body is still, but I can’t breathe. The weight of grief crushes me. The blankets suffocate me. The cacophony in my mind won’t stop. So I stumble out of bed and trudge to the bathroom, each step like walking through quicksand. I flip the light switch, the bulbs turn white, reminding me of the hospital. I see a woman in the mirror and wonder if it’s me. It must be. But I’ve aged. Creases mark my face in places that were plump just weeks before. I remember that just a short time ago, I was pregnant, expecting a baby. But that baby died. I crumple to the bathroom floor, curl into a ball and sob.

It’s not the presence of a crying baby that keeps me up at night, it’s the absence of one.

And because I’m a bereaved mother, I’m tired.