Beyond the Celebration
Confronting the Complexities of Mother's Day
While it’s still a week away, I’m sending this post about Mother’s Day a week early, because I want to increase awareness in advance of how hard this day might be for all sorts of reasons. For many, Mother's Day is filled with complexities beyond just celebrations. If you talk to enough mothers, you will hear stories of losses. Pregnancy losses and fertilitiy issues are common experiences, but we don’t always share them. Here’s my story of perinatal loss.
There is a look that flashes over a healthcare worker's face so quickly that it usually goes undetected by the patient. It comes upon us when we realize the situation is dire and that the patient does not know this yet. Healthcare workers are good at having poker faces but occasionally our inner fears and instincts betray us.
It was this type of look that told me something was wrong when the ultrasound tech squinted her eyes and scrunched her nose for two tenths of a second. She then quickly left the room and a barrage of doctors came in.
“What is it?” I asked, but my heart already knew the answer.
I knew because the severe pain and bleeding I had the day before told me something was not right. I knew because I know my body better than anyone else. I girded myself for the worst. I hoped I was wrong. I hoped this pregnancy was going to give me the baby I was pining for.
I asked again, louder with more impatience, “What? Can someone tell me what’s going on?” They were all still quiet, until one doctor muttered, “We’re not sure. Our imaging is not that good. We have to send you to a different office. We are going to call now and tell them to see you right away.” I hopped in a cab and texted my husband. I regretted telling him that morning not to come to the appointment.
At the next office, they ushered me into the exam room quickly. The doctor was an older man with bushy eyebrows and an Eastern European accent. He started my second ultrasound of the day, without a hello. After a few seconds, “Ectopic in the left” was all he said to me before he handed the wand to his tech and walked out of the room.
“What does that mean?” I asked the tech, although I already knew exactly what it meant. I was asking what does that mean for me right now? Is that really what’s happening? Is that really how he is going to tell me? What am I supposed to do?
The tech looked pityingly at me, “Oh, we thought your OB explained it to you.”
I was turned back out into the waiting room until my OB called and told me to come back to that office to discuss immediately. I texted my husband again that I was going back downtown. I later learned that he sweated through his shirt running through subway after subway trying to catch up with my zigzagging between these impromptu appointments. I texted my sister and told her to google everything she could related to Ectopic Pregnancy (it was a time before smartphones, when a deep dive wasn’t at our fingertips).
I arrived back in my OB’s office and noticed for the first time that the walls were covered with pictures of babies. Cute, model babies of various ethnicities, all smiling. How cruel, I thought. Didn’t it ever occur to the staff that they would have a woman like me sitting in this office? A woman experiencing an ectopic pregnancy. No one had bothered to tell me what was happening and now I had to sit and stare at all these babies. As if I needed a reminder of what was being taken away from me at that moment.
Another scan, another room full of doctors. This time they seemed excited because they had not seen a case like mine before. They were using me as a tutorial for everyone in the practice. My husband was sitting in the waiting area when I emerged from starring in my one woman show. Finally, we were called into another room and got more of the explanation I had been waiting for. I was told I was lucky. I probably didn’t need surgery, just some heavy-duty medications. I didn’t feel lucky.
I asked the doctor something I had heard countless women ask so many times prior, “Is there anything I could have done?” She told me how common this was (well not the ectopic part, apparently that made me unique), that miscarriages happen all the time. 1 in 4 pregnancies end in loss. I knew all the data.
I finally started crying. I said “I know this in my head, but right now I need you to say very clearly that this is not my fault.” She was surprised by my blunt request, but she said it. Turns out, it didn’t help. I still felt ineffective and broken, like my body was again betraying me:I couldn’t even miscarry right. The recovery included lots of intensely powerful drugs, a million follow up appointments, not being allowed to try again for six months. After all that, I’d have another high-risk label to add to the epilepsy.
In the following days, I cried a lot. I ate a lot of chocolate. I asked my friends to pray for me because I didn’t have the words or energy to talk to God. It seemed especially messed up that not only did I suffer emotionally in my grief, but that as soon as I forgot for a moment my body reminded me with cramping, vomiting and bleeding.
The next weekend was Mother’s Day. After being convinced to leave the apartment, I walked through a farmer’s market, where an unsuspecting woman tried to give me a flower and wished me “Happy Mother’s Day.” “No” I whispered and kept walking.
I had five more miscarriages. The grief got easier. I learned the routine. None of the other losses were as earth shattering as the first one. The first miscarriage was a pivotal intrapsychic loss for me. After a while, I came to expect the losses.
Once when I was pregnant with my son, I had assumed I was miscarrying, as there had been a lot of blood. I had long since changed practices to find an OB who was clear in communication and didn’t have pictures of babies on the wall. My doctor was crying when she told me that it was just a hematoma and my pregnancy was viable. “Are you sure?” I remember asking her, “I thought I was having another miscarriage.” She smiled through her tears, “Normally it’s the other way around and I have to tell women that their pregnancies are over. Today, I get to tell you that this one is still here.” Of course this was welcome news, but still held my breath until he arrived safely into the world.
In the years since my experience, pregnancy loss and awareness has become a little more shared, but not as much as it could be. Keeping it silent adds a layer of shame and stigma that makes it more isolating. Like any grief, losing a pregnancy is not something we ever “move on” from or “get over.” Rather, it changes us. It definitely changed me.
The pain of my grief is not as acute as it was years ago. I no longer need care or support around it. (So don’t feel like you need to do that in the comments, I’m ok, really!) In looking back, I see the gap where a chaplain could have been with me as I sat with the uncertainty of the preliminary diagnosis. I try to be in that gap with others. The initial raw experience of my story helps me to relate to the pain of my patients. And be more sensitive to and gentler with all who are grieving something – which is to say – all of us.
Over a decade and two kids later, I enjoy Mother’s Day. I do my best to sleep in and then devour the pastries I’ve requested from the fancy bakery. I revel in the handmade cards my kids make for me. I get lots of hugs with minimal eye rolls. Everyone listens to me and does what I ask them to do! If it’s nice out, the whole family helps in my garden. Sometimes I schedule a massage. We always end the day with take-out sushi.
But there is still a twinge of sadness remembering that first Mother’s Day.
I am conflicted about Mother’s Day. It’s a difficult day for so many people. Many holidays are harder on people than society acknowledges.
My story is common. I share it to help others know they are not alone. Even as our stories differ around why this day may be full of complexities for us.
In the hospital, Mother’s Day is hard. I prep the chaplain intern who is on duty that day on just how much grief is bubbling up for people. The hospital is full of these common stories of people who are:
Remembering their mothers who have died
Longing to be mothers themselves
Grieving the death of a child
Not interested in having children, but feel pressure from society
Suffering from complicated relationships with their own mothers
Mothers who are working that day when they would rather be home
Recently, I noticed a lot of images being shared on social media on Mother’s Day, like the one below. This is evidence of the sensitivity of the friends I have in my feed. And it further illustrates the complexity of Mother’s Day.
I’m sharing this post a week before Mother’s Day in the United States as sometimes the lead up to difficult days can be the hardest. People often tell me that dreading the anniversary of their loved one’s death in the days leading up to it is worse than the actual day itself. It can also be helpful to plan for in advance. I know that when I needed to read a post like this, I avoided social media completely on Mother’s Day, as it brought more pain.
Some Tips for Coping with Mother’s Day
(Or any significant day that may bring some sadness with it)
Plan something to honor your grief
Give yourself a set time/ritual on the day to acknowledge the pain of your loss. Maybe you even do it the day before, so on the actual day you are celebrating yourself or someone else more completely.
Do something that will bring you joy
I recommend buying yourself flowers or eating something delicious. Or anything that might be on your joy list. Sorrow and joy can be intertwined, so make sure you seek out some joy.
Talk with others about the day
Let those in your tribe know your feelings and ask them to help you celebrate and/or observe the day. Or if the people around you don’t get it, search some people out who do.
Give yourself permission to ignore the day entirely
Some years, I found it helpful to stay off social media, not go to church or talk to anyone and just huddle up at home. You can treat it like any other day if you want to and not acknowledge the day at all.
A prayer that addresses both the celebration and suffering of this day.
On this Mother’s Day, we give thanks to God for the divine gift of motherhood in all its diverse forms.
Let us pray for all the mothers among us today, for our own mothers, those living and those who have passed away;
for the mothers who loved us and for those who fell short of loving us fully;
for all who hope to be mothers someday and for those whose hope to have children has ben frustrated;
for all mothers who have lost children;
for all women and men who have mothered others in any way – those who have been our substitute mothers and we who have done so for those in need;
and for the earth that bore us and provides us with our substance.
We pray this all in the name of God, our great and loving Mother.
Amen.
by The Revered Leslie Nipps from Women’s Uncommon Prayers, p.364
This is so intimate and poignant, Christine. I’ve read and listened to you read and it humbles me every time. I’ve sat with women who have suffered miscarriages and I am completely helpless to say anything of worth so I’ve learned to just be present, fully present to their grief, their sorrow, their anger and frustration. I love the prayer you shared and I hope you can find joy this Mother’s Day. Thank you again for this beautiful piece.
Scones for a mother gone now 50 years…tulips for my beloved with whom I would have celebrated 17 years yesterday…compassion for my body lost to innocence as a boy…a recognition that courage is more ordinary than extraordinary in how many folk carry loss with grace as you yourself have done…Thanksgiving for friends who sit near and hold me when nothing else will do.