You Don't Qualify

 I'm going to tell you a secret. It's not really a secret. It's actually a policy. It's in writing somewhere. It's a rule. A standard. Something all employees have to follow. Something the JP Morgan HR Gods have decreed. But for 6 years I've treated it like a secret because it's so triggering. It hurts my soul to think about. When I do let myself think about it, the reaction is physical. My stomach hurts. I feel that spinning, vertigo, fall-off-the-earth anxiety feeling. But I have to talk about it.

Why now? Why deal with it now? Because this issue has been in the news lately A teacher in D.C. faced the same thing. New Zealand took steps to remedy the situation. Is my secret out now? Does any of this sound familiar. If you've lost a child through miscarriage or stillbirth I'll bet you know. For the rest - you lucky folks - let me tell you a story.

The day I got home from the hospital after losing Hannah was the worst day of my life. I had to leave her. I had to head home and try not to think about her laying alone in the morgue. I had to plan a funeral. I had to figure out how to explain this to my 4 year old who wanted nothing more than a sister. In the middle of that mess, I called HR. "I was on bedrest." I explained "I had the baby. But she died. I don't know what that means."

"Well" HR Lady took a pause "well, since there is no baby, you don't qualify for maternity leave."

I just sat there. Stunned. I didn't know what to say. I just sat there, my wrecked body in post-partem diaper-like mesh underwear, a dozen staples holding my stomach muscles together, my body cruely making milk for a child that would never need it. I sat there and didn't say anything, the words "No baby" reverberating through my mind. I wanted to scream or cry or disappear. I had a baby. I loved her. I missed her. I had a baby. She died, but I had a baby. Why was she saying there was no baby. Her name is Hannah. Was Hannah? I was so confused.

Finally HR Lady asked "Did you have a csection or a natural birth." What? Wait? So she knows I had a baby. She's asking about her birth. Maybe she didn't understand the first time. "A csection" I answered.

"OK" she powered on. "Since you had surgery I could probably approve 8 weeks of recovery time. But you'll need to have your doctor fill out the paperwork. We'll get it in the mail to you." She then detailed the day it needed to be returned by in order to have my leave approved. All business.

It haunts me still. My baby died and JP Morgan's responses was "You don't qualify." JP Morgan, the same company that constantly hypes up their Working Mother Magazine awards and accolades. They did not consider my daughter a life. They did not consider me her mother because she didn't live. The didn't care about my wounds, body or soul. It meant more to them to have a body in a seat in the office. They took my trauma and completely disregarded it. I was nothing to them and neither was my loss.

I've rarely spoken about this. It was so dehumanizing. So cruel. But a teacher in DC had the courage to come forward. So I started bit by bit letting this story out of the locked compartment of my heart and into my consciousness. I've been thinking about it. I spoke to my current manager about it (spoiler alert - I no longer work for JP Morgan). I mentioned it on Facebook when a friend posted about New Zealand's progress in recognizing the trauma of miscarriage and stillbirth. 

I'm trying to talk about it because I want our country to do better. I don't want other women to be similarly traumatized. We have to do better. We have to recognize that losing a child - at any point in pregnancy - is life altering. Women need time to heal both their bodies and their souls. We need to help. We cannot keep telling women that their pain does not matter.

Three years after Hannah's death I had a miscarriage on a Friday. Monday morning I was back at my desk. My manager at the time called me first thing that morning. "What are you doing here? Go home. Take care of yourself. I'll call HR and work something out." I declined her offer. I already knew I didn't qualify.