October First

 October first. So we meet again. And start that long, hard march to November 2nd. Where we inevitability arrive tired,  worn down and emotionally exhausted. But where we also say “I’m good!” when anybody asks. “I’m good” becomes our battle cry, as if saying enough can erase the nightmares, the flashbacks, the memories of the time before, when we were all whole and didn’t realize what was coming next. It’s the month of always feeling one step away from tears. My stomach constantly in a knots, anticipating what’s coming. No rest, no patience, no peace.

It’s weird, this month of October. It was always my favorite month of the year. Sweaters and cute boots, trips to the pumpkin patch and Halloween. But it’s so incredibly hard at the same time. I can stand in the doorway of Teddy’s room and still see all of Hannah’s things. I can almost smell her. I used to be able to smell her. But like so many things, that’s gone now. She be turning seven this year. All those years and memories we never got to make. All the hugs and smiles we missed. 

Sigh…October, here we go. Let’s do this…

Just Keep Moving Forward

This weekend we had a yard sale. I’ve never done that before. And I’ll never do it again for many reasons. But among them was all the people innocently asking “What, no girls clothes?”  What do I even say to that?

The easy answer is “No.”

The uncomfortable answer is “My daughter died, so no.”

The honest answer is “Yes, there is one box in the basement. Newborn to 12 months. Everything you need for the first year in one big box. Dresses, pants, tops, jammies, swimsuits, sandals…Never worn before and never will be. I guard them fiercely. I guard them with my whole heart. Now get off my driveway please.”

I stuffed those feelings down and down and down. Until I broke today. Just shattered out of nowhere. My heart hurts today. It hurts a little more than usual. So I’ll tread lightly, hug my beautiful boys and keep moving forward.

Just keep moving forward. 

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.