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.

6 Years Later

 Six years ago I went to bed, exhausted and excited. I was whole and happy. At peace. We were 6 weeks away from meeting our girl. I didn't know what was to come. I didn't even sense the sweeping wind of grief that was about to knock us over, shatter the world as we knew it and change us forever. 

What would I have done differently if I had known? If I had some sense of foreboding or some premonition? Would I have acted on it? Would I have written it off as anxiety or trusted my instincts? Who would I have called? What would I have demanded from them? Would I have been able to change anything?

But I didn't have any premonition. There were no clues, no cloud of despair wafting through the room. Hannah was dancing around in my belly like normal. I went to bed fully expecting the next day to be a normal day. I didn't know everything was changing. I had no idea. Not even when the doctor said she was gone. I didn't believe him. I didn't want to believe him. I didn't know how to believe him. So I didn't. I just asked for a c-section to get her out right away. "I'll show them" I thought "She fine. Babies don't just die."

But the thing is, babies do just die. Every day. In rich countries and poor countries. Babies of every religion and color. Babies who were loved and wanted. Babies who were prayed for. Babies with loving families to come home to. 

Babies do die and it's the most unfair thing imaginable. I learned this 6 years ago. A lifetime ago.

Dear Kindergarten Teacher

Dear Kindergarten Teacher,

You probably don’t know this, you probably aren’t even aware, but your class is one short this year. There should be a little girl named Hannah in your class. She would have curly brown hair, a twinkle in her eye and and infectious laugh. She’d keep you on your toes. Like her big brother, she’d be incredibly smart and kind and social. Like her little brother, she’d be incredibly funny and inquisitive and the kind of kid you just always want to be around. She’d love to read like her mom. She’d love superheros like her dad. She’d love school. And you’d love having her in class. Secretly, she’d be your favorite.

At least that’s how I imagine it would all go. We’ll never really know. Your class will be one short this year, that much is certain. Hold space for her please, in your heart. It’s the closest we can come to kindergarten.

Love,

Hannah’s Mom

Turning Five

She should be turning 5 today. She should be fighting bedtime, stealing toys from her brothers and driving her preschool teacher nuts with her spunky ways. That’s how I imagine her, my spunky, brave girl. Never one to back down from a challenge.

I also imagine her being sweet to the dogs. They would curl up next to my big old pregnant belly and lull Hannah to sleep. The cats on the other hand...oh how she hated those cats! The would try to   stretch out on me and she’d start kicking like crazy until they shot me an indignant look and moved on to the next human in the room.

I imagine her playing dress up and loving ballet. Playing piano and Tball too. Maybe soccer.

I imagine her curly brown hair and big blue eyes. Because a psychic once told me she’d have dark curly brown hair and big blue eyes.

I imagine all these things and a million more because that’s all I can do. Imagine.

I imagine her alive and smiling, blown out the candles in her cake as her dad and brothers and I sing to her.

Today she should be turning five.

Day Three Dear Abby - Can't You Hear Us?

Dear Abby,


I can't help but notice that you haven't retracted or apologized for your cruel and thoughtless column on June 7th. Stillborn is still born. We love our children. We will love them with our whole hearts until the day we die.


Here's the thing Dear Abby, you are not alone in your ignorance. And that's what makes your comments sting all the more. There are countless people as cruel as you who think still births don't count. Look at our current administration. They refuse to count still births amount the detained immigrants as actual deaths. But they are deaths. And they do count. My husband's own stepmother has decreed to the family that no one is allowed to mention my daughter. That it doesn't matter.


As loss parents we fight EVERY SINGLE DAY to break the silence. We want - no, we need -  to shatter the silence around stillbirths so that we may openly grieve. We are tired of crying in the shower or the car. All alone so no one can see us. So no one like you can judge us or try to instill a timeline on our grief. We try to shatter the silence, to remember our children, to carry their memories forward every day.


Congratulations, you just made that battle harder.


I hope you never know the soul crushing grief of losing a child. I hope you never know what it's like to move through the days, years, decades with a constant ache for your missing child. But if  you ever do, I hope your grief is met with more grace and love than you showed us in your column.




Sarah Elvin - Hannah's Mom

Dear Abby

Dear Abby,


I'm writing again because you still haven't acknowledged the hurt you caused the loss community with your heartless reply to "Crystal" on June 7, 2019.


You seem to think a still birth, the loss of a beloved child, is something that can be gotten over. Well, I am here to tell you how very wrong you are.


Imagine never knowing the color of your child's eyes. The sound of their voice. The color of their hair. Imagine, after carrying a much loved, much wanted child for 9 months only to give birth to a silent room. No new born cries. No congratulations. Just silence. And a soul crushing grief.


Now imagine carrying that grief day after day and instead of support you are told your lifestyle is morbid. That you should seek counseling. That you should be over it. Basically, being told your grief is misplaced and wrong.


Let me tell you what years of therapy after the loss of my daughter have taught me. My grief, the same grief that all loss parents carry day in and day out is normal. It's expected. It's ok. We aren't morbid as you suggested. We are parents that will love our children, living and dead until the day we die. There is no timeframe for our grief. It doesn't have to end because it makes you or other uncomfortable. We don't need you or anyone else to say "Time's Up, Grieiving Over."


What we need is support. And love and compassion. We need to know that YOU know our babies mattered. We need to hear their names on someone else's lips besides our own. To know the world has not forgotten them. We love them. We will always love them.


And you should be ashamed of your response.


Hannah's Mom

Fuck You Dear Abby

**This was written in a fit of rage at Dear Abby’s response to abletter in June 7th. I won’t be sharing her letter here, because it sucks and it doesn’t need anymore hit than it will already get.**

Dear Abby,

You should be ashamed of yourself. Your advice to Crystal could not be more off base. Instead of shaming the Aunt for grieving the loss of her much loved child, you should have shamed the family that failed to support her. That the Aunt still mourns her daughter after all this time is completely normal. To say this child never lived is cruel and completely wrong. For 9 months that baby girl lived, right under her mother’s heart. That mother felt her every kick and turn, knew the pattern of her days and nights and  knew what foods she liked and what food she didn’t. For nine months that mother dreamed and planned and loved her baby girl. And now that poor mother has to live everyday not knowing the sound of her daughter’s voice or the color of her hair. She’ll never watch her first steps, or graduations. Never see her make friends or get her first job; a whole lifetime was lost when her daughter was still born. I know because I am that mother. I am that mother and I am telling you that you owe this Aunt and all parents of stillborn children an apology. We walk this earth everyday carrying a weight grief that you cannot imagine. A shadow of sorrow behind every smile.

Hannah’s Mom

PS: Every Nov 2nd I make a birthday cake for my silent child. And we sing and remember her with love.