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The other grieving parents are stunned by our ability to continue a pregnancy with an inevitable tragic outcome. I listen numbly as they struggle to find a medical explanation, or remember a warning sign, for their sudden, unexpected losses. We respect each other’s pain, while at the same time we are unable to imagine in ourselves an ability to cope with the other’s situation.
Slowly, over time, my rage abates. I am grateful to be one of the few mothers in the group who held her child when she was alive. Eventually I become strong enough to participate in whatever rituals of motherhood are still available to me—sharing photographs of Tracy, swapping pregnancy stories, and wearing a bracelet engraved with her name, a thoughtful gift from college friends.
Nearly eight months after Tracy's death, I am still wrestling with my grief. We keenly feel the loss of our daughter every day, yet are thankful that she was here at all. Gibson and I find ourselves facing the future—buying new sails for the sailboat, planning our vacation, ordering new storm windows—however mechanical or hollow it sometimes feels.
We seek comfort in the rituals associated with our December day, and cling to the symbols of our parenthood. Every now and then I still sleep with Tracy’s blanket. Gibson plants flowers at Tracy's grave site. We laugh at the photo of Gibson changing Tracy’s diaper. We wander the paths of the nature preserve, where we established a memorial fund in Tracy's name. We are grateful for these things that give us a place to store our grief. We hold on to her, and to each other.
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