On Mother's Day, Let Me Be a Mother

On Mother’s Day, Let Me Be a Mother By Becky Wilder

I read something the other day that struck me….

“If a woman loses her husband she is a widow. If a man loses his wife he is a widower. If a child loses its parents he or she is an orphan. There is no name for a parent who loses their child.”

If I were to put a name to this loss based on what it makes me feel like, I, as a mother who lost her child, would be a "misfit mom.” That mother who doesn’t quite fit in with the rest on Mother’s Day.

With another Mother’s Day now looming on the horizon, I can’t help but reflect on the past six Mother’s Days since finding out I was pregnant. Mother’s Day was pure joy the year I was pregnant with my son Ian. I got my first Mother’s Day cards, and Ian’s father bought me a crib for our son. So many wonderful things happened that year. I felt complete. For that brief period of time, these things heightened my joy as an expectant mother. Then it all came crashing down, and I became that indescribable something in the middle of the room that we all knew was there, yet everyone was afraid to acknowledge.

I am no longer a fan of Mother’s Day. It’s not because I remember on that day what I lost. Trust me, whether it’s Mother’s Day, Groundhog Day, or any given Tuesday, I always remember what I lost.

No, I don’t dislike Mother’s Day because I remember what I lost, I dislike Mother’s Day because everyone else tries so hard to forget.

I don’t fault them. How could I? How could they possibly know what to do? From society’s perspective, there is nothing worse than losing a child. It’s the unthinkable; certainly the unspeakable. But there are realities attached to the loss that I wish I could help others understand. For me, as a mother who lost my son, there is only one gift I want:

Let me be a mother.

I don’t ever get the opportunity to feel like a normal mother. Ever. I can’t sit and talk with other moms and laugh about the body changes and pains of pregnancy – I’ve tried. Every mother around me looks down or looks away like I shouldn’t have brought it up.

But I am a mother.

I don’t want to forget the birth of my child. Ever. I want to remember the few kicks I felt, the sound of his heartbeat, and the sight of him sucking his thumb on the ultrasound. Being pregnant and giving birth is the single greatest moment any woman ever gets in her life. I won’t be denied that. I want to share my memories of pregnancy and childbirth with others. These are the precious few moments of motherhood I was given. I don’t want anyone to rob me of them by pretending they didn’t exist.

On Mother’s Day, let me be a mother.

I don’t ever stop thinking about my child. Others think that if they bring him up, they are stirring up feelings that I am not already having. On the contrary; it would mean everything to know that others remember.

I don’t want to forget Ian. He is a part of me – he is my very heart and soul, and while his loss was my greatest sorrow, that’s only because his life was my greatest joy; a joy I don’t ever want to lose. I carried that little life. I loved him. I felt him move. I gave birth to him. He is my miracle. Yet because he’s not here, I don’t get to be treated like other moms. People avoid wishing me a Happy Mother’s Day, yet it’s something I need terribly. Every day of the year I feel like I don’t fit in as a mom. Nothing would mean more to me than for Mother’s Day to be the one day of the year I can celebrate motherhood too. I need that, yet I don’t know how to tell others. I don’t want them to feel bad. I get why they don’t say anything, truly I do. But how I pray somehow they will find out what I need, because my soul aches to share the day with other moms… to be celebrated as a mom…. to share the joy and cheer of the day that I earned. My son isn’t here to make me Mother’s Day cards in school. I’ll never hear the sound of his voice as he says “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.”

Just this one day, celebrate with me. I need that more than I can say. If only people knew. Every time they pretend that it didn’t happen, it takes away the only few moments of celebration I have.

The poem below was written by a mother who lost her child. It is the sentiment of every mom I know who lost a child. This is what we need.

There’s an elephant in the room. It is large and squatting, so it is hard to get around it. Yet we squeeze by with "How are you?" and "I’m fine" ... And a thousand other forms of trivial chatter. We talk about the weather. We talk about work. We talk about everything else - except the elephant in the room.

There’s an elephant in the room. We all know it is there. We are thinking about the elephant as we talk together. It is constantly on our minds. For, you see, it is a very big elephant. It has hurt us all. But we do not talk about the elephant in the room. Oh, please say her name. Oh, please say "Barbara" again.

Oh, please, let’s talk about the elephant in the room. For if we talk about her death, Perhaps we can talk about her life. Can I say "Barbara" to you and not have you look away? For if I cannot, then you are leaving me Alone ... In a room … With an elephant.