I wasn’t necessarily planning on writing this entry first. I thought I’d just jot down some notes about it, write another blog post or two in between, and come back to it. But, here we are. The first real post of my blog, and probably the most important one.
My husband and I were married on the most gorgeous August afternoon in 2013. Everything was perfect. I could go on in explicit detail about how exquisite everything was on our wedding day, but perhaps I will share those details later. Six months into our marriage, we found out that I was pregnant! I’ll never forget that moment. I remember standing next to my husband, right before looking down at a positive pregnancy test, and telling him, “This moment could change our lives forever.”
I had a near to perfect pregnancy. No morning sickness, I could still wear most of my normal clothes still (well, not jeans, but definitely skirts! Lots and LOTS of skirts) and, in my opinion, had the most beautiful baby bump in the world. At the time, I was working 20-30 hours at my dream job, a coffee shop, and my manager and team were so supportive, flexible, and excited for me. Everything was falling into place even better than I had even imagined.
On Friday, October 3rd, 2014, I went to my routine prenatal checkup. At this point, I was 35 weeks along, so I was just rounding the corner for weekly doctor visits and even more close monitoring of both baby boy and I. It just so happened that, on this particular day, both my mom and mother-in-law asked if they could come with me to the appointment so that they could see baby in the ultrasound monitor. When we got into the exam room, my huge stomach and I laid down on the bed and prepared for the ultrasound. I couldn’t wait to see my baby boy again. He hadn’t been kicking as much as he had in previous days, but I was thinking that perhaps he was head down in “ready-to-go” position for labor. As the doctor moved the cold, sticky ultrasound wand around my belly, she wasn’t talking as much as she usually did. I remember the concerned look on her face as she said, “I can’t find baby’s heartbeat. I’m going to send you to the hospital so they can check again, too. Their machines are much more powerful and efficient than the ones we have here at the clinic.” As I stared up at the butterfly mobile swaying above my head, everything around me went black and into tunnel vision. I didn’t know at the time, but shock was setting in.
Once at the hospital, another doctor and troupe of nurses came in to hook me up to the monitor to check baby and I out. After what seemed like an eternity, the head doctor turned to me and said the words no parent wants to hear, “I can’t make out a heartbeat. I am SO sorry.” I was stunned, shocked, livid, confused. Wait, what did he just say? I had to be in a dream. Nothing made sense anymore. My tunnel vision had now turned into a full-blown whirlwind tornado in an instant.
Monday, October 6th, 2014 at 7:37 PM Aaron Lawrence Hoffman was born in heaven. It was a very traumatic birth, and I’m still recovering from the memories and flashbacks of it to this day. We were waiting until Aaron was born to announce his name to family and friends, but the day we found out that he was already in heaven even though he was inside my belly, we told our families his perfectly chosen name. My dad pointed out that the Aaron of the Old Testament in the Bible was the first one to be in the presence of God, and now my Aaron was in the exact same place with God in heaven. Even in the midst of the complete and utter darkness that grief brings, that one small sentence brought me peace. If my son couldn’t be with me here on earth, than there’s no other place I’d rather him be than in the arms of Jesus.
I wish I could tell you that I’ve recovered and moved on from grieving, but I haven’t. And, quite frankly, I don’t want to. I don’t want to EVER move on from the memory of my first born son. My grief has evolved in that I don’t cry about him all the time like I used to, or that I can be around babies that would be his age now. The typical American way to grieve seems to be “get over it quickly and move on”, but that’s not how it should be done at all. Take your time, don’t let any one pressure you or rush you. It’s your grief, not anyone else’s.
For those reading this post that have lost a child, how I wish I could spend time with each one of you and listen to your stories. So often I’ve felt like people don’t want to listen to the story of my son that I’m both terrified and aching to tell. People can get very awkward when faced with grief, and I’m so sorry if you’ve experienced that first hand. When the time is right for you, and I do believe that you’ll know when - even if it takes a few years or a decade - I would encourage you to share YOUR story. Mostly for your benefit and heart-healing, but also because people around you need to hear it. Yours and your child’s story is important and worth hearing.