Joining My Club

  I used to dream of belonging in a club when I was a little kid. I used to sit and think about how fun it would be to be in one. You'd have friends to do things with, and you'd have secrets that other people who weren't members knew nothing about. You have activities and and do stuff together and you'd be lifelong friends because of your joint club membership.

  Now I'm part of a club. I have friends to do things with, and secrets that people who aren't members know nothing about. We have activities and we become lifelong friends because of our joint membership. Sounds great eh?

  Here's the fine print. My friends and I? We cry together. We talk about death and blood and horror and trauma and how scary it is to hear about someone being pregnant and cold babies in funeral parlors. Our activities consist of encouraging each other to get out of bed, get dressed and maybe brush our teeth once a month. We become lifelong friends but we wish we'd never met each other.

  You see, our club is one we never wanted to be in to start with. Our club is formed by the death of our child. We are forced, frozen in horror, past the members only sign and we sign our names on the roster with blood from our broken hearts.

  I have a friend who was forced into my club on Sunday. She was forced to join even though she was kicking and screaming and sobbing with every cell in her body that she didn't want to join. I didn't want her to join. I had hoped with everything in me that nobody I knew would ever gain membership. I have prayed for months and weeks and days that all the pregnancies I heard about would end with a live baby. Some of them have, this one didn't.

  This one was slammed through the door in a flood of tears and it has brought back all my early days of membership. I will never tell you I know how she feels, but I know about the ultrasound that shows no heartbeat. I had compassionate people at my ultrasounds, but the fact she wasn't given that blessing makes me feel worse. I know the feeling of going home from a hospital, shock overcoming every cell of your body and wondering how you're even still upright and mobile. I know the feeling of looking at your body that still thinks it's pregnant and partly knowingly isn't and partly thinking maybe it's a nightmare. And the part of hoping against hope that it's just a giant nightmare that you'll wake up from.

  I know about going to a funeral with a tiny little casket and thinking oddly in the back of your head that you didn't know they made such small caskets. I know the anguish behind the wail, "But he's my SON!! I had all these hopes and DREAMS for him!!"

  I know. And to make matters worse, I know that words suck. They are stupid and ignorant and hurtful and worthless. I know how it feels to be in such a fog that nothing even registers on your level of consciousness. Then suddenly, you find yourself in your familiar house. The house where your dreams for that baby took root and your mirror that shows you every speck of horror in your eyes so that you can't even look in it because it hurts too much. I feel the pain of being able to bend over freely and the mocking voice in your head that counts off how many weeks you should be. I know the shock of taking a shower and seeing an empty belly every time.

  I can't stop anybody from joining my club, but I can tell you that I will be here if you're ever forced into it. I will. I'll be here. I'll cry with you and swear with you and hug you. And when I'm alone at night I'll hug my baby's teddy bear ad blanket and cry for you and for me and for all of us.

  I will. Because I know that this isn't the kind of club I was thinking about when I wanted to be part of one. And I know that nobody else wants to be here either. But since I was here before you, I'll be here for you. Whenever you need it. For always.