This piece spoke to me on a whole new level. Please welcome Kristen and Meghan, and their son Braden, to the blog series. Here, Kristen, the non-biological mother to Braden, shares a poem about her experiences.
Trying to grow our family is exciting,
Until it doesn’t work
Months turn to years
She sits crying on the cold bathroom tile
Helpless, I sit beside her, and I hold her hand
After the attempts, the waiting, the blood tests,
Scans, shots, meetings, “next times”, and loss,
It works
We celebrate every symptom, dancing in the kitchen
This is all beautifully real and I hold her hand
We tell our parents they are to be grandparents
We piece together a gentle nursery, with my Gram’s rocking chair and homemade blankets,
She glows in the daytime and laughs in her sleep
As we sing to him, I feel my first kick
We fall in love with our sweet, wild boy and I hold her hand
I watch her on the dance floor, rolling to Proud Mary
Out of breath and laughing, she holds her large belly
Beautifully happy, she is lit up from within
Later, we dance slowly, our wiggly boy joins along
The three of us move together and I hold her hand
We pick out the perfect tree
It is her favorite day of the year
As we decorate, she stops to let me feel his strong kicks
I give her belly raspberries and he responds with his dancing hands and feet
He is almost here and I hold her hand
In an instant I lose them both
Our sweet, wild boy is gone,
And so is the life in her eyes
Darkness moves in and she turns to gray, shaking stone
I fall to my knees and I hold her hand
Six pounds, two ounces, nineteen inches,
Sandy brown hair, and her face
Joy and a sinking ache
The three of us share a hospital bed until we run out of time
Trembling, she screams as he is taken away, and I hold her hand
She clutches his hat as she is wheeled down the hallway
Our boy is cold and left behind
She is stitched and empty
Wailing in the shower as her milk comes in
Drowning, drenched with pain and I hold her hand
I find myself reaching for her belly, only to remember
It hits, sick and gasping for air
She catches me and her full eyes lower
Baby spoons with the silverware and bottles in the cabinet
Heaviness hits my throat and I hold her hand
In six months-time, we build a garden
To have something to tend to, to nurture
We find joy in watching it grow
We are broken but trying
His light pours out of our darkness and I hold her hand
My wife, Meghan, and I met 13 years ago. We were both only 18. We dated throughout college at nearby schools. We spent summers living and working on Cape Cod, spending as much time as possible on the beach with close friends and family. After graduating, I began teaching in the Boston Public School system and she began work in youth-development, at local nonprofit organizations. We rented a small apartment and loved hosting Halloween parties.
After a few years, Meghan and I bought a home south of the city, close to our families. We were married on a beautiful September day in 2013. We decided to spend the first year of marriage traveling as much as we could and soaking up life, before we settled down to start a family. After a year full of beaches and breweries, we began to speak seriously about having a baby.
Meghan’s pregnancy was healthy and complication-free. Our son was incredibly active in the womb. He annoyed all of the ultrasound techs, never staying still for measurements. They would all leave us saying “good luck with that one!” We spent most of the pregnancy dancing together. The baby loved anything with a good beat. Some of his favorites were Mumford and Sons, Daddy Yankee, and Tom Petty.
If you are reading this as a loss parent, please know our hearts are with you.
To learn more about Braden and the ways we honor him please visit https://bradenjackmanclass.wixsite.com/bradenjackmanfund/softball-tournament
This post is shared as part of the #LGBTBabyLoss Blog Series. To read more, or to submit your own experiences, visit the LGBT Baby Loss Blog Series homepage here.
The Legacy of Leo 