Realizing I'm Never Alone

I'm sitting inside the medical building. The doors are open, letting in the faint warm breeze from outside. The mood seems buoyant this morning as women scurry up and down the hall, some accompanied by children and some alone. The children bounce happily next to their mothers, rejoicing in the freedom they feel without their winter jackets and in the heady glow of their temporary reprieve from school.

I sit and watch the scene surrounding me, and can't help but feel overwhelmingly sorry for myself. Eight weeks earlier, I gave birth to a premature baby. It was a traumatic second trimester delivery, and the baby later died two weeks after her birth.

I had never met anyone who had given birth to a premature baby or experienced the death of a childNow, in the aftermath, my emotional devastation is compounded by a terrible urinary tract infection that has depleted my body. Worn out, tired and weak, I am sitting outside of my doctor's office waiting to discuss the next course of treatment.

As I sit there, I can't stop myself from replaying these past two months in my mind. How foolish was I not to not to recognize the signs that my body was giving me prior to her birth.

As a newcomer adjusting to Israel, I assumed that all of my abnormal pregnancy symptoms were physical manifestations of the emotional stress I was experiencing, having moved across the world and trying to settle myself, my husband and our two young children in our new home. The weeks after the birth and subsequent death passed in a whirlwind, intensified by the lack of friends or family here to help us.

Before this happened, I had never met anyone who had given birth to a premature baby or experienced the death of a child. It had certainly never occurred to me that this type of thing could happen to me.

Now, in the weeks following her death, I have been feeling so isolated, especially since no one really knows what to say to me. The women that I have met at the park are all still basically casual acquaintances. At the time, they sent the requisite meals along with a kind word; now, they avoid all mention of my loss.

As I sit in the waiting room, silently praying to G‑d to help me in my pain and isolation, a young mother with a toddler walks in and sits to my left. I assume that she is here for a prenatal appointment. She is not yet obviously pregnant, but why else would she be here?

I envy her, imagining her supposed pregnancy to be problem-free. I silently wish her all the best, and pray that she should never know the sorrow I am experiencing. We tentatively smile at each other, and I politely inquire about her toddler. He sits in his stroller, eating his snack with delight and smiling happily at his mother.

Abruptly, I am distracted by noise on the other side of me. I turn to look at a handful of children surrounding their mother, who looks slightly overwhelmed and quite pregnant. I sigh to myself, mentally calculate the age of her children, and conclude that all of her childbearing has come without heartache and suffering. My feelings of isolation increase as I decide that G‑d has chosen me alone to suffer this type of loss.

I am shaken from my sadness by the young mother to my left who asks, "So, have you seen this doctor before?" "Yes," I answer, "and she is very good—she has been helping me with a problem, and she has been very attentive and thorough." I am listening to myself as if I am not really there. I have never been one to disclose private information to strangers sitting at the doctor's office.

There we are, three apparently disparate individuals comparing our deeply personal losses"Really?" she politely inquires. "What's been going on?" I have to admit to myself that she looks somewhat concerned.

Feeling miserable, I answer "I just lost a premature baby eight weeks ago due to a bad UTI (urinary tract infection), and I am seeing her to try and resolve the infection." I can't believe that I just said that. Why I am telling a complete stranger all of this?

The look of shock on her face is so genuine, I almost feel triumphant. Good, I think to myself. Let her realize that not all pregnancies are easy.

"Really?!" She exclaims, almost falling out of her seat. "I also lost a baby about six weeks ago and I am here for a postpartum check."

We stare at each other, our faces revealing a new awareness. Immediately, we begin to share our "war" stories. We are suddenly cut off as the pregnant women to my right jumps into our conversation. "I am sorry to interrupt, but I just have to tell you two ladies that I also lost a baby last year at around twenty-five weeks."

There we are in the doctor's office – three apparently disparate individuals comparing our deeply personal losses. We discuss the details, medical reasons, the aftermath of it all, and more. With all the differences in our stories, there is a strong commonality of women who have lost children and are continuing to go on.

My heart beats erratically as we continue to talk. Slowly, my feelings of isolation and sadness are being washed over and replaced with immense feelings of comfort and support. Sitting there, it suddenly occurs to me that G‑d has not left me. I can almost hear His voice in my ear saying, "Just when you think that you are alone, I will literally surround you with people to show you that you are never really alone. Even in the doctor's office."