Colors of Grief
By Erin Strybis
@erinstrybis
We sit in a darkened room, eyes glued to a grainy picture of my uterus. Black and white contents project against the wall like an old movie. When the nurse asks me to hold my breath for a moment, I comply, not thinking much of it until she removes the ultrasound wand and quietly excuses herself to fetch the doctor. I sit upright and turn to Jay, confused. “Do you think everything is OK?”
My husband furrows his brow. “I don’t know, Babe,” he replies, leaning over to press his hand against the small of my back. “I don’t know.”
The room is still dark when my doctor arrives. Again we gaze at the grainy image on the wall, but my pulse races. I hear the words “no heartbeat” and “swimming in blood” and the question, “Did you have any break-through bleeding?”
“None,” I say, my lower lip trembling. Pinpricks race up my spine. This can’t be happening, I think. This has to be a mistake. Unease churns in my stomach and rises in my throat. I cannot bear to be in this room a minute longer. I want to run far away from the moment. I force myself to stay, and swallow the bile.
My doctor inhales sharply, then delivers the news softly, “You miscarried earlier this week. We’re not sure why this happens.” She pauses and looks back at the image. “Usually it’s because of a chromosomal abnormality, but it’s important to know it’s not your fault,” she says, her words laced with sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Her news renders us speechless. This was our first doctor’s appointment for my pregnancy. We hadn’t even discussed baby names. We hadn’t discussed how we’d tell our folks or our four-year-old. Hadn’t allowed ourselves to worry much at all, too swept up in the thrill of good news after months of trying for a baby. My doctor goes on to say that I’ll receive a call to schedule my D&C for the next morning.
After the nurse and doctor leave, I dress slowly. I’m shaking so much I think I might break. I pull on the last piece—my bright lemon sweatshirt, the one I wore special for this day, lemon joy, lemon hope for our long-awaited second baby—and crumple. Jay catches me in his arms and whispers, “Babe, I’m so sorry.”
"Me too,” I squeak back, resting my head on his shoulder. Tears stain my cheeks, first a trickle, then a waterfall.
On the drive home, I phone my mother. I need her help, but more so I need to hear her voice. She picks up in one ring. “Hey Mom,” I say, my tone urgent. “Do you have time to talk?”
“Hey Erin, I have one minute between classes,” she chirps. The next gym class she teaches starts soon. “What’s going on?”
“I had a miscarriage and need to have a D&C tomorrow morning. I’m sorry we hadn’t told you… ” I say, my voice cracking. I take a deep breath. “It was just so soon. I’m sorry. Can you watch Jack for us?”
A beat passes before she responds, shock woven in her voice, “Of course, we can figure this out. I’m so sorry, honey.” We exchange goodbyes and “I love you’s.” She promises to call later.
From the passenger seat, I watch cars whizzing by, watch clouds drown out the sun, watch gravestones blur together into one gray line across a nearby cemetery. I’ve heard it said that there’s nothing worse for a parent than losing a child. The thought twists at my heart, jogging a memory of my mother.
Years ago, when my uncle died suddenly, Mom flew to the funeral in her hometown without us. “You kids have school and Dad has to work,” she said, tucking pantyhose into her suitcase alongside black kitten heels. It was my sophomore year, and rehearsals for the spring musical were underway. Mom traveling alone confused me. School and rehearsals were important, I guess, but didn’t she want us with her?
Maybe it was cost, but perhaps it was something more. At 16, I was too engrossed in my world to grasp the situation. I don’t remember seeing her cry, though I suspect now that was intentional. I do remember Mom’s pained expression when she broke the news to us about Uncle Bill. Her little brother was only 41 when pancreatic cancer cut his life short.
Mom left for his funeral in a whirlwind, coming home days later to resume caring for us and working full-time as gym teacher and athletic director at a small parochial school. She seemed strong as ever: cheery, hard-working and always in motion. During my school-age years, I’d watched her juggle these roles with work as an organist while still making time for us kids and our activities. She is our family’s Wonder Woman.
What I learned from her is that when tragedy strikes, women show up and do what’s right, then keep moving. If her grief was a color, it would be invisible.
The morning of my surgery, Wonder Woman arrives at our doorstep with red roses for me and activities for Jack, who’s ecstatic to see his grandmother. Before I leave, she kisses me on the cheek and murmurs, “You’re strong, Erin.”
The surgical wing is nearly empty when Jay and I arrive. My room feels like a freezer. I change into a flimsy green gown, socks and hairnet, then take my place on my hospital bed. Prior to taking my vitals, a nurse wraps me in warmed blankets, and I laugh and remark that it feels like I’m being swaddled, which makes me think of our lost baby whom we'll never swaddle, which makes me start sobbing. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this,” my nurse says, glancing at both me and my husband. She hands me a Kleenex box. I smile weakly and thank her.
After she leaves, we wait. Jay sits beside my bed, reading his Kindle. I sit silently, thinking of three years ago when our roles were reversed, me reading beside him, waiting for his surgery to remove a cancerous tumor. While Jay underwent chemotherapy afterwards, a treatment that eventually destroyed that cancer, I did what I learned from Mom: I doubled down on work and childcare duties, shielding our son Jack from my tears—others too. We’d only shared Jay’s health news with a small circle because he wanted it that way. Back then, making it through the day felt as precarious as treading water alone in the middle of the ocean. My once active spouse spent days glued to the couch. He lost his appetite. He lost his hair. His skin dulled. Seeing Jay suffer provoked deep sorrow. Grief became an invisible weight pressing down on me, threatening to pull me under.
Back in pre-op, my smartphone buzzes. Two messages from friends who are checking in with me pop up. In the wake of my miscarriage, I decided to share my health news with a wider circle. I want to make my grief visible.
An alert to take my prenatal vitamin scurries across the screen and my stomach lurches in anguish. I need to update this stupid pregnancy app so I can stop getting these messages. But I cannot find the setting to indicate miscarriage, and instead I land on a slide that says our baby is now the size of a raspberry. Raspberry —that’s what we called the baby just before they discovered I miscarried.
Just then another nurse arrives and asks what I’d like to do with the remains of our baby's body. I turn to Jay, bewildered. “We’re gonna need some time to discuss that,” I tell her.
A handout she provides offers three choices: a group burial at a nearby cemetery, burying our baby’s body ourselves within a week’s time, per state guidelines, or cremation. “I don’t want us to make the wrong choice,” I say, my eyes pricking. I stare at the paper, paralyzed.
“This cemetery is really pretty,” Jay says, pulling up some images on his phone to show me. With tidy rows of gravestones, lush lavender and a small pond, the space exudes peacefulness.
“It says here they hold an event for bereaved mothers. Perhaps we could go as a family,” I suggest. He nods warily.
Our decision made, I lean my head back against the pillow, shut my eyes and let my tears flow freely.
In the days after my surgery, grief interrupts me constantly. She visits as I’m brushing my teeth, taking the dog out, driving my son to preschool. With each shift in my body, its loss of nausea, breasts deflating, blood in my pantyliner—the final traces of pregnancy, she sits beside me. When I'm alone, I embrace her. When I’m with Jack, eating meals or reading stories, I push her away. My commitment to making my grief visible is harder than I realized.
One morning, I'm up early journaling in our orange armchair. It’s the first time since my miscarriage that I've wanted to catch the sunrise. Writing at dawn before Jack rises is a favorite ritual of mine. Today the red-ringed golden sun peeks over the horizon, threading color through the sky as if to say, "Take heart, new mercies await you."
I write,
Hope
grows outside;
inside my womb
is barren.
I lost my little baby.
How am I supposed to keep going?
Plop go my son’s feet on hardwood, pattering toward the living room where I'm seated. Sunlight glides up the walls, landing above his head. He ambles into the orange armchair. "Good morning, love," I say, setting my journal aside and pulling him into a hug. “You’re up early.”
Jack frowns. "Mommy, why are you crying?"
There is so much I want to tell him about how I’m feeling right now. I want him to know about his lost sibling. I want him to know his Dad beat cancer. I want him to know that there’s a time to be strong and a time to be still, and that grief can find you no matter how hard you attempt to outswim it. Grief is not an enemy to ignore but a friend leading me out of darkness, reminding me that my love was real, my love persists and my baby’s short life mattered.
I want to tell him everything, but at four, I know he can’t comprehend it all. I start simply: “Remember the day Grandma came to watch you? The day Mommy had to go to the hospital?”
He nods his head, its straight blond strands glinting the morning light.
“I’m still sad about that.”
Jack studies my face closely. “Are you OK, Mommy?”
Now I know why Wonder Woman hid her tears. Sometimes it feels better to be buoyed by a child’s joy than to dampen it. Sometimes keeping rituals keeps a mother afloat. And really, how does a mother wrangle words to describe the ineffable? Can a child understand loss unless she's experienced it? Even then?
If my grief was a color, I'd choose red. Red like my womb, bleeding and tender. Red like the beautiful roses Mom brought me. Red like love. Like strength. Like vulnerability. Red like our baby’s body, buried in the pretty cemetery. Red like the raspberry-shaped hole forever fastened to my heart.
His question floats in the air: Are you OK, Mommy?
I wipe the tears off with the back of my hand and answer honestly, “No. But I will be.”
Guest essay written by Erin Strybis. Erin is a Chicago-based writer and editor who loves connecting with other moms through storytelling. Erin’s writing about motherhood has appeared in The Washington Post, Coffee + Crumbs, Mother.ly, Living Lutheran and The Everymom. She also writes Nourish, a monthly newsletter to help you be kinder to yourself and others. Find her on Instagram and at her blog.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.