Tag: grieving

PAIL: Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month

If you log into my Instagram account and go to my for you page, you’ll see tons of pictures of pregnant mommies, infants, and babies.

I didn’t mean to do this. I watched one video of a cute little baby, and now my search bar looks like I am trying to adopt somebody’s chiren.

Even then, it didn’t occur to me that October is a month when we raise awareness of a special kind of loss.

Even as my heart grew sad over some of the pictures, I still did not realize why I was watching this.

My personal journey begins with a miscarriage in the summer of 2020 and then two ectopic pregnancies between 2021-2022. I experienced pregnancy three times (even going through surgery), but there is nothing to show for it.

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. It is a time to remember the women who have experienced loss through:

  • Miscarriages
  • Ectopic
  • Stillbirth
  • Infertility
  • Embryo Loss
  • Molar Pregnancy
  • Infant Loss
  • Child Loss
  • Neonatal Loss
  • Surrogate Loss
  • Failed Adoption
  • SIDS
  • Blighted Ovum
  • Chemical Pregnancy

If you’ve never heard of these, this is a great time to research them, to reach out to women/parents you know who have experienced loss, and to overall educate yourself about PAIL.

Covering My Head: On Grief

Photo by Karolina Grabowska

2020 was very challenging for me for reasons unrelated to the pandemic. As I reflect, it was difficult not only because of the tragedies themselves but also because of their proximity to one another.

I remember when I got jumped on as a teen by a group of girls in Chicago. Another quickly followed each blow until I could do nothing but allow myself to fall to the slippery floor of Nicky’s Restaurant and cover my head. They were too fast. The least I could do if I didn’t have the time to throw a punch was protect my face.

I walked away from that fight, blood trickling from my scalp. When I arrived at the hospital, it was so crowded that the blood had dried by the time I saw the doctor. I sat on the edge of a bed in the hallway while the doctor pierced me with the surgical stapler. I was not under anesthesia, but it didn’t hurt. It simply felt like pressure.

The staples dissolved and I healed nicely. I finished school and went on with my life like nothing happened. The scars from that night are invisible.

That’s how it feels to grieve the events of 2020 when I lost my mother and suffered multiple miscarriages in the span of a few months, each blow coming too fast for me to recover fully.

And I wonder if I am just balled up on the floor, covering my head to protect my face.