An Invisible Parent

The other day when I got to work it was "bring your child to work day." It was neat to see how many of the 30-something professionals in my building have young children. It was also difficult because some of them were small enough that they almost would have been Liza's age.

There are a lot of little things in life that make a bereaved parent think about what would have been, and this was one of those things. It highlighted the missing piece in my life: there should have been a 17-month-old with me that day.

an empty red swing, a missing piece

During the afternoon, I was in a 4-hour training class and at the beginning, everyone was talking about how nice it was to see all the little kids at work. Inevitably, someone turned to me and asked me if I had any children. I'm at that age and I have that look of someone who would have little kids at home. I just quietly answered that no, I don't have children.

In those kinds of settings, it is difficult to know how to respond. If it is a group of people that I mostly don't know, a more public environment like yesterday, I've found it is easier not to tell the whole story. People often seem to feel embarrassed or ashamed, as if they have done something wrong by asking the question in the first place. I think it simply points to the fact that our society is not comfortable with talking about death, dying, or grief.

The question was nevertheless hard for me to face, because I felt misjudged. When I answer that no, I don't have children, I can see the wheels turning in people's minds. Oh, you are one of those people. One of those young professionals who is married but chooses not to have children. Who just chases money, pleasure, whatever, blah-blah-blah.

(If you are a young adult who has chosen not to have children for whatever reason, more power to you. I'm expressing my own perception of other people's viewpoints, but please do not take any judgment from this.)

Maybe that's not what they are thinking, but that is what I feel like they are thinking. I feel a sense of failure that I haven't lived up to society's expectations. Part of me wants to scream that I do know what it is like to be a parent, I do know what it is like to have had my world turned upside down the first time I held my baby in my arms. I know what it is like to sacrifice my time, my body, my very self for the love of a child.

a red fence, the color of my angst

I've coined a new term to describe this: I feel like an invisible parent. I have the experience of having been a parent, and I still feel the intense love for my child. But on days like "bring your child to work day," there is no outlet for me to express this.

I left work really angry, so I came home and did my kickboxing workout, which helped to relieve some of the tension. Often, exercise helps me to clear my mind and sift through my thoughts so I can figure out what was bothering me. I told my husband about it that night and talking with him also helped relieve some of the tension.

Maybe next time when a relative stranger asks if I have children, I will say yes. And when they follow up with how old are they, I will state that my daugther was seven weeks old when she died. I have a feeling this will not go over very well though.

If you have lost a child, how do you decide whether to tell people your story? How do you answer the question of "how many children do you have?"