It was the day of my first ultrasound, and there we were, my partner and I, sitting in a chilly doctor’s office, completely bewildered. Contrary to what I had seen on TV and in films, this experience was nothing like the romanticized versions. Instead of gentle gel and tender hand-holding, I found myself draped in a scratchy gown, lying back with my feet in stirrups, while my gynecologist inserted a very lube-slick wand. Not exactly the heartwarming moment I had imagined! They should really give a heads-up about this when you schedule your appointment.
They ought to warn you that, at your first ultrasound, your partner will awkwardly witness a pap smear and an invasive procedure, causing him to stand to the side with his arms crossed, silently grateful for his own anatomy. Yet, despite the awkwardness and the unexpected mess, when I finally saw and heard that heartbeat… that was the moment I truly became a mother.
That night as I drifted off to sleep, a wave of emotions hit me—mostly worry and fear. I feared miscarriage, worried about something going wrong, dreaded potential abnormalities, and even fretted over the hair straightener I might have left on. I could fill pages with all the anxieties a pregnant woman faces. Just know that sleepless nights filled with worry become the norm. Throughout those nine months and beyond, the worries persist. You constantly find yourself hoping your child will be smart, kind, and healthy, among other things. But what you probably don’t dwell on every single day is the terrifying thought of your child dying.
It took me a while to pinpoint the source of my intense fear. After all, it seemed so obvious. When my brother passed away at just 18, I grieved him deeply, like he was my sister. I cried over the memories we shared and the countless ones we would never create—he would never meet my partner, attend my wedding, or see my children. I mourned the loss of my childhood companion and all the experiences he would miss, from falling in love to becoming a father. We all grieved in our own ways—my father for his son, my grandparent for his grandchild, a friend for his buddy… and me, a sister mourning her brother.
That loss is at the heart of my fear for my own son. The day I gave birth, I relived the heartbreak of losing my brother, but this time through the lens of motherhood. For the first time, I understood what it meant to be a mom. For ten months, I had nurtured this little life inside me. I felt every kick, hiccup, and jab to my ribs as we shared every moment together. He was a part of me in a way that defies explanation. The thought of losing him? It’s unbearable.
The idea that he could be full of life one moment and gone the next, without warning or goodbye, consumed me. The realization of what my mother endured sent me into a panic. From that moment, a cycle of fear began, filled with nightly prayers to God asking that I never experience the agony of losing a child.
Experiencing the loss of a sibling grants you a front-row seat to the devastating reality of a mother losing a child. It forces you to confront mortality in a way that feels far too real. While losing anyone can provide this perspective, losing a sibling at a young age drives home just how fleeting life is.
Every time I read about a child’s death—from leukemia to accidents—I feel the walls closing in. I wonder if I’ll be the next one to face such tragedy or if I’ll be one of the fortunate ones. I often envision the worst: his funeral, the heartache, and that paralyzing fear that grips me and makes it hard to breathe.
What they don’t tell you about losing a sibling and then becoming a parent is that your thoughts drift into places where other parents might not go. You contemplate whether to have more children as a safeguard, worry about the age your sibling died as a benchmark you hope to surpass, and mull over whether every day past that age is simply borrowed time. You become fixated on learning CPR, the Heimlich maneuver, and the quickest route to the emergency room.
I hope that, one day, buckling him into his car seat won’t fill me with dread about potential accidents. I wish I could hand him food without fearing he might choke. I long for the day when him sleeping in past 7 a.m. won’t make my heart race with the thought that something terrible might have happened. I dream of a time when I won’t view age 18 as a countdown.
Ultimately, I envision a future where he lives a long, fulfilled life, and I can finally breathe freely again.
In Summary
In summary, the fears of a mother who lost a sibling during childhood are rooted in the pain of that loss, shaping her worries about her own child’s safety and well-being. The experience of grief highlights the fragility of life, prompting a cycle of anxiety that can overshadow moments of joy. Seeking resources and support can help navigate these fears, allowing mothers to find peace amidst their worries.