I’ll never forget my first ultrasound day. There I was, sitting in a chilly doctor’s office with my partner, utterly bewildered. Contrary to all the heartwarming scenes portrayed on TV, this was far from romantic. Instead of the gentle application of gel on my belly while my husband held my hand, I found myself clad in a rough paper gown, lying back with my feet up in stirrups. My gynecologist was busy maneuvering a very lube-heavy wand up my vagina. Definitely not the magical moment I’d envisioned! They should really give you a heads-up about this on the phone.
They should warn you that your husband will awkwardly witness a pap smear and that he’ll stand there with his arms crossed, silently grateful he doesn’t have to endure this. But amidst the awkwardness, the cold room, and the rather generous amount of lube that ended up on the floor, seeing and hearing that heartbeat—wow! In that instant, I transformed into a mom.
That night, as I lay in bed, a flood of emotions washed over me—mainly worry and fear. Fear of miscarriage, anxiety over potential issues, concern about leaving the hair straightener on—just your typical mom worries. I could rattle off a list of what a pregnant woman frets about, but just know that sleepless nights filled with worry are part of the package. And once your baby arrives, the worrying doesn’t stop; you fret daily about their health, intelligence, kindness—the usual stuff. But what you don’t expect to worry about every single day is whether today could be the day your child might die.
It took me a while to pinpoint the source of my profound fear. It wasn’t immediately obvious. When my brother passed away a decade ago at the young age of 18, I grieved him deeply, like he was my sister. I cried over our shared memories and mourned all the moments that would never happen—like him meeting my husband, attending my wedding, or seeing me become a mother. I lost my partner-in-crime, my childhood companion, and all those experiences he’d never have, from falling in love to becoming a dad, to witnessing the return of Doctor Who. We all mourned him differently—my dad, my grandparents, friends—but for me, I grieved as a sister.
Now, as a mother to my own child, that grief resurfaced. The moment I gave birth, I felt the weight of my brother’s loss anew. I had spent ten months nurturing this little life inside me, feeling every kick and hiccup, as if we were two halves of a whole. Every morsel I consumed and every breath I took sustained him. The depth of a mother’s love is indescribable, and the thought of losing him? It consumed me. I mean, how could you ever recover from that? One moment, he’s there, laughing; the next, he could be gone, without warning or goodbyes. Realizing what my mother endured made me so anxious that I nearly lost my lunch. That’s when the cycle of fear truly began: praying nightly to God that I wouldn’t have to experience the agony of losing a child.
Having lost a sibling provides an unfortunate vantage point to witness a mother’s heartbreak. You become acutely aware of mortality; it shifts from a distant concept to a glaring reality. Sure, losing anyone brings that perspective, but when it happens young—when life is abruptly cut short—you truly grasp how fleeting existence can be.
Every time I read about a child facing tragedy—be it leukemia, SIDS, accidents, or even more bizarre occurrences like alligator attacks or dry drowning—I feel the walls closing in. My mind races with the fear: could I be next, or will I be one of the fortunate ones? I imagine the grief, the funeral, the overwhelming pain, and it starts to choke me up.
What people don’t mention about losing a sibling and then becoming a parent is that your thoughts diverge from those of typical parents. You contemplate whether having a second or third child would provide a safety net in case one of them dies. You view the age at which your sibling passed as a milestone to surpass, wondering if any days beyond that are merely borrowed time. You obsess over CPR techniques and the fastest route to the ER.
I hope that one day, I can strap my son into his car seat without worrying about an accident that could take him from me. I hope that when I hand him food, I won’t have that nagging fear of choking. I hope that when he sleeps in past 7 a.m., I won’t approach his crib with trepidation, fearing the worst. I hope that eventually, I won’t view age 18 as a ticking clock. Most of all, I hope that one day, he’ll grow old and gray, having lived a full and joyful life, allowing me to finally breathe easy.
The journey through motherhood, especially with the shadow of loss, is complex and filled with unique fears.
In summary, the experience of losing a sibling casts a long shadow over a mother’s journey, transforming everyday parenting worries into deeper anxieties about life and loss. This profound fear stems from personal experience, navigating the complexities of motherhood while grappling with the possibility of losing a child. It’s a journey filled with hopes, fears, and the unwavering wish for a long, fulfilling life for her children.