Complicated Question with a Complicated Answer

A couple months ago I was asked the question that most mothers who have buried a child dread: Do you have any children? 

I had just finished an IEP meeting at work and we were waiting for the signature page to print out. The mother of this student was obviously pregnant. She said they had just found out the previous week that they were expecting a boy. She was glowing and holding her preschooler in her lap when she asked, "So, do you have any children?"

"Yes. I have a daughter."

"That's wonderful! How old is she?" 

"Unfortunately she passed away over the summer. She would be three months old."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I had two miscarriages."

At this point, I was faced with a decision. Do I share part of my story? Do I say anything to this pregnant mother and, petty as it may be, tell her the reality that you can still lose a child, even after a healthy 20 week ultrasound? Do I just smile and quickly conclude the meeting? 

My sinful nature reared its hideous head and I needed her to understand that losing my daughter was not a miscarriage. I responded, "I was 38 weeks pregnant."

Her eyes got large and she put her hand protectively on her belly. "Oh. Did something happen during the pregnancy?"

"No. My pregnancy was normal and healthy. I never had high blood pressure or gestational diabetes. I went into labor at 38 weeks. She lived 30 hours."

"Do they know what happened?"

"No. They have a hypothesis, but never found the cause. It was a complete surprise, even for the doctors."

By this point her eyes were huge. Emotionally, I wavered between sorrow at ruining her afternoon and an almost smug, sickening satisfaction that she now knew things could still go horribly and unexpectedly wrong. (I have seen my own ugly and self-righteous attitudes much more frequently since Isabella's death.) 

We signed the signature page and I introduced her to a teacher on the way out. 

One of my co-workers in the meeting had had a stillborn son at about 21 weeks. I had not known she had lost a child until we were talking at Isabella's funeral. The other co-worker had had two miscarriages. Both now have three living children, but child loss had never previously entered into our conversations.

I returned to the conference room, hugged my co-workers, and wept. I cried for the loss of innocence and naiveté following the death of Isabella, for the part of me that almost vindictively wants others to know there is a risk of losing a full term child after a healthy pregnancy, for the fact that, even if we go on and have more children and they live, that I will always answer, "I have x number of children, one is in heaven."

This interaction several months ago was the first time I was asked how many children I have. My response was unfiltered in its honesty, lacking finesse, and tinged with aggression. I've found it takes time for me to polish a response to questions I should have foreseen. 

My husband was recently asked at a work party if he had any kids. He said, "No." That evening he told me he did not have the energy to go into any details or be asked follow-up questions. I get it. I'm sure there will be days I respond the same. 

A thread on an infant loss and stillbirth Facebook group was talking about how to answer this question. Several people said they feel like not including their deceased child is an insult to that child's memory or a denial that they mattered. Some say, "I have two, one in heaven." One woman's response was clever and one I had never thought of. She says two and if asked where the other one is, she'll respond with the technically correct but misleading answer of, "He's with my grandma."

I never would have imagined that the seemingly simple question, "How many children do you have?" and its variants would be this complicated.