A look of shock, a gasp of horror. And then, “but you’re so young!”
I’m not sure if they expect me to be older, or more out of shape, or less attractive, or what. Certainly cute, outgoing, bubbly 24-year-olds don’t lose their babies, they must think.
I didn’t think they did either. Until it happened to me.
Twelve months ago, I was laying on an ultrasound table, my perfect little baby bump exposed and smothered with warm, sticky gel, trying to get my brain to comprehend what my doctor was saying. “There’s no heartbeat? I don’t understand what that means.” “You mean he's gone? My little man is dead?” It simply made no sense. I was 9 months pregnant--two weeks away from delivering Bentley!. They told me he was perfect at my last appointment, less than a week ago. I’m young. I’m healthy. How could this be?
The next afternoon I delivered our son. Bentley Charles Nalley. Weighing 6 pounds. 19 inches long. 10 tiny fingers. Huge feet with long toes like his daddy. The cutest button nose you’ve ever seen.
I left the hospital, got home, looked around, and thought, “now what?”
I can’t even put into words how alone I felt. Alone and ashamed, like I was some freak of nature. My friends were wonderful, but none of them could really ‘get it.’
I went online to look for support, but what I found was mainly either stale, out-dated, and impersonal, or overly religious for my taste, filled with images of flashing cherubs and angel clip art. As if I didn’t already feel like enough of an outsider. “Where,” I thought, “can I go and just feel normal?” Am I really the only one out there?
I know now, that I’m not. I am far from alone. In fact, 700,000 other women go through the death of a baby every year, in the United States alone. That’s 2,000 women every single day, 80 “there is no heartbeats” every single hour. So why does no one talk about it? Why do we all feel so alone?
I decided I was going to do something about it, for myself, and for the hundreds of thousands of others like me, who are just looking for a place to connect, who are just looking for a place to grieve openly and honestly with others who ‘get it.’
Along with my husband, Blake, who stood by my side the entire pregnancy and through the loss of losing Bentley, we together started a local chapter of Faces of Loss called Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope of Hagerstown, MD. Facesofloss.com is basically a collection of miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant loss stories, categorized and searchable by type of loss, stage of loss, location, and keywords, so that visitors to the site can easily find stories similar to their own. Along with each story, there is a head shot of the author. These are not the faces of freaks and weirdos, they are the faces of your neighbor, your co-worker, your sister, your friend.
Faces of loss/ Faces of Hope is about more than providing support to grieving parents; it’s also about spreading awareness of pregnancy and infant loss throughout the greater community. With it being something that directly affects literally a third of the women in this country, and indirectly impacts well, pretty much everyone, it’s something that should be talked about. Not to scare people, but to make it less taboo. So that no one feels like they are being forced to grieve in silence, alone.
One story, one face at a time, we are “putting a face” on miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant loss. We are tearing through stereotypes, breaking down barriers, and bringing babyloss out of the shadows.
Please check out the site here, to find support if you’ve had a loss yourself, or to learn how to support those in your life that have.
Pregnancy/infant loss does not discriminate; it can and does happen to anyone. From the woman in her 40’s, struggling with infertility, to the mom of three in her 30’s, to me, the baby-faced 24-year-old who wasn’t even trying to get pregnant in the first place, but misses the son she lost more than words can even explain.
We may be a different kind of mommy, but we’re all mothers just the same.
Faces of Loss/Faces of Hope of MD is how I am parenting my firstborn, Bentley. I may not get the change to hold him, or kiss his button nose, or rock him to sleep at night, but I can make sure his short but precious life was not in vain, that it has purpose and meaning. This is all for him. He is making a difference, touching so many lives. I am so proud to be his mama.And, Blake is proud to Bentley's dad. We live to honor his name. We will keep his memory alive. Forever.
I’m not sure if they expect me to be older, or more out of shape, or less attractive, or what. Certainly cute, outgoing, bubbly 24-year-olds don’t lose their babies, they must think.
I didn’t think they did either. Until it happened to me.
Twelve months ago, I was laying on an ultrasound table, my perfect little baby bump exposed and smothered with warm, sticky gel, trying to get my brain to comprehend what my doctor was saying. “There’s no heartbeat? I don’t understand what that means.” “You mean he's gone? My little man is dead?” It simply made no sense. I was 9 months pregnant--two weeks away from delivering Bentley!. They told me he was perfect at my last appointment, less than a week ago. I’m young. I’m healthy. How could this be?
The next afternoon I delivered our son. Bentley Charles Nalley. Weighing 6 pounds. 19 inches long. 10 tiny fingers. Huge feet with long toes like his daddy. The cutest button nose you’ve ever seen.
I left the hospital, got home, looked around, and thought, “now what?”
I can’t even put into words how alone I felt. Alone and ashamed, like I was some freak of nature. My friends were wonderful, but none of them could really ‘get it.’
I went online to look for support, but what I found was mainly either stale, out-dated, and impersonal, or overly religious for my taste, filled with images of flashing cherubs and angel clip art. As if I didn’t already feel like enough of an outsider. “Where,” I thought, “can I go and just feel normal?” Am I really the only one out there?
I know now, that I’m not. I am far from alone. In fact, 700,000 other women go through the death of a baby every year, in the United States alone. That’s 2,000 women every single day, 80 “there is no heartbeats” every single hour. So why does no one talk about it? Why do we all feel so alone?
I decided I was going to do something about it, for myself, and for the hundreds of thousands of others like me, who are just looking for a place to connect, who are just looking for a place to grieve openly and honestly with others who ‘get it.’
Along with my husband, Blake, who stood by my side the entire pregnancy and through the loss of losing Bentley, we together started a local chapter of Faces of Loss called Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope of Hagerstown, MD. Facesofloss.com is basically a collection of miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant loss stories, categorized and searchable by type of loss, stage of loss, location, and keywords, so that visitors to the site can easily find stories similar to their own. Along with each story, there is a head shot of the author. These are not the faces of freaks and weirdos, they are the faces of your neighbor, your co-worker, your sister, your friend.
Faces of loss/ Faces of Hope is about more than providing support to grieving parents; it’s also about spreading awareness of pregnancy and infant loss throughout the greater community. With it being something that directly affects literally a third of the women in this country, and indirectly impacts well, pretty much everyone, it’s something that should be talked about. Not to scare people, but to make it less taboo. So that no one feels like they are being forced to grieve in silence, alone.
One story, one face at a time, we are “putting a face” on miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant loss. We are tearing through stereotypes, breaking down barriers, and bringing babyloss out of the shadows.
Please check out the site here, to find support if you’ve had a loss yourself, or to learn how to support those in your life that have.
Pregnancy/infant loss does not discriminate; it can and does happen to anyone. From the woman in her 40’s, struggling with infertility, to the mom of three in her 30’s, to me, the baby-faced 24-year-old who wasn’t even trying to get pregnant in the first place, but misses the son she lost more than words can even explain.
We may be a different kind of mommy, but we’re all mothers just the same.
Faces of Loss/Faces of Hope of MD is how I am parenting my firstborn, Bentley. I may not get the change to hold him, or kiss his button nose, or rock him to sleep at night, but I can make sure his short but precious life was not in vain, that it has purpose and meaning. This is all for him. He is making a difference, touching so many lives. I am so proud to be his mama.And, Blake is proud to Bentley's dad. We live to honor his name. We will keep his memory alive. Forever.