I have contemplated sharing my son’s photos for months now, but each time I sit down to write, I hesitate. The truth is, I’m afraid. Afraid of how people might perceive my son, and in turn, how they will judge me as a parent. Having worked in digital media for a long time, I understand the often unforgiving nature of the online world. The thought of exposing my son to harsh comments from strangers is daunting.
My instinct is to protect my child’s memory fiercely. I fear that others might dismiss his existence or misconstrue our grief. I’ve read distressing stories of baby photos being misappropriated for political agendas, inaccurately labeled to serve pro-life narratives. The mere thought of my son’s images being used without my consent infuriates me.
Topics like miscarriage and stillbirth carry a stigma, making the act of photographing your deceased child feel taboo. When we were in the hospital, the staff posed two questions: Would we like photos of our child, and would we like to hold him? Without much thought, I responded with a quick “No.” I had never considered the possibility before, and I was terrified at the idea. A few years prior, I had scrolled past a post of someone sharing their stillborn child’s photo and thought it morbid. Little did I know how my perspective would shift after my own experience.
The thought of holding my lifeless child and taking photos filled me with dread. I was convinced I would never want to see those images. I believed they would only serve as painful reminders, leading me to protect myself by refusing to engage. Yet, when my husband expressed his desire to hold our son and have photos taken, I felt a wave of emotion. I couldn’t deny him that moment, even though I was overwhelmed with fear and shame.
Our nurse, sensing the gravity of our situation, offered invaluable advice from her years of experience. She shared that not one parent she had encountered regretted holding their child or having photos taken, while many who opted out later expressed deep regret.
Taking her words to heart, I reached out to my aunt, a sensible person whose opinion I valued. She had not experienced a loss like ours but encouraged me to consider getting the photos without the obligation to look at them right away. “At least you’ll have them if you change your mind,” she said. That advice resonated with me.
As labor progressed, my resolve to see and hold the tiny being my husband and I had created grew stronger. The realization that my body was capable of bringing this life into the world, even under such tragic circumstances, was profound. My son had existed, and I wanted to embrace that reality, no matter how painful.
When my husband held our son first, I could see his heartache. I was exhausted, yet once I regained some strength, I cradled our little one, who weighed just 3.5 ounces. I memorized every detail of his tiny form—his nose, his ears, his delicate fingers and toes. Even amidst the sorrow, he was perfect to me.
However, I still carry regrets. I wish I had held him longer, taken more photos, and captured moments of us together. The moment I panicked at the sight of a small injury on his forehead and didn’t get to kiss him haunts me. That pain feels insurmountable, a heavy weight that I fear may never lift.
I understand that for many, viewing my son’s photos may be difficult. He wasn’t a typical newborn; his heart had ceased beating at 16 weeks and 5 days. The physical signs of his condition were evident, and the photos reflect a reality that some may find hard to bear. We were careful about sharing the images, anticipating that some friends and family might find them disturbing. Yet for my husband and me, these images are a testament to our son’s existence—his hands gently resting on his belly, a precious glimpse of our baby.
As time has passed, I’ve felt an increasing void left by my son’s absence. The ache of loss intensifies daily, leaving me feeling alienated from the experiences of other parents. I yearn to share my son with the world, to publicly acknowledge his life.
Recently, a poignant encounter with a reality star who had also lost a child inspired me. She had shared her own photos and experiences, garnering significant attention and raising awareness about stillbirth and infant loss. This motivated me to consider sharing James’s photos as well, despite my fears. The emotional turmoil I’ve been through—anger, jealousy, fear—has become exhausting, and I’m ready for a change.
We possess only four photos of our son—no first Halloween photos or moments of him trying solid food—just these four that we are willing to share.
In conclusion, sharing my son’s photos is a step towards healing and honoring his memory. It is an act of bravery and a way to shed light on the often-silent struggles surrounding stillbirth and loss. I hope that by opening up, I can find solace and perhaps connect with others who understand the profound impact of such a loss.
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Summary
The author reflects on the emotional complexities of sharing photos of her stillborn son. Overcoming fears and societal taboos, she ultimately finds strength in embracing her loss and honoring her child’s memory, seeking connection and healing through sharing.
Keyphrase: sharing stillborn photos
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