Trigger warning: child loss
Our journey to acquiring her was somewhat spontaneous. After the heartbreaking loss of a cherished turtle last summer, a thoughtful friend offered us her bearded dragon. When I brought up the idea of adding another pet, my kids’ tears quickly transformed into joyful jumps. Before long, she was a part of our family.
When I first laid eyes on her, I felt a mix of curiosity and discomfort. This creature looked less like the adorable characters from fairy tales and more like something best left hidden away. With her spiky, scaly body, she swayed side to side like one of Ursula’s minions. She felt sharp to the touch, and her eyes were oddly positioned on the sides of her head. My husband, who isn’t exactly a fan of reptiles, took on the task of bringing her home and setting up her habitat. After he finished, he jokingly suggested I “keep that velociraptor in the garage.”
Later that day, we found ourselves staring at her through the enclosure. “How do we hold her?” inquired my eldest. I squinted, thinking, “Let’s look it up online.”
“She looks intimidating,” remarked my middle child.
“Don’t worry, she’s friendly,” I replied, half-convincing myself.
To my surprise, our youngest bravely approached the glass, opened the door, and gently placed her small hands inside. “Come here, dragon lizard,” she sang softly. “I love you.”
Our first daughter, Josie, passed away in a tragic manner. I don’t mean to suggest she was anything less than perfect; she had the softest cheeks and dark curls that framed her face beautifully. Her little ruby lips appeared as if she had been lost in thought when she left us. She was everything to her brother, to my husband, and to me. She was the most stunning sight I had ever known.
The manner of her loss was painful. Or perhaps the pain was rooted in the helplessness I felt as I held her small body, knowing she would never take a breath or experience the world. The stillness in the hospital room was deafening, as we searched the beige walls for answers that never came.
What could be uglier than stillbirth? What could be more devastating than a body betraying another, all while preparing for a future that would never be? Nothing, I thought, as I looked down at her tiny form, horrified by my experience.
Seven years have passed since that day. I can now articulate my feelings. When Josie died, I felt a deep sense of shame and embarrassment. I had done everything right: I took my vitamins, read the recommended books, avoided risky foods, and adhered to every precaution. Yet, one bright afternoon, she was gone—lost due to something my own body had done, while the world outside continued its joyful song.
Society only reinforced my feelings of inadequacy:
“This doesn’t happen.”
“You followed all the guidelines, so how could this occur?”
“It’s extremely rare; it shouldn’t have happened.”
While these reassurances comforted those around me, they didn’t change the reality that it had happened to me.
So, I attempted to mask my pain. I smiled, laughed, and wore bright lipstick. I told friends we were doing okay, looking ahead. When a nervous pregnant acquaintance asked what signs to watch for, I repeated what I had heard: “Don’t worry. What happened to me is unusual.”
But the truth was there, lurking. That year, I would return home, fold laundry, or play catch with my son, and when I paused, the weight of my grief would crush me. Liar.
Months passed before I could utter the words “she died.” During a T-ball game, a kind woman asked about siblings. “Our daughter was stillborn four months ago,” I said, the words heavy on my tongue. Her shoulders slumped, and my husband looked at the ground. The earth felt unstable beneath me as I exhaled deeply. That is the power of truth.
Babies can die without warning or explanation. You can plan and prepare, but you never truly hold the reins. That uncertainty is what makes knowing me difficult—it forces you to confront the same reality.
People often shy away from the reality of loss, but the true ugliness lies not in the tangible evidence but in the aftermath. It wasn’t the heart-wrenching moments we shared with her; it wasn’t the silent cries we felt in the days that followed. The ugly resides in the denial, in the “never me” mindset, in the avoidance. It’s not the creature in the cage; it’s the unwillingness to confront what’s inside.
Now, we embrace the things that frighten us. We hold them close, allowing them to move and breathe in our hands. We let in the distortions of light and space, both within our walls and on our lips. We nurture the ugly, scaly and imperfect, until we can speak of it openly, until it loses its power over us.
We carry the ugly until it transforms into something beautiful and familiar—something worth nurturing, worth loving, worth celebrating.
This piece originally appeared on Feb. 1, 2021. For more insights on parenting and loss, check out this blog post here.
If you’re interested in learning more about home insemination, visit Make a Mom for expert resources. For excellent information on pregnancy, see this guide from Mayo Clinic.
Potential Search Queries:
- How to cope with grief after a stillbirth?
- What to expect when adopting a bearded dragon?
- Lessons learned from pet ownership and grief.
- How to support someone who has experienced child loss?
- Insights on bearded dragon care for families.
Summary:
This article explores the emotional journey of adopting a bearded dragon after the loss of a child. The author reflects on the complexities of grief, the societal pressures surrounding loss, and the importance of embracing and expressing one’s feelings. Through the lens of pet ownership, the author connects the themes of love, loss, and resilience, ultimately highlighting the transformative power of confronting the “ugly” aspects of life.
Keyphrase: grief and pet ownership
Tags: [“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]