Don’t Look Back

I feel so lucky to have been able to have 3 children (in moderns times) of course even though I am RH negative. I cannot even imagine the heartache of losing a child. I am so thankful that we have the RhoGAM shot available to mothers. I wish peace to all mothers/fathers who have lost babies/children.

The strong spirit of this family is inspiring. Feelings held in, a stubborn forward motion, a certain kind of gruff frontier exterior--Debra tells us to look beneath the surface to find the love that people sometimes do not know how to share, or cannot share for the pain attached to it. Her own acknowledged silence is her heartfelt, beautiful message to us not to bury our emotions but bring them into the light of day. Thank you for the moving piece.

It took many years to find out that one of my cousins was a twin, a girl who didn't live more than a couple of days post birth. Thirty years to find out about it in fact. Seems to have been a thing of that period in which the generations born in the period from late 19th Century up to WW2 not to talk about such things. Also saw the same in war veterans who were told to just get on with it and forget the horrors of combat. My aunt is 99 years old in late December and has become vague the past 2-3 years. Not too far off now being reunited with her dead daughter (let's not not talk about too). I once saw a video on YouTube set to Aafje Heynis singing "Dank sei Dir Herr" and with an animation of a young woman walking through a graveyard and a very young child comes out to greet her. They hold hands and continue walking. Doubtless a mother who had lost an infant. It was very moving but sadly has now disappeared from Youtube. Maybe thought to be too morbid, which is unfortunate because, well, that is how life works. is just a denial .

My father had a sister who died at the age of 2 before he was born. My grandma never said a word about her and I never asked. I know nothing about Irene and that makes me sad. When I was in fifth grade, my parents told my brother and I that we were going to have a baby sister or brother. I happily told my friends. Then one morning, there was something obviously going on in my parents' bedroom and bathroom. Daddy said he had to take Mommy to the hospital. He got us off to school quickly. When mother came home, she told us only that something had happened and the baby died. She said it was God's way of dealing with babies who were not normal. Later in life, I realized that she had a miscarriage. But in the 60s, that was a subject people just didn't talk about. She's 86 now and one of these days I will see if she wants to talk about it. But she will never know that I had an abortion many years ago. She would be so upset about it, so I'll spare her from my pain. I gave her 2 grandsons before the pregnancy with the child I wanted but could not deal with, physically or emotionally. Mental illness makes it very difficult to be a good parent and, at the time, I was in and out of the psychiatric ward. There was no way I could deal with a third child. She doesn't need to know. I'm fine now and have been for many years. My sons are good men who make me proud. They love their Grandma and she loves them. Life has been wonderful.

Beautiful, touching essay. Thank you.

This was so heartbreaking but so beautifully written. I felt as though I was in that car with you.

Several years ago, before my mother passed away, she told me she had been pregnant 15 times. My parents were married in 1959. Mom was Catholic so her doctor would not prescribe birth control to her. Of the 15 pregnancies, 5 of us survived. She told me she would miscarry and wrap the near-term baby in a dish towel to take to the doctor's office. She said "I never new what happened to the babies after I took them to the office." It was one of the most amazing and open conversations I had ever had with her.

While it is true that everyone deals with grief in their own ways, I have found that people want to talk about their loved one. A good friend lost their mother about 3 months ago. I called my friend and they were so happy that I called and that I let them talk about how hard it has been. I happily listened and at the end of the call, they thanked me for calling and listening. Yet, I was blessed to hear their memories and be there for them.

My mother-in-law gave birth to several children. One was a miscarriage, but there was a twin. No one believed there was a twin, but m-i-l was sure it was there. Nine months later, it came out, dead. Then there was a boy, full term, who had an opening on his head, and he died when the scab was accidentally knocked off by a visitor. He bled to death in the taxi on the way to the hospital. The next was a little girl. She died...if I remember correctly...from an illness at 2 yrs old. Next, my in-laws adopted a son, after not being able to conceive again. And finally, they had my husband. They, too, moved, in the middle of the night, so no one would know their memories, or that one of their sons was adopted. I always knew about "the babies"; my m-i-l would talk about them now and then, but my f-i-l never did. After they both died (and the adopted brother died at age 33), I found all the birth and death certificates. It made tiny stories real, and made me understand my m-i-l a lot better. She was a little bit of a crazy lady, but believe me, she earned it.

Beautifully written!

My mother "miscarried" between me and my younger sister. That explains the longer than usual gap between us - 18 months between my older sister and I, 16 months between my two younger sisters, 27 months between the bookends of the miscarriage. We never talked about our unborn sibling. I don't know his or her sex. I don't know if our parents had names in mind. I don't know if there was a funeral or a burial. I don't know anything, except it happened. Both my parents are dead now so I may never know the answers, at least not in this life. We approach death so gingerly in our culture, while we celebrate life when the two are simply like bookends.

I have been to my grandparent's graves and my mother's grave. I felt nothing, I have my memories.

"...he died of a heart attack when he was just 64, gone suddenly, as if a plate had fallen from a shelf and shattered." "...grief carved into her like a cave, like a damp pocket in the earth where animals go to die." What beautiful writing! Thanks to Debra Gwartney for this essay's depth, thoughfulness, and exquisitely crafted sentences. And thanks to the NYT for publishing work by this wonderful writer, whose books I will now look forward to reading.

This line kept out at me, as it encompasses the small cruelties and power struggles that can taint a long marriage: “I’m certain my grandfather acted out of compassion for his wife — his notion, anyway, of what she needed, which was actually what he needed...”.

I wonder if the author's grandmother's first twin boys (and @mjohnson's aunt's first child) did suffer from Rh syndrome. Usually it is the first pregnancy that causes the mother to develop antibodies, but the child is not affected. (Unless an injury or invasive test causes the mother's blood to mix with the fetuses' blood early in the pregnancy.) Once the antibodies had formed (absent the current treatment), only Rh- children would survive. In my father's family, my uncle was born to an Rh- mother. He must have been Rh+. A baby girl in between was a "blue baby" who did not survive more than a day. Then my father was born. He must have been Rh- to survive. (I didn't learn about Rh factor until after he died, and I'm not sure he even knew.) And, no, they didn't have a funeral for the blue baby, and didn't know where she had been buried. Then again, I have no idea where my grandparents' ashes ended up. I kept my dad's ashes, so I could follow his wishes and scatter them at sea. And I recorded it on FindAGrave.com so anyone who wants to know can find out.

My wife lost her 3 year old brother when she was five. They had been playing together when he suddenly fell ill & 36 hours later Wayne was dead. It was the late 60`s & the Dr who made the house call told her parents that it was nothing more than the flu. Looking back, it was very likely meningitis. Wayne`s name was never spoken again in the family & my wife still carries the scars from that period in her young life. Wayne`s death came two days before Christmas so it was a grief filled Christmas. To compound my wife`s trauma, she was not allowed to go the funeral & an uncle told her on the day of the funeral that it was her "fault" that her brother had died. She still carries that burden. A farm family in the 60`s in which emotions were repressed. Thank you for this essay. It is a very moving & healing piece.

I'd hazard a guess and say that the grandmother never forgot her children who had died. My Mamaw was 97 when she died many years ago. She *never* forgot about her child who died. I wish I'd asked more questions and opened that door a bit wider for her to share her memories with me.

Rh-negative blood was a death sentence in the 1950s. I am the oldest of the boys my mother gave birth. That is why I am alive. My two younger brothers didn't make it. Edward lived a day. My other brother was born dead. I never knew as a child that my mother had gone thru that ordeal. Nor do I know where their graves may be. It was not until I was in my 20s and the right to an abortion began being debated in the early 1970s that my mother shared this family tragedy. She did so saying that she knew that her third pregnancy would result in a dead child and that she never wanted another woman to have to go thru that suffering.

Times were different then. In the sixties, I asked an aunt whose baby was stillborn, what happened to it? She said, the funeral home took the body away and buried it. I don't know if she got to hold her baby, but it is in an unmarked grave with others who died unnamed. By today's standards that is horrifying that a baby is forgotten, and in some cases, in an unknown place. Hart Island is one of those places of mass graves of unnamed babies. Psychologists and psychiatrists are always telling people what is best for them. At that time, it was to move on and forget about the dead baby. For some that might have worked out well, but for others, they spend the rest of their lives lamenting that they should have done something different. For a long time, some churches made it worse by saying that unbaptized babies are not in heaven. For your grandmother, this may have been the best way, or she could not oppose her husband and she suffered for it. You cannot change the past. You could have a small marker placed in that cemetery to mark their passing if it would make you feel better.

Charles was born first before the five of us who followed. We always talked about him. Every Memorial Day we went to his grave in the Babies' section of the Cemetery. We talked about the other families who had also lost babies. Mother talked about what could have caused those deaths. Charles was a blue baby and died at about 2 days old Nowadays they would quickly do a heart surgery.

Infant and child death was widespread then. In older cemeteries you can find areas labeled "Babe's Rest" or something similar. Women who could not carry to a viable birth were blamed, by some, for some innate weakness or failing. Compassionate men were uncommon. Your grandfather appears to have taken the most compassionate road available in that era- erase all reminders so the wound can heal clean. He did the best he could. So many humans cannot claim that mantle.

Speaking as someone who lost a baby and has worked closely with others who have, I don’t quite get it. There is nothing for the writer to regret here. The parents should be able to choose their own way of dealing with the terrible loss. If they don’t want to talk about it, why would you torment them by bringing it up? Nowadays we feel like we need to talk about everything. But sometimes people need silence and privacy to deal with things in their own way. And we ought to respect that. Sometimes people feel better just knowing that someone else knows, or sympathizes, or went through the same thing. But not everyone is like that. And sometimes people only want to share with a very limited circle of people. That might not include a grandchild and that’s perfectly reasonable.

My wife died 16 months ago, and I want to talk about her, but no one ever asks me and no one ever brings her up and talks about her. I am writing this hoping that whoever reads this may have a friend or relative who is in my position, and who may desperately want to talk about their loved one who died. Please do not be afraid to do so. Make an effort. Of course we are all different individuals and some may want to remain silent and not talk about their loved one, and if so, you will be able to tell and you can honor that feeling. But for me and I am sure many others in my position, we desperately want to remember and talk about the person we loved and to share with our friends and family memories they have.

My mother had a stillborn baby in 1952, five years before I was born. She did tell me and my siblings about him, but always referred to him as “the little boy.” He was never given a name. My father never, ever talked about it, even when asked. But even as a child, I could see the pain on his face. My mother was still in the hospital when he was buried, unattended, in an unmarked grave in an un-maintained part of the cemetery. My parents never went there.

Thank you for this essay. You’re not alone. Once, in my youth, my late father told my brother and me that he had a younger brother who at the age of 6 ran into the street chasing a ball and was fatally struck by a car. He said nothing else. My grandparents, aunts and uncles never mentioned a word about him. Later in my life I became the recipient of family photos and documents; yet, I found nothing to document his life. In my family tree queries, online studies, and telephone calls to elderly relatives who still might remember, I learned nothing else but the basic facts. Aside from my father’s conversation with me long ago, I have been able to find only a death certificate and a cemetery record to remember my long dead boy-uncle’s life. It’s very sad and remarkably parallel to the author’s own tale.

A very moving peice. It reminded me so much of Horton Foote's plays. Reading it and some of the comments here I am sort of stunned. My mother was RH negative and gave birth to 5 healthy children. She did have an ectopic pregnancy once when I was 14 and almost died, perhaps that was caused by the RH negative factor. She never talked about it. When I woke up I found her lying on the couch barely able to move and I called my best friend's mother who had been a practical nurse and she guessed somehow what it was and called an ambulance. This was in the late 50s. I remember sending all the younger children to the back of our property so they should not see their mother carried out on stretcher and put in an ambulance. All but one of my brothers were farmed out to friends during her hospital stay which was at least a week. My brother David who was 8 years younger than me was put in my care, it was summer. I remember going with my best friend swimming and taking him along and never leaving him alone to swim out to the raft the older kids used. My friend was annoyed with me not swimming away with her. As I said, my mother never mentioned the whole thing when she came back. I do remember her saying to her friends that she was RH negative and had been told not to have more than one child or something because my Dad was RH positive and yet two years later my youngest brother was born healthy Maybe she was not really RH negative after all.

Beautifully written. My father, born in 1911, was the last of 9. I only knew of 5 siblings & the others I only had small inklings of the why of their early passing. Such a contrast to today’s revelations of everything. I think some balance is in order, as your essay reveals.

My grandfather was a widower with a 10 year old daughter when he married my grandmother in 1918. They had my mother in 1919 and my uncle in 1924. When my mother was 14 years old she was looking for some papers in the family desk- probably to register herself for high school as her immigrant parents had limited English skills, she came upon two death certificates- one with her name and the other with her brother's. She asked her older sister- now 25 years old what this was all about and my aunt said." Oh, well, you see my mother and my baby brother died..." This was the first it was mentioned that they were half siblings and apparently to honor the deceased they had named my mother and uncle after the first wife and son. It was rarely spoken of and I believe it was so common that it was less painful to not bring it up. My mother had Rh negative blood and had many miscarriages in the 8 1/2 years between my brother and I. I was expected to be a blue baby and the doctors were prepared to resuscitate me but some how I was just fine! My daughter is Rh negative and last year gave birth to her first child, my granddaughter. She was given a medication to counter the antibodies and protect future pregnancies. We have come a long way in the last 100 years.

A favorite aunt gave birth to four babies and all of them died due to RH negative issue. My favorite cousins adoption was a result of Aunt and Uncle wanting children. Ten years ago I told that cousin about her parents quest for children. She didn't know about the anguish except that the "babies" were buried at local cemetery. Cousin was in her early fifties and I was in my early sixties. Aunt passed away a month ago and enjoyed the attention of ten great grandchildren.

Stirring piece, Debra Gwartney. With all the secret withholdings and all the anguished leaks of grief. Thank you.

What a gorgeous essay. I reluctantly saw myself in all these characters. Such a human story and a reminder of the muddled line between fear and love. Unforgettable.

Wonderful, tender piece of writing, Debra. Thank you

Winston Churchill had several sayings about this. KBO Keep Buggering On and “If you’re going through hell just keep going”. He had a daughter, Marigold, who died at 3. She fell ill while he was away. He rushed home in time to hear his wife making sounds like a wounded animal. He never spoke of his daughter again. He said it was just too painful.