I refer a lot—here, in my head, in conversations, to Planet I Delivered a Dead Baby. This isn’t original; it’s a take on Planet My Baby Died, which I first heard about here.
Apparently it’s a thing in the pregnancy and infant loss community, a phrase meant to describe the parallel universe you feel you are living in when your child dies, the difficulty you have coping with all the mundane, trivial stuff that makes up normal life and that other people are seemingly consumed with. Oh, your favorite sports team won the game last night? That’s nice. My baby died. You can’t find a good deal on some stupid plastic shit that your kid probably won’t play with after two weeks anymore? Too bad. My baby died. You had to wait in line at the store for 10 minutes? How awful. My baby died.
(Most days on this planet—shit, all days—Facebook can be a living hell.)
I suppose this probably applies to just about anyone who is grieving. Planet My Husband Died. Planet I’m Dying of Cancer. Etc.
I decided to give Planet My Baby Died a new twist, a slightly different name. Partly to be dramatic I suppose, but also as a form of self-punishment. Why? Because it’s 2015, I live in one of the wealthiest states in one of the wealthiest countries in the world, I have a degree, I got good prenatal care, Zack and I have never had any health issues, I have a clean diet and exercise regularly, and still … I Delivered a Dead Baby. I must have fucked up big, and I deserve to be reminded of that.