The movie ‘no’ is a lie

Content warning: Photos of a deceased infant and grief.

Hands in the air, often on knees, glaring skyward, as if to rage against a deity or aliens (or whomever might be in charge of unfortunate events). That’s how our cinematic downtrodden are dealing with death and grief. Arms thrown back, chest open to the world, they scream, “NOOOOOOO!” They scream like this, because someone thought that’s what you do when you grieve. Then a bunch of other writers and directors thought that was cool and now it’s everywhere. Mostly it doesn’t happen that way, and just like anything we do that’s not reflected back at us in the media, we can feel bad about how we react. Sometimes, people think they are doing sad wrong and that’s upsetting. There is no wrong way to grieve.

Well, let’s add on a caveat that harming others is wrong (unless in self defence) and if you want to harm yourself, please tell someone and seek help. Those use cases aside, bereavement and other forms of grief are really a free for all to process your emotions and loss. You don’t see a lot of people crying in public, so it doesn’t seem okay to cry in public. The bereaved are like sci-fi mole people, hiding in the dark trying not to make other people upset by their totally normal emotions.

One year ago today I got a call from my surrogate’s husband. I had cervical cancer previously, went through IVF to get my eggs removed and created embryos with my then-partner. We had our top genetically approved embryo, a girl, implanted in a fabulous woman who impregnated like a champ. She was 39.5 weeks along when I got the call. I thought this was go-time, and I was going to fly like the wind to California from Seattle to pick up my little girl, Rook. I was having a playdate with a great friend and her kids and my daughter at the time.

“Erin, she went to the doctor for her check-up for the induction and the baby has no heart beat.” I felt like I had no heart beat. I didn’t really know what was happening. For a few minutes I wasn’t sure if she could still be saved and I was just trying not to react around my daughter. My friend saw my face figuratively peel off and land on the floor and crumple into dust. I managed to tell her in small gasps what had happened and she immediately offered to take my daughter to her house for the evening and feed her dinner. Once I had no Tinies as an audience, I began frantically calling my partner, my mother and because I’m a fairly open person on social media who had been live media-ing ‘all the things’ I posted that my baby had died. I bought a ticket online to go to California to meet my daughter, they were waiting for me to get there to induce my surrogate.

After all the house keeping of death was in order, I had my movie ‘no’. I did not throw my hands to the air. I did not say ‘no’. It felt more like an exorcism. Chest closing in on me, hard to breathe. Stomach clenched like a metal fist was punching me over and over in the gut. Churning a toxic sludge that if I kept it down, would consume me. So I threw up. Then, on the floor, crying and shaking, I started alternating yelling and whispering. I yelled, “Why? Why is this happening?” I yelled it to no one in particular. I just desperately wanted to understand how after all the struggles I had been through, that in an instant, my baby was dead. Then I just straight up rage screamed. For a long time. After I whispered, “Oh baby girl, my little baby girl… I hope it didn’t hurt.” Followed by a lot more rage screaming. I think that grief is a little too real for a lot of movies, but it’s normal and if it happens to you, you’re still okay.

Another great woman and friend saw my post on Facebook and came over to my house. She asked if I wanted her to come with me for Rook’s birth. After a bunch of, “No, it’s too expensive…” type comments, she got it out of me that I would appreciate the hell out of her company and booked herself on a flight. My partner got home, my mom was on the way from Canada to watch my daughter and my friends husband raced us to the airport to make our last minute flight. I had a bag packed with all the things I needed to retrieve my daughter, I had to unpack all the formula and diapers but left in some clothes for her.

The labour was a comedy of horrors. My poor surrogate, who was stoically waiting for me to fly in, was very tired, pregnant with a still born and trying to be a rock for me. Her family was all there and everyone was attempting their nicest selves. We all cracked jokes, because that’s another very normal thing a lot of people do when they are sad. Hours and hours they tried to induce her with various means. As any woman who has gone through induction before knows, stress and fatigue do not help the situation and there was no way to get her body to go into labour properly under those conditions. So we were all sent out of the hospital to ‘get rest’ for the night and scheduled to come back in the morning and try again.

My friend and I had to find a hotel for the evening and they were all booked. The small town we were in did not have a reliable taxi service and we ended up walking for over an hour trying to find a place to sleep. I cried all over the place. I cried in the coffee shop, I cried in the diner, I cried down the street and yelled at nothing because there were no people out. My friend was amazing and supportive and cried with me. If you cry in public, it’s okay. People will get over it and just maybe, you’ll meet a good one who will ask you if you’re okay or need help. It’s also okay to tell someone the truth when you’re sad and say, “My baby just died, I’m waiting for her to be delivered right now. I never got to feel her inside me, I never got to know her while she was alive, and now I will never get to. It feels awful.” I don’t think there’s anyone who I told since it happened who also didn’t cry. Totally normal.

The next day, my mother and a swarm of friends from Canada had descended on my house and were watching my daughter, cleaning my place and tending my garden. One friend from the UK even decided to get my eaves fixed and had my couch cleaned. My partner was able to fly down and try to make it for the labour.

My friend, who is a nurse, was amazingly helpful to both myself and my surrogate. Advocating with the hospital staff, making sure I didn’t have to have my ID checked each time I left the area, being the one to explain that we were ‘those people’ with the still born inside another person.

Labour began and I asked my friend, who is also a photographer (as well as nurse and badass moral support), to take shots of the labour. My surrogate’s husband asked if she wanted his hand, she said no. I asked if she minded if I held her hand and she said of course. So I held her hand, thinking of how brave she was. How womanly she was to grow someone’s child and not want to bother anyone with her pain. Trying to tough it out on her own, but still be there for me. My friend, destroyed with her own pain, but trying to capture the moment honestly, so I would have a memory — at least one, with my daughter. This is always how I have seen women in grief. Solid and soft, all in one. An earthquake proof hug.

The doctor looked up, delighted, (I’m sure this was a reflex) and said, “Oh, she has so much hair!” I knew she would have hair. Just like I did, just like her brother did. I cried. As she was delivered, we all saw that she had the cord wrapped around her neck twice, just like her sister did, which is how I ended up in a c-section with her. Tiny Dancers, twirling in the warm sauna, enjoying the thump, thump, thump of the heartbeat rave.

My then-partner arrived shortly after labour had completed and we were in a private room at that point. It’s also important to note, that while screaming and crying in public are acceptable, not doing that and not crying are also acceptable. Some people can’t and won’t and that’s okay too.

There we were. With so much effort and a dead little girl. A perfect little girl who had been in the warm sauna too long. Some skin peeled. She had blood pooled in parts of her face. She was gorgeous and I refuse to photoshop her now. There are groups that go in and take photographs of your babies that are still born or pass after birth. I did not know, but I was offered this service at the hospital. I also do photography so it was my goal to take all her shots myself. My friend bathed her for us, we dressed her in the outfit I was going to take her home in. She was larger than her sister, and the outfits were a little small. We had been moved to the post-partum ward where there was a little courtyard and I wanted to have photos of her with the sunlight on her face. She would never get to see the sun.

Now again, I am a public person, and my method of grief is not for everyone. I have always found great strength from telling my stories, and have amassed a stellar community of helpful, strong people with more empathy than the universe has stars. I now know several other parents who have lost a child and we talk regularly. However, I posted my photos on twitter and had Child Protective Services called on me as though I had ‘gone off the deep end’. It was deeply intrusive and insulting and I can’t even imagine the type of broken thought processes that go through the brain of someone like that. It was a non-issue for CPS, to their credit, but still on top of losing a child, that happened.

I only got one day and then the funeral to be with my sweet little baby girl. My tiny little Rook. I took as many photos as I could, because that’s all I get. I speak about my grief, because my love for her extends well past her death. My arms will not raise to the sky, with an open chest, but my heart is not closed. My words will never be the movie ‘no’. I am reminded daily of all the amazing people who helped me through this hard time and all the times before it, and I will always ask strangers crying in public, “Are you okay? How can I help?”