Photos: Menachem Kalish

A

fter I lost my son in a late miscarriage, I thought I’d write a story. In it, the main character’s pain would be so raw that even the coldest of readers would feel for her and for a moment know the hurt others have known in their lives.

But then I realized there are only so many times I can have the main character cry, wail, and weep. There are only so many times — really once, if it’s a short story — that she can have a total breakdown in her car, sobbing while driving to work.

And then there are the triggers. How many times can she be triggered by babies and pregnant women? It gets boring, and the reader will say to herself, Woman, get your act together. Or, Writer, move on and stop trying to add to your word count.

There are also the coincidences people wouldn’t buy. They happen in real life all the time, but in stories they seem contrived and clichéd. Like, really, really, your sister-in-law had a girl the next week? And really, really, really your sister had a boy two weeks later and you were kvatter? And c’mon, now you’re pushing it that your older sister is due two days after you were supposed to give birth, and it hurts every time you see her growing stomach.

Also, short stories don’t span that length of time. After the loss, there’s the lingering loss, where the world has moved on to the bigger tragedies, or at least newer ones, and you’re still grappling with that world that was supposed to be, and now will never be. The silent pain where everyone moves past you, everyone is normal, everyone has forgotten — but you. And you, you are memorializing.

Every bris, every niece’s birthday, every nephew’s upsheren you’re reminded of milestones that should have been, could have been, that will never be. Every Shabbos you stand before five neiros, one for each child, and think, there should be one more, he was here. He existed. No one will remember the date a year later, there is no yahrzeit; he exists and is remembered by you and your husband alone.

People ask, people care. That’s one nice thing — to see how many people were there for you. How many people made meals, stopped by, sent sincere texts. But there’s nothing to say. Although at least you didn’t get the stupid comments many other women complain of. Yet still, there’s nothing to say, just everyone saying, “I know there’s nothing to say, but I’m here for you, and I’m sorry for your loss.” Hugs count, but you don’t want a hug from everyone.

And there are the questions, medical and existential. Will it happen again, what went wrong, what should we do, what was the point spiritually, was he a gilgul, what happens to his neshamah, are you considered his mother when Mashiach comes?

And even later, when you’re not thinking about it, there’s restlessness and emptiness in your being. You turn the music up loud just to feel something beat in you.

This wouldn’t work for a story. Because a happy ending is not another baby. And a happy ending is not finding that elusive chizuk. A happy ending is not the character growth and development that is inevitable (lest you die of a broken heart), either. There is no happy ending, there’s just moving forward, and refocusing, recalibrating.

So what’s my point? What am I saying?

I’m not sure.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 594)