The thing that no one tells you when you have a stillbirth is how much you will want to talk to people about it. Just not the people you know. When my daughter Iris died at 35 weeks in January 2011, I wanted to shout her name to the world. Complete strangers would walk by and I’d be gripped with the mad urge (never acted on) to run after them and tell them that my baby had died. I would sit in coffee shops with her name running around my head, lie in bed at night thinking about her, walk down the icy New York streets hearing each footstep as a beat of her name.
Of course, I had people I could talk to. My husband, Kris, similarly hollowed out by grief, with whom I wept at night. My family, who flew to New York in the months after her death. My closest friends, who did the same. But somehow when they were there, waiting patiently for me to tell them how I felt, I didn’t want to speak about her. Instead, I chattered meaninglessly about books and films and TV shows, about my two living children and life in New York and how it went on.
Related: The child I lost
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