Let There Be Light

When I was four months pregnant with my son Lucas, my husband Mike and I started talking about baby names. Everyone, including us, thought that after the first trimester,  the rest of the pregnancy would be worry-free. It was our first time, and we didn’t know any better. Thus, we felt safe and confident making plans for the future, like choosing a name.

My husband wanted to name our son Richard, after his uncle. I didn’t like the name because people often use Dick as a nickname for Richard, and I told Mike no mother would want her son called that. At least, I didn’t. Since I felt strongly about it, Mike let it go. I wanted to name our boy Lucas because Mike and I liked the character Lucas from the Netflix series “Stranger Things.” I didn’t know what the name meant; I just liked how it sounded.

When our son was stillborn at 39 weeks on May 14, 2018, we were shocked and heartbroken. No one had warned us that this could happen, that a healthy pregnancy could end in such loss. I stopped talking to anyone who tried to comfort me with, “Everything happens for a reason.” Inside, I wanted to shout, Please give me a reason then. Why did my son have to die, and what lesson was I supposed to learn from this?

As I searched for meaning in my grief, I found out that the name “Lucas” has biblical roots. It is a form of Luke, one of Jesus’s twelve apostles, and means “light.” In the early days after losing Lucas, it felt like all the light in my world was gone, leaving me in darkness.

The only things I could read were stories about loss and grief. Through them, I learned that after her son Willie died in 1862 at age 11, Mrs. Mary Todd Lincoln, who was once known for her style in Washington, gave up her jewelry, colorful dresses, and flowered hats for plain black clothes. She wore black for the rest of her life to show her deep grief.

I could relate to how Mrs. Lincoln felt. Even though I still wore colorful clothes, my heart felt covered in black. I didn’t think I would ever laugh again, notice beauty, feel happy, or enjoy life.

But I was wrong.

Now, eight years and five months later, I can laugh and enjoy life again. The pain of losing Lucas is still there, just like the scar from the C-section. But the pain doesn’t control everything anymore. It has pushed me to try things I never would have before. I’m not living in the dark like I used to. I’ve let the light back in, and Lucas is part of that light now. Carrying his name and memory makes me want to be that light for others still in the darkness.

For just over a year, I have been working on “The Due Time,” a documentary about stillbirth awareness and prevention. I had never made a film before, but I started the project when I realized that raising awareness is the first step to preventing stillbirth. Making a documentary seemed like a good way to do this.

Making this film has been tough, especially fundraising, since the topic is unfamiliar to many.

My team just finished a 21-day trip across the country to film families who have experienced loss and to interview experts. Out of all the trips we took this year, this was the longest and covered the most ground. By the end, we were all emotionally and physically worn out. When I got home last Friday, most of my plants looked nearly dead from lack of care. Luckily, after some water, they all revived. Life is often more resilient than we think.

One of the mothers we interviewed was Emily Johnson, whose son Tadhg was stillborn at 39 weeks in 2019. Early on, people told her that she would get through her grief with time, but never fully overcome it. She was afraid that grief would affect her mind and body for the rest of her life.

Now, as time passes, thinking of Tadhg doesn’t trigger such a strong physical reaction in Emily. She feels less weighed down by grief, and memories of Tadhg sometimes can bring her happiness instead of pain. Today, Emily has two living children and often finds joy in small things. Emily wishes someone had told her early on that her grief would lessen and that she could eventually laugh and appreciate even trivial matters in life again.

Emily compared our experiences to dandelions growing out of cracks in concrete. Even in the most challenging situation, with sunlight, water, and time, we keep growing, blooming, and thriving.

On this International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Day, I want to speak to all the parents who have sadly joined the loss community: I am sorry you are here and that we meet under these circumstances. I know what happened is terrible and will change you forever. Even if it feels impossible now, please remember that you can still find happiness and live a good life. It takes time and effort. A crucial step is being willing to move out of the darkness of grief and let the light in again. As Rumi said: “The wound is where the light enters.”

Tonight, as people do every year, we’ll light candles at 7 p.m. local time and create a wave of light that moves around the world for our children. Let’s light for them, and try to be a little light for someone else still walking in the dark.