Translator: Louise-Marie Six Reviewer: Denise RQ
I've known since the age of five that I would be a phenomenal mother.
I've watched my grandmother, the mother of 12,
beam with excitement
as she spoke about her children and the multitude of her grandchildren.
And I wanted to be like her - just with fewer kids, of course.
(Laughter)
Nine seemed to be manageable for me.
And I wasted no time becoming a mother.
At the very mature age of eight,
I was blessed with a beautiful Cabbage Patch daughter named Jackie,
(Laughter)
-- father unknown and unnecessary.
(Laughter)
Motherhood was paramount to my identity, and I took that job seriously.
The names of all nine of my children were written in my diary by the age of 13.
Motherhood was not just a dream. For me, it was a guarantee.
In 2006, I married the man of my dreams.
He's strong, and he needed to be.
He's full of faith, and he needed to be.
And he has a rich, distinguished voice,
which he needed to have, if I were to hear him over those nine kids.
It was the best of times.
We were happy, in love,
and well on our way to living the American Dream.
(Marvin Gaye's "Let's get it on")
(Laughter)
Hold the music!
(Laughter)
Sometimes, things just happen.
(Laughter)
And on my birthday, we found out we were pregnant.
Amazing!
Yes, we were in love with our baby right from the start,
and we shared the news with everyone.
This pregnancy was perfect. Flawless, in fact.
Until my water broke at 16 weeks, and our daughter Destiny died.
We had never known such pain, shock, and despair,
until eight months later,
when my water broke at 17 weeks, and our daughter Briana died.
Pain, heart-break, and despair grew exponentially.
One year later,
as we were pregnant with our daughter Madison,
and my water broke at 19 weeks,
that was on the evening of my husband's birthday.
Madison was born two days later,
and she lived for nine hours before joining her sisters in heaven.
Why is this important to talk about?
Is it just another sad story in need of sympathy?
Absolutely not.
I choose to break the silence of pregnancy loss for many of you.
I choose to break the silence of pregnancy loss
because the number of women who came alongside me
after each of our grief experiences to whisper,
"I know how you feel. I've lost a baby too,"
that number was alarming.
It was as if a secret society of women were emerging to say,
"I've lost a baby, but I've been told to get over it.
'You didn't know that baby anyway'."
Many of these women were just like me.
They dreamed of becoming a mother
since they were old enough to emulate their own mothers and grandmothers.
These women knew how it would feel
to announce a subsequent pregnancy without inhaling the fear of the past.
They knew how it would feel to attend a baby shower for a friend
and pretend to be happy on Mother's Day.
These women knew, - they had seen it intimately -
that men grieve, too.
But they are often overlooked as unnecessary and invisible
during pregnancy loss.
Men, just like my husband, who were strong because they needed to be,
would grow utterly weak at the pain of recurrent pregnancy loss.
Men like my husband, who has a rich and distinguished voice,
would grow utterly silent
as they were commissioned to "be strong and take care of your wife,"
but never acknowledged as a grieving father.
And many men, like many of you, who may be full of faith,
would be full of questions, even anger, to God,
as to "Why this happened to us?"
Oh, yes. Men grieve, too.
These women helped me understand
how those well-meaning but less than helpful cliches
like, "You're young, you can just try again,"
or "At least ..." - anything.
"At least, you didn't know the baby."
Or my personal favorite, "God needed another flower in his garden."
Don't say that one. Just leave that one out.
I choose to break the silence of pregnancy loss
because what you give voice to has the power to change your life.
But what you refuse to confess, you will never conquer.
And what you openly acknowledge invites instruction.
Let me show you what I mean.
A few days after Madison died,
I blogged about my to-do list for the upcoming day.
Two simple tasks:
pick up Madison's remains from the mortuary
- there she is -
and to find the expert who could help us end our recurrent pregnancy losses.
Within hours, I had an email communication from Michelle, in California.
She was part of the women who knew the pain of pregnancy loss.
She broke her silence, shared instruction,
and I followed those instructions to a tee.
And because of that, there's our son, Christopher Ethan.
His arrival was the angelic refrain
to the painful melody we had lived in the past.
And here is our son, Israel Grayson,
stillborn at 38 weeks due to a chord accident.
And here is our son, Benjamin Evan, born in 2013.
Now, if you are counting, I've given birth to six.
My husband and I parent two.
I choose to break the silence of pregnancy loss
by boldly, passionately, and intentionally
saying the names of my beloved children:
Destiny, Briana, Madison, Ethan,
Israel Grayson, and Evan
because I am not a victim of pregnancy loss.
I choose to break the silence for you
because I understand the power of broken silence.
I break the silence to free you from the shame of pregnancy loss,
to be a voice of hope and advocacy for those who grieve.
Ultimately, what you refuse to confess, you will never conquer,
but what you openly acknowledge invites instruction.
And what you give voice to has the power to change your life.
So, today, I have a question for you.
Are you silent?
Is it about pregnancy loss, or some other issue?
Will you break your silence today?
Ultimately, I choose to break the silence on pregnancy loss,
because I am not a victim.
I am a voice.
Because being silent helps no one.
Thank you.
(Applause)