Please Stop Asking

Unless you really want to know the answer, that is.

Please stop asking, “Is this your first?”

I think that the majority of people have probably heard the commonly cited statistic that about 1 in 4 pregnancies end in loss. And yet, somehow, “Is this your first child?” remains an acceptable go-to question for small talk with everyone from casual acquaintances to random strangers.

Shortly before Christmas, when I was about 38 weeks pregnant with my son, a kind elderly woman engaged me in small talk. Less than a minute into our conversation, she gestured towards my uncomfortably large stomach and asked me, “Is this your first?” I smiled through my heartache and gave my long-practiced answer: “Yes and no; it’s complicated.” Because you see, I got this question constantly. All. The. Time. Constant little jabs to my heart. I heard this question so many times that I quickly discovered I needed to have a pre-rehearsed answer. A pre-rehearsed answer that kept the asking party as comfortable as possible, while allowing me to be true to my story. That no, he is not my first. But yes, he is currently healthy, and should he survive labor and delivery, he will be my first living child. My beloved daughter was not healthy; she had congenital developmental problems that were discovered at the anatomy scan halfway through my pregnancy, and even though I still chose to carry her to full term, she only lived for 3 months and 4 days.

Yes and no. It’s complicated.

But unfortunately, this woman kept pressing. I don’t think she meant any harm by it, but she continued asking questions. Most people, when I gave this answer, either graciously changed the subject, or ended the conversation all together. Both responses were completely fine with me. Both responses allowed us to maintain our dignity and move on with our respective days. This woman, however, didn’t understand what I was trying to communicate, and kept asking questions. Did I have a child in school? Living somewhere else? After a few more unsuccessful attempts to deflect, I finally said that I had a daughter who died a few years ago when she was three months old. The woman looked horrified, and immediately stopped talking to me. (I’m sorry the events of my life are so horrifying to you. Honestly, they’re horrifying to me, too. Babies aren’t supposed to die, after all.)

Don’t ask. Don’t ask, unless you really want to know the answer.

A few days ago, I was on the phone with a customer service representative, on a “recorded line for training and quality assurance purposes.” He could hear my young son making noise in the background during our conversation, and he shared with me that he had a young child as well. I was mentally applauding myself for sounding so “normal” during this conversation while the two of us spoke about our young children (this can be tough for a bereaved mother), when suddenly came the question, “Is he your first?” Immediately, I thought, Oh great, now I must either make this nice person feel terrible (and on a recorded line no less, where this dialogue may then become the subject of future HR training), or I must lie. I had a split second to decide before things would get awkward. And I lied. I lied, and said, “Yes, he is.” The conversation continued on.

This was a few days ago, and I am still dealing with the emotional repercussions of this conversation. For some reason, this one hit me particularly hard. Three years after my daughter’s death, I denied her existence, yet again, to make someone else feel comfortable. To him, the conversation was small talk, and he has almost certainly already forgotten about it. I have no doubt that he did not intend to cause any hurt by his question. But oh, that question hurt. I have learned on my grief journey that the intent of something, and the impact it has, are not the same. Just because someone didn’t intend to hurt me doesn’t mean that I wasn’t hurt. Both things can be true. I am grieving, and I am allowed to feel my feelings. 

This insidious question has many variants.

“How many kids do you have?”

“You’re [insert age], why don’t you have any kids yet? When are you going to start trying?”

“Oh, you have [insert number] of [insert gender], didn’t you want to try for a [insert opposite gender]?”

That is why I’m writing this. Maybe you are one of the 3 in 4 who have never experienced pregnancy or infant loss, and you may not know how painful this question can be to those who have. Or maybe you have an idea, but you have never encountered an unfiltered response from a bereaved mother or father, and so you may not know the extent of the impact. Maybe you know the statistics, but have never thought beyond, “Oh, how sad.”  I get it. I understand. I used to be that person who didn’t know. I truly didn’t know.

Let my situation now help you to understand.

If you don’t truly want to know the answer, then please stop asking.