This article first appeared on the bpHope blog.
After much consideration, my husband and I made the difficult decision to not have children because of my bipolar disorder. Here’s how I’m coming to terms with this loss.
I’ve been considering holding a small ceremony, just my husband and me, to mark the loss of the child we never had.
I got this idea from Jody Day, founder of Gateway Women, the worldwide support and advocacy network for childless women. In a podcast episode of The Meaningful Life with Andrew G. Marshall titled “Find Hope and Meaning Without Children,” which I recently listened to, Day discussed childlessness as a form of “ambiguous loss.”
What Is ‘Ambiguous Loss?’
The term “ambiguous loss” was coined by Pauline Boss, PhD, in the 1970s. According to the Cleveland Clinic, it’s a loss with no sense of closure and a lack of resolution.
When I’m grieving, full-on sobbing, and refusing to get off the couch, family members tell me to “go for a walk” or “to get in the kitchen,” which honestly, I know will help — but it feels like they’re not listening to my pain. I want someone to sit with me, to acknowledge the grief and the loss — not to “fix me.”
While researching ambiguous loss, I read the suggestion to hold a small ceremony, like planting a tree or writing a letter, to create a sense of closure in response to ambiguous loss. It deeply appeals to me. “Yes,” I think, “let’s acknowledge the pain.”
A Personal Journey: Navigating Grief and Acceptance
My husband Tim and I recently decided, after a four-year process of investigation, to neither have biological children nor adopt. This was a very personal decision, one that was right for us, and certainly might not be right for you in your own journey: People with mental health conditions definitely can be good parents and have safe pregnancies.
I think my husband and I would have made great parents — that’s part of the grief for which I’m searching for closure.
I imagine Tim and I would burn a single white rose — for our dream daughter — then scatter its ashes over the frost-etched ground in our backyard. Perhaps we would alternate reading verses from Psalm 139:1-12, which was a reading at our wedding, and still speaks to me of an Almighty who holds all things in the palm of his hand and knows our pain intimately: “You have searched me, Lord, and you know me…” (Psalm 139:1).
And perhaps, we would be comforted...