Welcome to Main & Mama. This is a safe space that I created as a home for my broken heart in the aftermath of losing my sweet daughter, Eleanora James, at thirty-eight weeks in utero in June 2021. This home resides at the intersection of my role as Mrs. Main and my role as Mama to the girl I’ll never get to raise. Behind the front door is a mountain of grief that I’m trying to unpack and sort through by writing it all down—here. I hope you’ll come with me and maybe even stay awhile.
Although my writing in this particular manifestation and context is new, I’ve been writing about Eleanora since we found out we were pregnant with her on October 5, 2020. I began by first telling her story privately in a pregnancy journal; then, when we announced the pregnancy in December, I decided to share her story with everyone in our circle. Every laugh, smile, and tear of my pregnancy with Eleanora was documented and turned into a journey for our loved ones to follow along with on social media. It wasn’t just Daniel and me who looked forward to our baby girl’s arrival—we all did. Time and again, we were told, “We’ve never seen two people so excited to become parents” and, “We’ve never seen a happier pregnant person than Sarah.”
Our hopes for Eleanora’s precious life were shattered exactly eight months later on June 5, 2021, when we discovered she no longer had a heartbeat. I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant on the dot. Two weeks from that day was my due date, and one day after that was my husband’s first Father’s Day. We had been fully prepared to bring her home at any moment, and suddenly, she was gone. The nursery was finished, the clothes were washed, dried, folded, and hung, the books were organized, the stuffed animals were waiting, the car seat was installed, the hospital bags were loaded into the vehicle, and all of us had been waiting on standby with eager smiles. We were ready and we were excited for a baby, and suddenly, a baby wasn’t coming.
Eleanora James Main was born via c-section on June 10, 2021, and we laid her to rest on June 17.
Throughout my entire pregnancy, I saw the world through blissful, innocent, rose-colored glasses. It was a breeze, and truly, I had never been happier than I was while carrying our daughter. I was admittedly anxious the first trimester about the possibility of miscarriage, but as soon as I hit thirteen weeks, the tension in my shoulders eased. When we reached twenty-four weeks (the point at which the odds of a baby’s survival outside the womb increase significantly), the anxiety all but vanished. From that point on, I never questioned if my baby would arrive. It was only a matter of when.
The day she passed, I felt my entire world turn dark. I now feel like I’m squinting through a sweltering, black velvet curtain. I can’t see through it, and I have no idea what’s beyond it. Sometimes, if I’m able to pull the curtain back a bit, I can see glimpses of sunlight peeking through, but it doesn’t stay.
I know that, in order to survive the grief of my daughter’s death, I have to do exactly the same thing I did to celebrate her life. I have to write it all down. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even when I have nothing to say. For Eleanora. For me. For my husband and for our marriage. For our friends and family who are crying along with us. For other parents who have endured this same horrific loss. For all of us.
So I’m going to, in this new home of mine. It’s sad, and it’s messy, and it’s cluttered, and it’s uncomfortable, but it’s safe. I have hope that someday, we’ll pull that thick, dark curtain away, and we’ll let all the sunshine back in. Until then, thank you for walking on this journey with us. Thank you for crossing the threshold into this home. You are welcome here.
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