525,600 Minutes: How Do You Measure a Year in the Life?

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness

Foreword: It has been 18 months since I wrote the following piece. A year-and-a-half later, each of these lessons resonates more deeply than ever before.

Every August, in the weeks before sorority rush, my sisters and I would gather and sing “525,600 Minutes,” from the musical Rent. We’d belt it out as many times as necessary to ensure the harmony was just right for our presentation to potential new members. Ten summers have passed since I last stood among my sisters, decked out in innocence and charming summer dresses, ready to sing our song; yet, I still remember every lyric:

525,600 minutes,
525,600 moments so dear,
525,600 minutes,
How do you measure,
Measure a year?
In daylights? In sunsets?
In midnights? In cups of coffee?
In inches? In miles?
In laughter? In strife?
In 525,600 minutes?
How do you measure a year in the life?

The thing is, I never really thought about the lyrics over the years beyond just singing them. Sure, the song is lovely and a sweet nod to friendship, but I was too busy living my carefree and fearless life to look back on my years and “measure” them. Besides, being too pensive and analytical causes wrinkles, resulting in the inevitable Botox injections. Life is short. Why inject chemicals into my face when it feels so much better to live a lighthearted life with my dreamy husband and precious, soon-to-be-born son, adoring the spring sunshine and Texas wildflowers?

Then came minute number one. His heartbeat was gone. His body, motionless on the ultrasound screen, confirmed Ian’s life had ended four weeks before he was due to draw his first breath; four weeks before we would know if he had his daddy’s eyes or mine; four weeks before we would hear the sweet song of his cry; four weeks before we would delight in the sunshine together as a family. His life had ended where it began, in my womb, my body. My body. The safest place my son would ever know had not only failed to keep him safe, it failed to keep him alive.

My body.
Mine.
Me.

A year has passed since we last heard the rhythmic beat of Ian’s heart. I had never felt compelled to reflect on a year until this one, my first as a childless mother. For me, the only appropriate way to measure these 525,600 minutes is to draw upon the lessons I’ve learned:

I’ve learned that we all grieve differently. Some people need solitude while others need to be surrounded by loved ones. Some need adventure while others need to remain very, very still. There is no right or wrong way to feel pain.

I’ve learned the enormity of condolences. A simple “I’m sorry” can be monumental.

I’ve learned that post-traumatic stress is real, raw, and ugly. It is not limited to soldiers of war or victims of heinous crimes. And may God bless the insurance representative or airline employee who gets sassy with a recently bereaved mother.

I’ve learned that misfortune will always test the sincerity of friends. Bridges which were once a pile of smoldering ash will be rebuilt with unbreakable bonds, and ties once believed to be indestructible will cease to exist. Both scenarios are gifts.

I’ve learned that my husband is my very own Super Man. He managed to carry the weight of our world on his shoulders while I relearned how to have a purpose.

I’ve learned that nothing cuts quite as deeply as judgmental speculations from family or friends. We’re already living without him; we don’t need ill-informed or uneducated assumptions, especially from loved ones, in addition to our already vicious pain.

I’ve learned that I heal a little bit every time I am able to help someone else.

I’ve learned that time does not, in fact, “heal all wounds.” Time heals no wounds at all. The joys of laughter, kindness, generosity, and love stitch our hearts together again. Without those blessings, time really sucks.

I’ve learned to forgive my body. Nothing I did or didn’t do caused that clot to form in Ian’s umbilical cord. He may have died inside of me, but he didn’t die because of me.

I’ve learned that I am given choices every day. From the instant my eyes open in the morning I can choose to be happy. I can choose to be thankful. All I have to do is make the choice.

I’ve learned some things will never make sense. I will always feel unsettled about the fact that my son can have a death certificate without a birth certificate.

I’ve learned that I really appreciate when people aren’t afraid to use Ian’s name.

I’ve learned that I am so much stronger than I ever thought I’d be again. I can host baby showers and actually have fun. I can hold my best friend’s hand through the delivery of her baby girl and feel an abundance of joy. I can hold my newborn niece in the same hospital I held my stillborn baby boy without feeling shattered.

I’ve learned there is love in my life, and because of that, I’m okay. That is the greatest lesson of my past 525,600 minutes.

About Jody:

Jody was raised and attended high school in San Antonio, and after seven years in Houston, she is happy to be moving back home with her husband, Gene, and her two furry children, dogs Bubba and Lulu. She holds a BA in psychology and enjoys working with children and adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities. A passionate sports fan, she can be found cheering on her Aggies, Spurs, or Texans nearly every day of the year. Jody believes in the therapeutic power of laughter, the existence of silver linings, and that blessings—both large and small—are hidden around every corner.

Jody's Headshot

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4 COMMENTS

  1. This was so timely for me. I have someone very dear to me going through something very similar and as someone who so badly wants to give support and love, this was really helpful to read. Thank you for being brave enough to share.

  2. Thank you so much for sharing this. I was yelling “yes!” In my head throughout this piece and with each lesson. Very inspiring and encouraging.

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