You’re fat. You’re ugly. You have an awful cheerleader voice. I’ve heard it all over the years. As a television news anchor, it comes with the territory: not everyone will like you. It was a tough pill to swallow early in my career, but the older I get, the more confidence I have about who I am. Viewers often attack the appearance and performance of news anchors, but that’s about as personal as it gets. That was until now, in my case.
My family was thrust into the spotlight recently as we shared our story of child loss with major media outlets like People and Yahoo. No longer was my story of two angels and one amazing survivor geared towards an audience of parents and those who have experienced a loss of their own. The masses were now reading my family’s journey and not everyone was a fan. “Oh puke. Some people just aren’t supposed to have kids,” read one comment. Another said, in part, “It’s probably a good idea to accept it when a doctor tells a woman to abort some of them.” My friends were appalled by the comments and couldn’t believe how insensitive people can be. But, I was honestly not bothered by the harsh remarks. I knew that people around the world were reading about my family, and much like television news, not everyone is going to like it. It wasn’t the national attention that finally got to me, it was a recent comment on my Facebook page that brought me to tears. I posted a picture of my daughter, Peyton, during a Children’s Miracle Network event (she is one of the organization’s miracle children). This is what someone wrote:
“She is beautiful and a miracle. BUT, have you ever wondered if Peyton, might resent that every time you mention her, after all she is an individual, you always reference her siblings. Recently, you put up a pic of her, but it is all about the fact that she was premature, had siblings, lost babies, speaker for moms that lost children, etc. She is here. Now. Live. Focus on her, not the fact that she is the only surviving triplet.”
In the 2 1/2 years since my children were born, never have I felt so hurt. It’s taken over two years for me to get back to feeling like my old self, yet it only took a few seconds to read this and kick my happiness to the curb. In the moments after I read this comment, so many thoughts and snide remarks came to mind. I wanted to yell at this woman. I wanted her to know how simple words can hurt. And I wanted to shout, “You have no idea!!!” Instead, I walked away from my computer and calmed down. I put my life out there on the internet, so I have to realize that people can share their opinion, good or bad. I responded to the woman’s comment and explained how we find ways to celebrate Peyton every single day and that regular followers of my blog know that. What people see on Facebook or on the news is just a snippet of my life. And while the lady apologized, it’s something I still can’t get out of my head weeks later.
To the woman who criticized my parenting, try to put yourself in my shoes. Not only am I a first-time parent, I am also the parent of two children who died. I have to figure out the normal tricks of the trade when it comes to raising my daughter, but also how to balance the grief with my beautiful, living child. Peyton is an individual, an amazing miracle child, who we celebrate every day. She will always know how special she is and we will find that perfect balance to celebrate her, along with remembering her brother and sister. Yes, Peyton is here. Now. Live. But, I’m not going to forget that she was a triplet and I’m not going to hide the fact that I am a mother to two angels.
To the woman who criticized my parenting, please cut me some slack. I’m doing the best that I can…and I’m proud of the mother I have become.
Stacey Skrysak is a local television news anchor in Illinois, but her proudest role is becoming a mom after years of infertility. Stacey is mother to a 22-weeker surviving triplet and two angels. Even though two of her children were only alive for a short time, her triplets have touched thousands of people around the world. Through her blog, Stacey has become a voice for infertility, premature birth and child loss. These days, she sprinkles in the trials and tribulations of raising a daughter, who was once nicknamed “The Diva of the Nicu.”
I can’t remember her laugh anymore. It’s been four years, and I still can’t say that out loud without feeling like I’ve done something wrong. My mom died in October. The specific details of that week are burned into me in the strangest way: I remember the brand of crackers someone brought to the hospital waiting room, I remember my shoes were too tight. I remember a conversation about parking validation that felt absurd while it was happening and still does. But her laugh? The actual sound of it? I’ve lost the edges of it. It comes back to me...
I tried to call her today. It has been a little over three years since she has been gone, and I tried to pick up the phone and call her. I saw the most beautiful sunrise on my way to work and thought, I’ve got to call my mama. It has been three years, and yet for a split second, my brain had me convinced she was just a phone call away. For a split second, I was just a girl, wanting to talk to my mom on the way to work. Almost like my heart just hasn’t caught up...
In his last years, Dad spent his days in a chair by the big picture window. From there, he could survey all the comings and goings of the ranch. He watched the weather, the dogs, and our Arabian stallion, Axum, galloping through the pines and calling to the mares across the hill. Occasionally, Dad would alert us that a certain dog had escaped or that a storm was coming in. He was looking out. He was keeping track. He needed help to move even a few steps. At night, my husband or I cleaned him, dressed him, and tucked him into...
Outside, the sky hung in a thick, dim slab, like a ceiling over the trees that stood crooked in the wind. Not the fresh spring breeze we’re used to in Florida, but the damp, cold kind that makes you pull your coat together with tight fists. I got there right on time, parked in a front spot in the almost-bare lot, and slid my violet boots with fluffy pom-poms onto the asphalt. I braced for the impact of the frigid air and tucked my body inward as I did a little hop-jog into the pub. Once inside, I let out...
I lay in bed this morning, sweet boy. It is Saturday. Seven of them since you left. Half awake, I turned over and saw Grief staring right at me. She pounced then stood, haughty, on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. She yelled that she would be close today. If she feels like it, she might even be relentless. She is cruel. You were the reason, sweet boy, for me to get out of bed on a Saturday morning. Actually, every morning you were my purpose from the moment I opened my eyes until the moment they shut. I knew on...
They say you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. I found that to be most true when my grandma passed. Like many grandmas, she was the best. She was kind and tender, but firm when she needed to be. She gave her time freely and used her baking talent to bless others. She had little and needed little, yet she had a way of drawing people together. There wasn’t a day I can remember when someone didn’t call her or stop by. She seemed to have all the answers and somehow knew how to fix almost any problem....
You’ve had that moment, right? That moment when you don’t recognize the woman standing in front of you. Her hair is grayer. The skin around her eyes is a bit darker. Even without noticing the small details, that face is different. It’s aged. And as I stared at her yesterday afternoon, all dolled up and nowhere to go, it dawned on me: My parents will never see this version of me. My mom will never get to see hands that look like hers. She’ll never recognize the wrinkles or the sun spots. My father-in-law joked about gray hair with my...
It is not often talked about. I completely understand why, but when going through something so heartbreaking and devastating, women shouldn’t have to suffer alone or in silence. If you’ve gone through it, you probably already know what I’m referring to – miscarriage. It is the reason many couples don’t tell people they are expecting until after the first trimester. It is so unfortunately common that one in four women will experience a miscarriage in their lifetime. According to the National Institutes of Health, 15-20 percent of pregnancies will end in miscarriage, and it is the most common pregnancy complication...
I was never meant to be a plant person. I’m the woman who can kill a succulent on the way home from the store. Once, a fern sighed in my direction and gave up. That is my spiritual gift. My grandpa Dominic would have laughed—hard. He loved to laugh. And sing hymns passionately in Italian. He was an Italian immigrant who lost his arm working in a mill, and still, he woke up every morning and dressed like dignity itself. He shopped for my grandma. He fixed what was broken. And he tended the biggest, happiest garden you’ve ever seen....
Recently, whenever I look in the mirror, I see a strong resemblance to my mother. People always said I looked like her, but I never really saw it until now. I think it may be because you always think of your parents as being older than you are. At the age of 61, I am now only two years away from the age my mother was when she died. The only good thing about dying young is that everyone will remember you that way. I have only known my mom as the vibrant, personable, and active woman she was. Well,...