Grief Kept Watch
On trauma, memory and the body
By Deborah Kourgelis
One day shy of thirteen years since my first son was stillborn, I found myself in labor with another son. The date alone carried weight, though I tried to ignore my grief. Yet it kept watch quietly, the way it often had, always lingering.
Suddenly, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat disappeared from the monitor. The vibe in the room changed instantly. What had been routine became urgent. Chaos followed.
Nurses rushed to alert my doctor, who was teaching residents somewhere else in the hospital. When he arrived, there was no discussion about anything. They decided to take me immediately for a cesarean section - not the typical emergency procedure where the mother remains awake - but one requiring general anesthesia.
I would be completely unconscious. Instead of the common horizontal incision, they would cut vertically, the kind reserved for life-or-death moments. My failing body became a problem to be solved. I was no longer a person, I was a “situation.”
When I woke, I was disoriented and in pain. I was told my son was alive, but only after needing resuscitation. The words barely landed. My body hurt, my mind felt distant, and my nervous system was overwhelmed. I was furious my husband was with me and not with our son. I overheard him call his mother and say I was “butchered.”
One doctor joked that I could always “get a tattoo” to cover up my new, nasty, long scar. He proceeded to get annoyed with me that my hand was covering my face and I was blocking my oxygen.
I felt so much shame.
A short while later, I was wheeled to the nursery. I remember knowing, with defeat and certainty, that I could not hold my baby. I was too weak, too nauseous from the pain medication, and too disconnected from myself.
This was not how I had imagined meeting him. Soon after, my three other living children, each under the age of five, called to ask what the baby’s name was. Instead of joy, I felt anger. I remember wondering why my husband would have them call me in the state I was in.
I could not bring forth happiness, which was what was expected of me. I responded curtly, something like, “Ask your father. He knows the name.” Even as the words left my mouth, they felt wrong, but I had nothing else to give.
The past did not return; it revealed itself. It had never left. This was trauma. But at the time, no one recognized it as such - not me, not my family, not the medical staff. I was profoundly activated, my nervous system reacting not only to the acute trauma of an emergency cesarean section under general anesthesia, but also to the unresolved grief of losing a son nearly thirteen years earlier, almost to the day.
The past was not in the past. It was alive in my body.
Hospitals are thorough in some ways. I was asked repeatedly about my medical history, including my prior stillbirth. The information was documented. It was known. Yet no one made the connection that this new crisis could reopen old wounds, especially given how closely the experiences mirrored one another.
No one paused to consider that trauma is not erased by time, and that the body remembers even when the mind tries to move on. Today, we are encouraged by trauma-informed thinkers like Bruce Perry, in his book “What Happened to You?” to shift the question we ask about people’s behavior. Instead of asking, “What is wrong with you?” - especially when someone responds with anger, withdrawal, or strange emotions - we are urged to ask, “What happened to you?”
Had that question been asked of me then, my reaction might have made sense. My anger was not a character flaw. It was a signal. There is an additional detail I have carried with me over the years.
The doctor who performed my emergency surgery suffered a heart attack later that same day. I have often wondered whether the stress of my surgery contributed to it. He knew my history. He knew I had already lost a son. Perhaps he, too, was carrying the weight of not wanting another boy of mine to die. Perhaps the intensity of that moment lived in his body as well.
Trauma is not always visible. Frequently, it is unnoticed, hidden beneath compliance, silence, or reactions that appear disproportionate until the history becomes known. Bodies often cannot do what is asked of them. What happened to me that day was not just a medical emergency. It was the collision of past and present, grief and survival, memory and fear. And it deserved to be seen, named, and held with care.
About the Author:
Deborah Kourgelis is a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) in NJ, NY, OH, and FL, and a Licensed Clinical Alcohol and Drug Counselor (LCADC) in NJ, with over three decades of experience guiding clients through grief, loss, trauma and addiction.
Based in Mahwah, NJ, she holds an MSW from Fordham University (2003) and is a David Kessler Certified Grief Educator.
She is co-authoring a book on the “JUST ASK” framework, inspired by her own grief.
Visit crossroadspsychotherapynynj.com for more.
