Earlier this month, the Arab Emirates 7Days newspaper reported on a case involving a young Lebanese mother who was found guilty by a Dubai court of causing the death of her full-term, unborn child. The mother was driving home one day in October 2008, just four days before her scheduled Cesarean section, when she unintentionally struck the vehicle in front of her. The drivers of the vehicles sustained minor injuries, but the baby’s umbilical cord was severed in the accident.

The head of Dubai Traffic Prosecution was quoted as saying the verdict would serve to protect unborn babies: “The mother is responsible because she didn’t protect her baby. She hurt her baby when she caused the accident. We want all pregnant women to avoid driving unless it is necessary, or it is an emergency situation. They need to protect their baby and sit in the back.”

When my son died at 41 weeks of pregnancy, I suffered with terrible bouts of guilt. After all, what is a mother’s primal purpose but to protect her unborn baby? I blamed myself for not sensing something was wrong, for trusting medical providers who turned out to be negligent, for not demanding my son be delivered before his due date, for studying almost every possible pregnancy complication but velamentous cord insertion, for not seeking a second detailed ultrasound, for forgetting to take my prenatal vitamin a few times, for not questioning my midwife when she told me it was perfectly normal to stop gaining weight at 32 weeks of pregnancy, for not asking what my fundal height was at each prenatal visit as I later learned Nicolas had intrauterine growth restriction, for believing my midwife when she said I couldn’t possibly have preeclampsia despite my dangerously high blood pressure, and for hundreds of other things.

Mostly, I blamed myself for living while my infant son died.

Every mother of a child who dies struggles with tremendous guilt. And to have your child die inside you – where he is supposed to be nourished and protected – brings a guilt and a grief like no other. I cannot imagine the torment this poor Lebanese mother is experiencing to be condemned by a court of law of failing to protect her baby and causing his death. As an American, it is easy for me to say that Dubai, like many Middle Eastern countries, is inherently misogynistic and is using this tragic event as a way of pushing women into the backseat, of reneging on the few hard-won rights granted to women in their country. But for this mother who lives everyday under these rules and culture, an official condemnation – official proof of her guilt — must be an impossible thing to live with.

It has been over three years since I lost Nicolas, and on most days, I do not struggle with guilt or blame myself for his death. Although I still wish with every fiber of my being that Nicolas had lived, I understand now that I did my best for my son given the situation. None of us, including the Lebanese mother, intend for our babies to die – none of us would knowingly cause harm to our unborn children. It is a sad truth that we cannot protect our children in all situations. The unexpected and the catastrophic happen everyday, despite our best intentions. The guilt we feel when our children suffer from tragedies beyond our control is proof of the deep love and responsibility of motherhood. Guilt is part of being a mother.

Today is my fourth Mother’s Day. The holiday is meant to acknowledge all the work mothers do, the sacrifice of not only time and energy but self. Despite its lofty purpose, I have always considered Mother’s Day a slightly trifling holiday, promoted more by Hallmark and 1-800 Flowers than by any true tradition or feeling. While pregnant with my first baby, Nicolas, the thought of spending Mother’s Day with a child of my own flitted through my mind as a novelty. I imagined, briefly, what it would feel like to be on the receiving end on this day. After three decades of giving, this year I would open syrupy Hallmark cards and accept bunches of flowers from the 1-800 delivery guy – all because of the little heart beating inside my belly.

But then Nicolas died. And no Mother’s Day cards or flowers came.

That first Mother’s Day took on an unexpected significance for me. The lack of cards, the lack of calls – the lack of simple acknowledgement – was a silent testimony to the fact that I failed my son, that I failed to become a mother. I felt like an outsider. I had carried a baby for ten months and given birth to him, but I wasn’t a part of the mommy club. But neither was I a part of that group of women who have never been pregnant or had a child before. I was in limbo, not welcome in the mother group and kicked out of the singles club. So I spent my first Mother’s Day crying in bed, alone, my body still healing from 41 weeks of pregnancy and 23 hours of labor, my arms aching to hold my son.

The following year was different. I had given birth to my second son, Christopher Nicolas – a squirming, squealing, living child. With the birth of Christopher, I was brought into the mother fold. I received many calls – “how’s it feel to be a mother?” – received many cards – “Happy Mother’s Day” – and even received a bouquet or two of flowers from the 1-800 delivery guy. The change was distinct and real, the message even clearer. Now that I have a living child, I am allowed to acknowledge publicly that, yes, I am a mother.

Today is my fourth Mother’s Day, but none will ever hold the same significance and importance as my first. With the passage of time cushioning the pain of that first year, I understand now that a mother is not just someone who changes diapers, wipes noses, cheers at soccer games, or comforts a scraped knee. A mother is someone whose every thought is preoccupied with her child. A mother is someone who continues to love her child even after he dies. A mother is someone who mothers her son even in death. My heart aches for all the women I know who are going through their first Mother’s Day without their children. You are still a mother, and today is still your day. We don’t need Hallmark to tell us we’re mothers.

Is a mother’s grief proportionate to the amount of time she was blessed to have with her child? Is her grief harder to bear when her child dies as an infant, leaving behind unfulfilled hopes and dreams of a life together, or as an adult who has built decades of memories?

Our world asks these questions of us, pits grieving mother against grieving mother, in a perverse competition of the mourning. For the first year after Nicolas’ full-term stillbirth, I felt I had to defend not only his existence as a human being but my right to mourn him as his mother. A friend of the family even had the audacity to say we were fortunate to lose Nicolas at birth rather than at five years old. I still have difficulty justifying this brilliant bit of logic. I suppose in her mind it is better Nicolas was robbed of the simple gifts of life – feeling the wind, tasting chocolate ice cream, laughing until his belly hurts, sneaking downstairs to see his Santa gifts under the tree on Christmas morning, feeling unconditional love in his parents’ hugs – than to have had these experiences for five years. In her mind it is better we lost Nicolas before his first breath than to have had the gift of watching our child flourish and live for five years.

The fact is each loss is unbearable – each loss brings a lonely anguish only the mother of a child who died can know, whether her child died at birth or at 45 years of age. I came across an article on mothers’ grief and would like to share. Through stories of mothers who have lost children at different ages from different causes, “An Uncommon Loss” describes a common grief among those of us living without our children.

“Uncommon Loss, Mothers Who Grieve The Death Of A Child”