‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through. If I ever lost my baby I wouldn’t know what I’d do with myself.’
What I say:
Losing him isn’t anything I ever expected to experience.
What I want to say:
Imagine walking into a room knowing it’s the last time you’ll ever come into contact with your child. It will be the last time you can see them, brush their hair, kiss their cheek, and tell them you love them in person. You don’t know whether if your brain is going to soak these moments up or just blur them out so it’s not so painful. As you walk out that door, you’re leaving everything you ever loved behind.
Imagine having to pick whether you want to bury your child six feet under the ground or if you want to cremate them. Before you do that, you’ll have to pick their lost outfit. Then when you’ve done that, you have to sign a paper, through tears, saying that you’re allowing your child’s body to be in a casket forever or be turned to ashes.
Imagine you have to attend your child’s funeral. The pastor reads his or her’s names and the dates they lived and died. They’re singing songs and telling you that we all have a season of mourning. You’re so numb in that moment that the only thing you can feel is the tears running down your face and how you’re gasping for a single breath. This time will be a whirlwind and utterly unbelievable.
Imagine now when you walk into your home. There’s an eerie silence that greets you and like an unwelcome guests, stays for entirely too long (it still hasn’t left my house). The house is too clean and there are flowers brought from the funeral. Flowers that will eventually die and all you can think about is how much you hate that things die. There will be plates upon plates of food in your fridge, but you’ll never remember eating them. You won’t remember because your body doesn’t allow you to get hungry right now. I mean, how can you be hungry when your child will never be able to eat again?
Imagine not knowing the days and weeks passing by because it all feels like a cloud. You literally feel dead on the inside and quite honestly, you feel like you want to die to be back with your child. Loneliness sets in and you don’t feel understood by anyone that did before.
Imagine the months that follow. It seems like everyone else has had their closure and are ready to get on with their days. They start to wonder when you’re going to ‘get back to normal.’ Some ever tell you they miss the old you and would do anything to get you back. They question why you’re so sad all the time, like they don’t see the absence that you feel so very heavy in your heart. But with all your questions you start to feel insecure and like you’re not grieving right.
Imagine having to live the rest of your life, never being able to see, hear, or talk to the little one you made. The little one that you gave life and cared for so very much.
Now imagine this… through all of these things, you’re being told you can have another child and that they’re in a better place. You’re told that you should be getting sleep because there’s no child to keep you up through the night. There are people who say they don’t know how anyone can keep going after their child could die (my only other choice is choosing to die). When you talk to others, they don’t understand why you’re still sad. To top it all off, they say they can’t imagine what you’re going through.
No. You can imagine it. It hurts like hell, but you can imagine it.
You just won’t.
Today marks forty-three weeks since Jensen has been born; Sunday will be ten whole months. There are days I wake up and I still don’t want to imagine my life being like this. Yet, this is my reality I’m forced to live with. I didn’t choose this and I would NEVER wish this pain and longing on another person.
Although I know people who say they couldn’t imagine living without their child would never mean to hurt me, it hurts me. Believe me, I know it’s literally the worst thing a mother could imagine, but so many moms are living it. It’s not that I want you to imagine the pain, but I want you to halfway understand what I’m going through. Instead of saying you can’t imagine, please just say you don’t want to.
Jensen Grey, you are so very loved. Thank you for giving me the strength every day to keep going on. Even during my hardest days, you send me signs to let me know you’re right here. With each of your cheers, I can hear them within my soul. This life isn’t want I expected, but I would ALWAYS choose you. I miss you. I love you.
Hi mama, I can just sympathise with what you going through. I lost my beautiful princess Freya on the 10th of August 2016, I was 37/2 weeks pregnant, she was beautiful and perfect, nothing wrong with her, medical negligence. I CAN imagine what you going through becouse that’s exactly what I’m going through. I hate when they say… she’s on a better place, we all leave and eventually die, she’s just took a short kat. And yes you can have another baby. You should let it go now and start live again. HOW??? How can I let it go? How can I live again? How knowing she’s on a better place should make me feel better? I want her here! She’s should be with me, not in a better place. I like your words every single one of them. When I was reading them it was just like someone had wrote them for me. Keep strong mama and take one step at the time if u can. Although I know is impossible becouse for as much as I’m trying, I can’t. People’s don’t understand that we had to meet our baby for the first time and at same time we had to say good buy. They think becouse they never lived they not worth grieving. But they lived, they lived in our body and forever will live in our hart. I send you virtual hogs, and hope that one day we both can start live again, wile keeping our baby’s very close and worm in our heart’s. They always be part of our family’s and most of all… our life’s. Take care Barbara, just another unanderstood grieving mother xxx
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I’m so sorry for the loss of your beautiful Freya. We’ll never be able to forget our babies or feel like they’re in a better place. The best place for a child is in their mother’s arms. Our babies did live, even though they didn’t take a breath in the outside world. They were here and they thrived in their small infinity. Thinking of you and sending so much understanding, strength, and love.
Reading this, all I wanted to do at the end of each paragraph is scream, Yes! Yes to every single one. Those who have not been touched by this cruel and horrible loss have no idea the pain we endure. Thank you for your heart achingly truthful sharing of your story.
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As much as I hate that anyone truly understands this agony, I’m glad we’re here for one another. Thank you for reading and if you ever need anything at all, please let me know.
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Thank you, you too!
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