Day 6

I dreaded peoples' reaction to my loss. I dreaded their words, that they would dismiss the life of my baby and our grief. I share this now not to place guilt on the hearts of people who offered me encouragement, but in order that we all might learn how to better love the hurting. 

Please believe me when I say that above all, I have felt incredibly loved. 

_______________________

07/13/2015

Michael went back to work today. I cleaned today. Leisurely, methodically cleaned every room and surface in the house. I didn’t have to talk to anyone. I didn’t have to think about anything that I didn’t want to. I didn’t have to smile. I had the power to make something look and feel new. A power I do not possess to use on myself. I was in control.

I spent a few hours with my dad. Between my dad, two older brothers, and now Michael, I have always felt pretty safe. The thing about men is that when they see a problem, they want to fix it. And when it comes to this little girl hurting, they must fix it. My dad has been very good about encouraging me to brush my teeth and comb my hair. He insists that good hygiene will make me feel better. I suppose I cannot argue with that. At the heart of the issue is the fact that this problem cannot be fixed. I cannot be fixed. I have to feel the anguish and the sorrow. I can’t skip it. I have to sit in it. 

My dad asked me if anything would make me feel better, what I would want him to say.

Maybe it is just me, but there are a few things I dread hearing:

“It will get better with time.”

            Right now, I feel like I am treading water. I can’t even see land.

"God has a plan." "Everything happens for a reason." "God is in control."

            I believe in God’s sovereignty. I know these things to be true. I don’t care about His plan right now. It sucks. It will bring me comfort later, not today. I am dealing with God and He is dealing with me. 

“You need to…”

            I do not want your advice.

“In my experience…”

            See above.

“At least you can get pregnant.”

            I LOST MY CHILD. There is no at least.

“In a couple months you can try again.”

            I will mourn this life. This baby is not replaceable. This life deserves recognition.

Any talk of the future at all.

            Right now, I need to experience this. Hope will come.

“It will get a little better every day..”

            That scares the hell out of me. Right now I can’t comprehend not being broken about baby. I hate it.

“Don’t worry, it will happen.”

            A baby happened. A life happened. I am heart broken that my baby died, I am not worried that I will never have kids.

"It is probably better this way."

            Obviously God's plan is better than mine, and obviously this is terribly callous. 

“When the time is right.”

            My baby’s life didn’t succumb to bad timing.

What brings me comfort:

• Deep hugs from people being strong for me.
• My closest people sitting/laying with me, simply listening to me and crying with me.
• Taking time to check on us, it is nice to know we are on your mind and in your prayers.
• Dropping things off at the house without seeing me: cards, food, etc.
• Talking about the time we had with baby.
• Hugs.
• Meals for Michael.
• The only bible verse thrown out at me that has truly touched my heart is "Jesus wept." John 11:35.

Things people have said that have brought me comfort:

  I am sorry for your loss.

  We are grieving with you, for you.

 My heart breaks for you both. 

  There are no words.

  I lost a baby as well. There is no pain like it.

  I mourn your baby.

  I am praying for you.

 I go back to work tomorrow and I am scared about what people will say to me. My constant prayer is that I would be able to accept sympathy graciously and lovingly, even if it makes me cringe.