Before you read on there is a Trigger Warning on this blog post – child loss, infant death, grief.
October is Baby and Infant Loss awareness month, so as we move in to November, I would like to share these words by A Bed For My Heart and send my love and thoughts to all who have had to suffer the absolute devastation of losing a child – whether that be through miscarriage, still birth, or any other reason.
“This is what it feels like to live without your child: “I am a mother. I am a bereaved mother. My child died, and this is my reluctant path.
It is not a path of my choice, but it is a path I must walk mindfully and with intention. It is a journey through the darkest night of my soul and it will take time to wind through the places that scare me.
Every cell in my body aches and longs to be with my beloved child. On days when grief is loud, I may be impatient, distracted, frustrated, and unfocused. I may get angry more easily and I may seem hopeless. I will shed many, many, many tears. I won’t smile as often as my old self. Smiling hurts now. Most everything hurts some days, even breathing.
But please, just sit beside me.
Say nothing.
Do not offer a cure.
Or a pill, or a word, or a potion.
Witness my suffering and don't turn away from me.
Please be gentle with me.
And I will try to be gentle with me too.
I will not ever "get over" my child's death so please don’t urge me down that path.
Even on days when grief is quiescent, when it isn't standing loudly in the foreground, even on days when I am even able to smile again, the pain is just beneath the surface.
There are day when I still feel paralyzed. My chest feels the sinking weight of my child's absence and, sometimes, I feel as if I will explode from the grief.
Losing my child affects me in so many ways: as a woman, a mother, a human being. It affects every aspect of me: spiritually, physically, mentally, and emotionally. There are days when I barely recognize myself in the mirror anymore.
Grief is as personal to me as my fingerprint. Don't tell me how I should or shouldn’t be grieving or that I should or shouldn’t “feel better by now.” Don't tell me what's right or wrong. I'm doing it my way, in my time. If I am to survive this, I must do what is best for me.
My understanding of life will change and a different meaning of life will slowly evolve. What I knew to be true or absolute or real or fair about the world has been challenged so I'm finding my way, moment-to-moment in this new place. Things that once seemed important to me are barely thoughts any longer. I notice life's suffering more— hungry children, the homeless and the destitute, a mother’s harsh voice toward her young child- or an elderly person struggling with the door- abused animals crying out in pain.
There are so many things about the world which I now struggle to understand: Why do children die? There are some questions, I've learned, which are simply unanswerable.
So please don’t tell me that “God has a plan” for me. This, my friend, is between me and my God. Those platitudes slip far too easily from the mouths of those who tuck their own child into a safe, warm bed at night: Can you begin to imagine your own child, flesh of your flesh, lying lifeless in a casket, when “goodbye” means you’ll never see them on this Earth again? Grieving mothers— and fathers— and grandparents— and siblings and partners won’t wake up one day with everything ’okay’ and life back to normal. I have a new normal now.
As time passes, I may discover gifts, and treasures, and insights but anything gained was too high a cost when compared to what was lost.
Perhaps, one day, when I am very, very old, I will say that time has truly helped to heal my broken heart. But always remember that not a second of any minute of any hour of any day passes when I am not aware of the presence of my child's absence, no matter how many years lurk over my shoulder.
So don’t forget that I have a child whose absence, like the sky, is spread over everything as C.S. Lewis said.
Don’t forget to say, “How are you really feeling...?” Don’t forget that even if I do have living children, my heart still aches for the one who is not here— for I am never quite complete without my child.
My child may have died but my love — and my motherhood— never will."
Beautifully written by Dr. Joanne Cacciatore
My support for loss and grief comes in many forms - as a therapist, practitioner, friend and Doula. If you feel you would like me to support you on your path, whatever it may look like, please do not hesitate to get in touch. info@cornwallhypnobirthing.co.uk
