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Guest Post by Elizabeth
We all grieve very differently, yet we all share so many of the same thoughts and feelings. I’ve read so many blogs and articles of parents who share what they’re going through and how they have pulled themselves out of bed each morning. I may have done things slightly different than they did, but I still know exactly how they feel when they describe their first visit to the grocery store or the first time someone unknowingly asks how their baby is doing. I know that pain. I know that heartache.
One article that I read brought up a great point about who we are. What do you call us? A woman who loses her husband is a widow; a man who loses his wife is a widower; a child who loses their parents is an orphan. A parent who loses their child is… heart broken. We have no title. When someone asks how my baby is doing, it would be much easier to say “Actually I’m a ____,” instead of saying out loud that my baby passed away. Saying it makes me so angry; it makes me want to go back to the days when I didn’t get out of my pajamas because what’s the point?
Creating and maintaining contact with a handful of incredibly strong, brave, and kind hearted mothers who have also lost a baby has been essential. Not only have they helped me see hope for my future, but whether any of us like it or not we will forever share a bond. We are in a club that NO ONE wants to be in; we have an all-access pass to a lifetime of pure heartache.
Birthdays will pass that we don’t get to send invitations for, or buy balloons and a cake. We don’t get to kiss boo-boo’s or read bedtime stories. This is not a club I hope to know many people in.
As I lay here in bed writing this blog, listening to my husband breathing while he sleeps next to me I am reminded of what, or who, is missing. I know that when I finally go to sleep I’ll sleep through the night uninterrupted; no baby waking up to eat. I know that when I wake up in the morning I won’t be rushing around trying to get two people ready for the day; I’ll be alone. I know that when I get out of work I won’t be picking Carson up from daycare and getting ready for a weekend full of kisses and snuggles; I’ll be alone. Carson has left such a significant love in my heart that I will always cherish, but he has also left such a significant void in my life. I can’t wish that I never felt this pain, because that would mean I never met Carson. He is my world even though I can’t hold him or see him. He is the basis for so many of my decisions even though he is not here. He is incredible. He is mine.
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This is so true. Beautifully said
so so so thankful for all the brave women out their sharing their stories..and pain and heartache. i don’t know where i would be right now without this support, even it is just words on a box in front of me every night for hours when i can’t sleep. i love to be there to listen and also share my grief. the club no one wants in on.. but here we are.
You are a wonderful writer, Elizabeth. It breaks my heart that there are so many of us in this club. Our little boys died of the same disorder, and although I wish we had never had reason to get to know each other, I am forever grateful that Carson and Aidan brought us together to make us feel less alone. Carson IS incredible, and so are you. xXx
Elizabeth, thanks for being brave enough to share your heartbreak. I’m one of Helen’s friends, and without the words of incredibly strong, amazing women like you, I would be even more lost as to how I can try and celebrate Aidan’s life and the incredible happiness (as well as the loss) that he brought to the world. Carson has done something amazing in helping raise awareness of this incredibly, incomprehensibly awful illness, and making me more aware of how precious every moment of life is. Wishing you strength and love to keep going, Amy xxx