Ignorance is bliss.
Never has that been more true since I joined the club of the bereaved, a club, that for the record, no one ever wants to be in. When we were younger, we certainly did not dream of one day being in these shoes, the ones who ache for their child they cannot hold, the ones who often speak quietly of the ones they miss, because we know far too well that the world isn’t always prepared for our brand of heavy.
Ignorance truly is bliss, we all know this well.
I once was ignorant, too. I would have felt terribly for someone who lost their child to stillbirth or to complications from prematurity, but I never would have understood. Casual thoughts may have entered into my mind like It’s just a baby… They didn’t know them. It’s not like mourning the loss of someone you actually knew.
I was painfully ignorant, and good Lord, how I wish I could return to those days.
Instead, I am now constantly aware of all the things I never knew before. Like how I never knew that a part of that parent dies with that child, even if his or her heart never beats outside the womb. Or how we are bonded without ever saying a word. A parent’s love knows no limits.
…
There’s a ridding of self for our children. We remain a whole person. Intact. Full heart and soul. But something happens in the breaking of our bodies, as our mid-section swells and bears the weight of life, we are burdened and broken so they may grow. Our souls ties are born far before birth, and little pieces of ourselves are shared between hearts. It’s a unique and special bond between a mother and her child.
And we give our whole selves to each child. No matter how many children come before or after, each child is tied to our whole self. No matter if that child is nameless, no matter if their form is tainted, no matter if they will never lock eyes, the soul ties string and weave every which way, so hearts and souls are connected without ever breaking.
And sometimes, these ties are stretched, over chasms of time and worlds, as a soul’s heart beats one last time.
Those soul ties don’t know the difference. Those soul ties extend and expand and strengthen no matter what the distance.
When a child dies, a parent is still tied to that child. Souls, tied together across universes. It doesn’t matter the age when they passed. It doesn’t matter how long ago it happened. It doesn’t matter— none of it. Their souls are forever tied.
…
Ignorance is bliss; that may be true. It’s impossible to fully understand the bond between a bereaved parent and the child they cannot hold, unless you’ve been there, but I’ll attempt by saying this: It’s a love that is deeper than any I have witnessed, a love that is more powerful than death. A heart that breaks and keeps breaking until their arms are filled again. That love. That tie. Soul to soul. Parent to child. It knows no discrimination based off of age, health, or time, it just is, and it always will be. Their souls are forever tied, and there’s nothing in existence that can break them.
Karen Current says
When my daughter was stillborn 31 years ago, one of difficult things to deal with was those types of comments. It was so hard to listen to people minimize my loss. I hated hearing how it was for the best, that at least I hadn’t gotten to know her first, that it would be so much harder if she were older, that I could have another, etc,etc,etc. I could never understand why people couldn’t accept the concept of equally soul shattering, but different. Of course, I would just be told that if I’d lost an older child, I would understand and, of course, losing an older child would be harder. When my cousin died at 17, my aunt and uncle couldn’t even see me as a member of the same “club.” I couldn’t argue with them because they didn’t need that discussion at that time. But I could have been there for them if they could have acknowledged my loss. 2 1/2 years ago, my oldest son was killed by a drunk hit and run driver the day after he turned 33. I have now experienced both. I can now say for a certainty that both losses are soul shattering. Different? Yes. But both destroyed a part of my soul. My son had beautiful brown eyes that I will never again get to look into. My daughter had eyes (green in my imagination) that I never got to gaze into because she never opened them. Both are huge losses. Just different. I will never see the grandchildren Rebekah may have had. I have to watch Derrick’s children grow up without him, and he loved them so dearly. People need to understand loss comes in different shapes and sizes, but it can all be equally devastating.