This Crappy Club Called Child Loss

Post by Angela Miller

Sometimes grief makes me feel like I’m losing my mind. Like my brain has been hijacked.

No, really.

A few weeks ago, I read the beginning of a sentence over and over again about twenty or thirty times. It took me almost that long to figure out why my brain couldn’t make sense of it.

Then– BAM— it hit me. Upside the head and then some.

The reason I had to keep reading it ad-nauseum is because these four little words will never again be true for me.

I’ll never be able to say them again in reference to myself.

Ever.

Are you ready for the sentence?

“As a non-bereaved parent…”
“As a non-bereaved parent…”
“As a non-bereaved parent…”
“As a non-bereaved parent…”
“As a non-bereaved parent…”

. . .

Slap.

(Not from the person, just from the words themselves.)

Ouch.

Apparently, even reading can be a possible trigger.

What I’d give to be a non-bereaved parent for even another minute or two.

Two glorious minutes of having all my children here with me.

Two minutes of the living nightmare, gone.

Two freeing minutes of being “normal” again.

If only I could say those four fabulous words. If only they could be true for me.

If only I still belonged to the “normal” motherhood club. The non-bereaved kind.

The glorious kind.

The kind I was a part of BEFORE.

It’s so lonely being stuck in this one.

FOREVER.

. . .

Does it ever just hit you like that? Out of nowhere?

You can be trekking along “fine,” going about your day, living life, and then all of a sudden you remember:

Oh yeah– I’m forever part of this crappy club called child loss.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

. . .

It’s true that you find life again.

Or life finds you.

It’s true that joy and happiness find you again too.

It’s true that to most, you look oh-so-normal on the outside.

If only broken hearts were visible.

If only grief could be treated like a broken bone that needs time to set and heal.

If only compassion was a universal response to those who are hurting.

. . .

The truth is, no matter how much you’re living, no matter how much healing your heart has done, no matter how far you run, no matter how long it’s been:

you’re still always and forever part of a club that no one wants to join; one you can never, ever leave.

The thought of it is so terrifying that it leaves the verbose, speechless.

Most can’t handle thinking about it for even a millisecond. Or less.

It’s that horrifying– that unspeakable.

That nightmarish.

I can’t even read the beginning of a simple sentence without being reminded.

That I am “other.” Forever booted from “Planet Non-Bereaved.”

Forever part of “Planet Bereaved Parent.”

You can’t even get kicked out.

Ever.

Seriously. What kind of club is this?!

It’s got to be one of the most horrific clubs on earth.

Revised: THE most horrific club on earth.

. . .

That’s it, I guess. Pretty much sums it up.

I want to leave this club, yet I can’t.

Ever.

That thought is a little too overwhelming at times.

Or, almost always.

. . .

Sometimes, when the weight of bereaved parenthood hits me like a ton of bricks, I’ve found that hearing two little words can make it all a little bit better:

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

Knowing I’m not alone is what makes the unbearable, bearable.

Solidarity heals. It binds the broken.

I’m pretty sure it’s the one sure thing that always will.

. . .