Don’t Expect Me To Get Over The Death Of My Child
We have been told quite recently to "get over it" and I'm seething with rage

by Sarah Drouillard

“Get over it.” Three small words that pack a huge punch to the gut. Especially when you use those three words when speaking to, or about, loss parents.

“Get over it.”

Like you’ve lost a baseball card or broken a fingernail.

Like it’s losing a job or that a relationship falls apart.

Those may be hard, but it’s none of those things, not even close. Our daughter was a human being who lived, even if it was only for three days. She lived, she mattered, she changed our entire world.

Then, out of nowhere, we dealt with the trauma of watching her suffer to live, and ultimately die.

But we should just “get over it.”

Our grief has a time limit, and that limit is up. It is an inconvenience, a pain, a bore, an uncomfortable elephant in the room that no one knows how to deal with.

Hearing us continue to talk about her, post about her, and live our lives for her is aggravating and annoying now. Ten months is too long; your time is up.

“Get over it.”

Some would be shocked to hear that people have said those very things about us. Surely people are more understanding about the loss of a child?

The truth is, they’re not. We have been told quite recently to “get over it,” and I’m seething with rage.

Child loss is one of the loneliest places to ever be, and phrases like that make it even lonelier. For people who have never experienced this type of loss before to pass judgment on us is ridiculous.

Imagine for a moment, meeting your baby for the first time, and then just days later having to watch them suffer and take their last breath.

Then having to decide whether to bury or cremate them, plan a funeral and put away all the baby things that were waiting at home.

Try to imagine, when you look at your beautiful living children, what hell your life would be after that.

And please tell me then, how would you go on?

I guess this serves as a lesson on life for me. I’ve learned that not everyone is kind. Not everyone is empathetic, caring and understanding.

And, although it’s hard for me, I will not let those people’s negativity penetrate my heart and undo all of the healing I’ve worked so hard at. Those people are not the type of people I want in my life.

My wish and my goal are to surround myself with people who will lift me when I’m down, and who genuinely care for me. People who may not understand completely, but who walk beside me while I figure out how to heal.

Those are my people, and I love them fiercely.

Anyone who doesn’t agree with the way we grieve, or is annoyed by our process, can unfollow, unfriend, ignore us, and honestly – “Get over it.”

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Sarah is a mom to Hannah Grace, who was born ten weeks premature due to complications with HELLP syndrome and died three days later from a pulmonary hemorrhage. She is a wife to the man of her dreams, Brandon, and is an educational assistant for kids with special needs. When not working, she can be found drinking coffee, spending time with family and friends, crafting, and writing on her blog. Here she writes about navigating life after child loss and learning to find hope in a hopeless time.
Find her on Instagram at @sarahadrouillard