Our March of Dimes March for Babies walk was this weekend, and it stirred up a lot emotions and a lot of interesting remarks. People say interesting things to you when your baby dies. I have friends who have lost children, and I will admit that I never knew what to say, either. Was I helpful? Was I unwittingly cruel? Did I do enough? Until you've experienced this kind of loss, it's hard to know the right things to say. I know these words come from a place of love, but they can eat at you nonetheless.
People mean well, but it's always surprising to discover which comments bother me the most. I don't think a day has gone by since Ramona died that I haven't had to break the news to someone. Our family, friends, and co-workers did their best to tell as many people as possible, but both of us have had to field "How's the baby?" questions on a daily basis. Catching someone out of the blue with our answer usually leads to responses like these.
Don't worry, you'll have another one.
Yes, people say this and yes, it's awful. First, there is no guarantee we will have another child. We learned the hard way there are absolutely no guarantees in life. Second, no child will ever take the place of Ramona. Period.
You'll be a mother someday.
Yes, people say this, too. I already am a mother, but thanks?
I'm praying for you.
I try not to get too upset with the prayers, but I prayed every day for Jessica and I to give birth to strong, healthy babies and it didn't work. I prayed for Ramona even though I was convinced she'd come out screaming and healthy. When people tell me they are praying for me, I think, Why? It won't bring her back, and sometimes it feels like the implication is that god didn't care enough about our babies to let them live. Nothing will ever convince me that prayer is helpful
or that god 'has a plan.' If god's plan was for our babies to die, that's pretty shitty.
Nothing.
A lot of people avoid talking about Ramona with us. They are afraid to talk about her because they are afraid we'll be sad. That is noble to a point, but bringing her up doesn't make us sad because we are already sad. We will always be sad. We have to live the rest of our lives without our daughter. I don't 'forget' that during lunch or while watching an episode of Game of Thrones. It sits heavy in our hearts 24/7.
The funny thing is none of the above upset me as much as the following.
You're so strong.
I don't feel strong. Some days I feel angry, some days I feel jealous, some days I feel hopeless, some days I feel deep, deep sorrow. I don't view waking up in the morning and getting out of bed as strength. It's merely survival. This is a much discussed topic on Baby Loss Planet, strength vs. surviving. People see us showered and dressed and at work, but the surface does not reflect what's underneath. My hair is brushed, my clothes are clean, but below the surface my brain boils with poisonous thoughts. I feel like Oogie Boogie from A Nightmare Before Christmas. Plain and innocuous on the outside, but crawling with pain on the inside. I get that it's a compliment, that people see us resuming what they assume is our normal life and are relieved and happy that we seem to be 'back to normal.' There is no 'normal' after your child dies, there is only your New Normal. This comment can sometimes be followed up with...
I could never...
I've heard this quite a few times. I could never handle it, I could never go on. I used to think the same thing, but unfortunately you don't have much of a choice. We were asked to make decisions no parent should make, we signed paperwork and answered yes and no to so many questions, but no one ever asked if we'd like to give up. We wanted to give up. Oh, we wanted to. The last thing we wanted to do was leave that hospital without Ramona, but we had no choice. When you lose choice, you realize all those cliches about life being short and precious are indeed true. Then you start to meet people. You meet people who have also lost their children. These people are not ranting and raving, they have not devolved into lunacy. They are surviving, and as much as you think you could never go on or handle it or survive, you would.
Every time someone tells us they could never handle it or go on, it's like telling us that we aren't grieving as heavily as they would if they lost their child. That if we are getting out of bed in the morning we must be over her. That if we aren't raging and crying and screaming, we must be okay now. Hopefully they never have to know what this grief feels like, but until they are tested they just don't know. It's a very romanticized notion, that you will wither away and die after all you've been through. There are sad instances where people do, but the majority of us don't. We can't. We still have work to do.
When your child dies, a part of you dies with them. Your hopes die, your patience wanes, and the big things are so much smaller, but your love lives and grows bigger than you ever believed was possible. You think ahead, you think about the people like you, who have no idea what is coming. You need to be there for them so they know they aren't alone. That's what countless people, whether they know it or not, have done for us. That's what we intend to do for others. I want people to know that yes, people will say things you don't want to hear. Yes, you will want to give up, but continuing to live and living large is the best way to honor your child.
