Sunday, December 8, 2013


I'm 1.5 years out now.  For the most part people have stopped asking how I am doing.  That's OK I guess.  Until it's not.

What does my grief, my life look like now?

Lots of days are fine.

Some days are not.

A few rare days are great.

My eyes are open for the signs that Ethan is with me.  The songs that come at just the right time.  I'm listening to Jackson, really listening to him, when he teaches me about his brother.  As he shares about their visits.  Just the other day Jackson said Ethan continues to hang out with him around bedtime.  All along speaking about these visits as completely normal and of course they would be happening.  And then asked me "what's the round thing around his head?" - while using a finger to draw a circle around his head.  I guess it might be a halo of sorts.

Tears still flow.  Often with a smile.  Often not.

Some aspects of my grief have simmered down.  Bubble up every now and then, but return to a simmer.  One thing that hasn't simmered is the pain that comes up when someone tells me they are pregnant.

Here's how it goes.

If I see a pregnancy or birth announcement on Facebook I've been punched in the gut.  Breathing immediately becomes painful.  Really painful.  Breathing gets faster and shallower.  I suddenly feel hot, yet cold.  And tears instinctively well.

I think "how nice for them" while crumbling to pieces myself.  Oddly, like the trauma victim I am, I search for the details.  Is the baby a boy or a girl?  Is this their fourth?  Is the due date in May?  Lord please, don't let it be in May.  Not a boy in May.

If I feel moved to, I offer kind words to the new parent(s) and then block them from my news feed.  Blocking them is a necessity.  One I have learned from repeated mistakes.  A few friends I haven't blocked...the friends who have been extra supportive to me in my grief.

If I hear someone is pregnant or had a baby in person the visceral response remains the same.  But now someone sees my tears.  Or hears the catch in my breath and break in my voice as I say "how nice for them/you."  There is no computer to hide behind this time.  Not that I try to hide my grief, it's not my way.  But some people would find it more comfortable to have a buffer from my grief I am sure.

In person or on the phone I see the surprise that registers with the other person.  That such happy news doesn't evoke happiness for me.  Instead evokes my personal devastation to be honest.  Not that it necessarily takes much for that to happen.

Seeing that others are surprised about this hurts.  It's painful enough to be brought back to my trauma, and face my loss knowing I will never again have a pregnancy or give birth.  Kind of feels like I'm being kicked when I'm down.  Having to explain to people (usually third parties who tell me of others pregnancies) that YES, I'M STILL GRIEVING.  And then these third parties try to backpedal.  Oh, of course you are sad.  But what it reinforces to me is that most people cannot have a fucking clue how pervasive this loss is for me.
Some days it's rough being 33 and surrounded by friends having babies.

Perhaps one day this will be gentler.  But it's not yet.  Not at all.


  1. What an amazing bond your boys have.

    The rest of it, it's just hard, I know.

  2. I am deeply sorry for your loss. I lost my son at 24 due to a horrific car accident a year ago. God bless and hugs ♥

    1. i'm so very sorry for your loss. a parent should never have to bury a child - it feels like a violation of nature. holding you in my prayers.