All I Wanted
{I have never put this, but I know so many of you have a fresh loss or are triggered by mine. Please know at the end this may be hard to read and it’s ok if you don’t.}
After I lost the boys, I got the usual reactions we all hear about with a woman who has lost a baby.
“You are so lucky you have a little girl!”
“At least you can have more!”
“My daughter died at 26, how do you think I feel?”
“At least they didn’t suffer.”
“Maybe you’ll have twins next time!”
Honestly, most of the time I didn’t even know how to respond. Because all, except for the daughter dying at 26, were meant kindly and in a very ignorant way. They simply didn’t view the loss like I did, and wanted to “cheer” me up. After all, it was just babies. Easy to come by, I’ll have more.
Only – I may not have any more. I will more than likely never again have twins, and it doesn’t change the fact because they died that I do have twins already. I love Bella but having a little girl doesn’t make me ok with losing my sons. Suffering? I can’t even go there. No one wants their babies to suffer, but to suggest they’re better off dead is not helpful. Like because I’m grieving for them, I wanted them to hurt so I could have them still. Or…?
As for the daughter, this was told to me by a nurse 6 weeks after I lost them and went in for my first PP appt. She wanted to know why I couldn’t stop crying, and as I choked out the story she shook her head and said her daughter was in a car accident 2 years ago at 26. She lost everything, and I should be thankful it didn’t end up like her story. O_o
I wanted to tell her, “At least you GOT 26 years with her. You have memories. You know the color of her eyes, her favorite songs, heard her voice. You had her childhood.”
But of course, it’s all relative. Loss is all relative to the person suffering.
I had friends and family who listened. Who didn’t. Who judged. Who went away. Who made it all about them. Their pain from my loss, what they went through because I shared my story. I dealt with people who couldn’t handle it, others who waited until I was ready to unload.
I know the uncertainty of grief. I still feel it even after all of this. When the man on the plane tells me his wife died earlier this year, I freeze up. Does he want to talk about it? Be asked about her? Just want to share? Or not? I don’t know.
I do it myself. When someone comments on the “sweet tattoos” on my wrists, I immediately size them up. Are they willing to hear about it? Do I have time? Sometimes I smile and move on, other times I mention it. Mentioning to a random person brings their own uncertainty.
Grief is a big, huge, complicated mess of eggshells we all dance on. Trying to figure out what makes the other crack and avoiding it at all costs. We have all been raised to be SO terrified of death and pain that we can’t fathom what losing a baby feels like, how you can be normal ever again, or the constant, “Please don’t let it happen to me” thoughts.
I get suicide bombers now. I mean, I don’t get their motives or wanting to kill people, but I get the no fear of death thing. They were raised to think of it differently, and it shows in their society. It’s been twisted to something perverse, but taken down the right path, that could be such a beautiful and freeing thing. I hope to make a difference in that.
To show that you can lose, you can go through trauma and heartache and have your entire life ripped from your arms. You can give birth over a toilet in a hospital gown and catch your babies in your hands, scream out loud, be scolded for asking no one to touch them, to wait 2 1/2 hours for your little boy to die while he gasps for breath, to hold the other who is gone, to watch your husband bawl by your side, your mom try to make it better, to watch them be taken away, to bleed yourself unconscious while trying to push the placenta out, to be pushed through the hospital in a wheelchair while none of the nurses speak to you, to go home and have your milk come in, to go to a funeral home and pick out an urn, to listen to person after person tell you your babies weren’t babies at all, to have your life change in ways you can’t even image.
And be ok. You can be ok. Never the same. But still you. Still laugh. Still want to live. Still love and yearn to try again. It sucks. It’s awful. But if you lose a baby – you can be ok again. I promise.
Don’t be afraid of us. Of our pain or what we went through. They were our children and we are trying to find a new normal, as much as I hated that term. All I wanted to hear was that someone remembered, cared, understood in a small way. Was going to make it all about me for a while, so I could be selfish and an attention whore until my pain lessened and I could breathe without wondering why I was still alive. I had that from so many, I am so thankful for it. Maybe you can be that for someone else hurting.
Diana. You are brave and He is mighty within you. Thanks for writing.