There are certain truths in life I wish I could have avoided. Like the unsettling fact I learned in elementary school about how many insects may end up in my mouth while I sleep. Or the daunting calorie count in a simple glass of wine—I’m still trying to ignore that one. But the most heart-wrenching of all the things I never wanted to know is the profound grief that comes with losing a child.
On January 15, 2015, I entered an unimaginable world—the world of grieving parents—on a day that will be etched in my memory as the worst of my life. That day, my son, a precious 8-month-old boy with a radiant smile and fragile lungs, took his last breath cradled in my arms.
I never wanted to experience the anguish of holding half of my heart while saying goodbye, knowing I would never kiss those tender lips again in this lifetime. I never wanted to feel the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual pain of longing for a boy who only looked into my eyes for a fleeting 240 days.
I never wanted to know what it was like to sob until my body ached—deep, raw cries, muffled at night to avoid waking my older child. I never wanted to feel the emotional grenade explode within me when simple questions arose, like “How many children do you have?” followed by the gut-wrenching “How old are they?”
I never wanted to learn the art of masking my tears, dabbing my cheeks to hide the redness, and moving forward so that I wouldn’t be bombarded with questions like “What’s wrong?” because, according to societal norms, I should have moved on by now.
I never wanted to experience the fear of forgetting—forgetting his unique scent, forgetting the soft tuft of hair on his head, and forgetting the joyful sounds he made while watching his little mobile spin.
I never wanted to feel the anger that welled up inside me at well-meaning comments, such as “God does not withhold any good things from us when we ask in prayer.” If that were true, my son would still be here with me.
I never wanted to carry on with a brave face, chin held high and shoulders back, even when my legs felt like they might buckle beneath me. Every step I took was a reminder that he would want me to embrace life, to find happiness, and to spread love.
I never wanted to understand the insensitivity of phrases like “at least” and “just” thrown around with kindness, such as “Well, he was just a baby” or “At least he is no longer suffering.” These statements fail to recognize that no amount of illness or pain diminishes my child’s worth. He was, and always will be, my son. There are no “justs” or “at leasts” here.
I never wanted to be able to empathize with another grieving mother, to look into her eyes and reassure her that she is not alone—that I stand with her, that I understand her pain.
But here I am, deeply aware of this heartache. I know I am not alone; one in four women will endure pregnancy or infant loss. One in four women will walk through the fires of despair. Each lost child is not merely a bump in the road; it is a piece of their soul that is forever lost.
I know. And far too many others know this pain, too.
For further insights into this difficult journey, you can read more in one of our other blog posts. If you are considering home insemination options, companies like Cryobaby provide excellent insemination kits that can assist in your journey. Additionally, Women’s Health offers valuable resources on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, the journey through pregnancy and infant loss is one filled with unexpected knowledge and deep sorrow. It’s a path that no parent wishes to tread, but one that is shared by many.
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