We all say it at some point.
'I have no idea what I would do if that happened to me.'
It's a little phrase that we say innocently, never actually expecting the bad thing to happen to us. We feel bad for the friend or family, we grieve for them, with them but we still don't understand the extent of their pain. And we never imagine to.
And then it happens to us. And we finally understand.
And we feel bad because we could have done better for our friend in her time of grief. We could have said more, done more. But now we are a part of the club. A club no one wants to be a part of.
We never expected it to happen to us.
My pregnancies were no walk in the park. With Ashlyn, I had preeclampsia and was induced two weeks early. Labor was long and hard. I pushed for over two hours. When she finally came, the doctors couldn't control the bleeding and it almost ended badly for me.
With Bryan, the pregnancy was much easier, no preeclampsia and he came on his own just a few days shy of his due date. But his heart rate kept dropping. We signed C-section consent forms just in case. But he came out pretty quickly and, aside from being a bit pale, was perfect.
Both of these pregnancies resulted in beautiful, healthy babies. I would do it all again if it meant I got to have my babies.
With Colson, the pregnancy was different. I was sick all the time. I couldn't keep anything down. Whatever I did eat was mostly healthy. I worked out when I could. I actually paid attention and tried to be healthy despite being so sick.
Then we lost him.
We just didn't expect it.
Even when I went in for the ultrasound, I didn't expect. Even when I saw his little body curled up in a ball on the ultrasound screen, I didn't expect. Even when I saw the flat heartbeat line, I didn't expect it.
Eight months later, I still don't understand what went wrong. I still think about things I could have done differently to save him. I still think about things I could have done wrong that could have caused his loss. In the end I just have to accept his loss and move on.
Easier said than done.
Eight months later and I still feel the grief.
So what if just this past Sunday while at church, I sat behind a young couple with a newborn baby and it took all I had to keep my shit together.
So what if your pregnancy announcement made me cry even though you prepared me for it ahead of time.
So what if I posted a picture every day for the month of October in honor of Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness.
I mean, it's been almost eight months now. It's not like he was a full term baby or a toddler or anything. He was only 16 weeks in the womb so why am I so distraught over his loss? I should be over it, right?
Wrong.
I don't expect you to understand my grief. But I also don't expect you to judge me for it. My grief is my own. We all deal with things in different ways. Some people don't want to talk about it. I choose to talk about it. That's how I deal with it.
And even if you've been in the same situation, you haven't been in MY situation so you don't get to judge the way I'm handling it. Just like I haven't been in your situation so I don't get to judge you.
And if you have an issue with the fact that I still grieve for my son and can't seem to move on, well then you can piss off. I can't even be nice about it. There is no handbook for these things. We have to move at our own pace. We have to handle things in our own way.
And if you haven't asked me how I'm handling it, if you haven't been a part of my grieving process, if you haven't cried with me, if you have listened to me talk about my son over and over again, if you haven't heard my fears, if you haven't tried to calm my anger, if you haven't been here.....then it's none of your dam business.
So, unfriend me, stop following me, block me, do whatever you need to do because I will never stop talking about my son. I will never stop missing him. I will never stop grieving for him. There will always be a piece of my heart, a piece of my family, missing. You can't understand unless you've walked my journey.
#loveforcolson
'I have no idea what I would do if that happened to me.'
It's a little phrase that we say innocently, never actually expecting the bad thing to happen to us. We feel bad for the friend or family, we grieve for them, with them but we still don't understand the extent of their pain. And we never imagine to.
And then it happens to us. And we finally understand.
And we feel bad because we could have done better for our friend in her time of grief. We could have said more, done more. But now we are a part of the club. A club no one wants to be a part of.
We never expected it to happen to us.
My pregnancies were no walk in the park. With Ashlyn, I had preeclampsia and was induced two weeks early. Labor was long and hard. I pushed for over two hours. When she finally came, the doctors couldn't control the bleeding and it almost ended badly for me.
With Bryan, the pregnancy was much easier, no preeclampsia and he came on his own just a few days shy of his due date. But his heart rate kept dropping. We signed C-section consent forms just in case. But he came out pretty quickly and, aside from being a bit pale, was perfect.
Both of these pregnancies resulted in beautiful, healthy babies. I would do it all again if it meant I got to have my babies.
With Colson, the pregnancy was different. I was sick all the time. I couldn't keep anything down. Whatever I did eat was mostly healthy. I worked out when I could. I actually paid attention and tried to be healthy despite being so sick.
Then we lost him.
We just didn't expect it.
Even when I went in for the ultrasound, I didn't expect. Even when I saw his little body curled up in a ball on the ultrasound screen, I didn't expect. Even when I saw the flat heartbeat line, I didn't expect it.
Eight months later, I still don't understand what went wrong. I still think about things I could have done differently to save him. I still think about things I could have done wrong that could have caused his loss. In the end I just have to accept his loss and move on.
Easier said than done.
Eight months later and I still feel the grief.
So what if just this past Sunday while at church, I sat behind a young couple with a newborn baby and it took all I had to keep my shit together.
So what if your pregnancy announcement made me cry even though you prepared me for it ahead of time.
So what if I posted a picture every day for the month of October in honor of Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness.
I mean, it's been almost eight months now. It's not like he was a full term baby or a toddler or anything. He was only 16 weeks in the womb so why am I so distraught over his loss? I should be over it, right?
Wrong.
I don't expect you to understand my grief. But I also don't expect you to judge me for it. My grief is my own. We all deal with things in different ways. Some people don't want to talk about it. I choose to talk about it. That's how I deal with it.
And even if you've been in the same situation, you haven't been in MY situation so you don't get to judge the way I'm handling it. Just like I haven't been in your situation so I don't get to judge you.
And if you have an issue with the fact that I still grieve for my son and can't seem to move on, well then you can piss off. I can't even be nice about it. There is no handbook for these things. We have to move at our own pace. We have to handle things in our own way.
And if you haven't asked me how I'm handling it, if you haven't been a part of my grieving process, if you haven't cried with me, if you have listened to me talk about my son over and over again, if you haven't heard my fears, if you haven't tried to calm my anger, if you haven't been here.....then it's none of your dam business.
So, unfriend me, stop following me, block me, do whatever you need to do because I will never stop talking about my son. I will never stop missing him. I will never stop grieving for him. There will always be a piece of my heart, a piece of my family, missing. You can't understand unless you've walked my journey.
#loveforcolson
I really pray no one have given you a hard time about this. However, based on this list someone has. After my miscarriage I thought, why didn't I do more for my best friend who had one a few months before me? But I didn't get it until it happened to me. With Ethan, I was scared in the beginning because I had a miscarriage and then I was scared in the end because Mackenzie wasn't an easy birth and she spent time in the NICU.
ReplyDeleteIf talking helps you, talk! Crying yelling anything! There is no time limit to grief. Hugs.