There are certain truths in life I wish I could avoid knowing. Like the unsettling fact I stumbled upon in elementary school regarding the number of spiders I might accidentally swallow in my sleep. Or the calorie count in a single glass of wine (still not ready to hear that one). But the harshest of all these realizations was the agonizing experience of losing a child. On October 27, 2014, I stepped into the heart-wrenching world of grieving parents—a day etched in my memory as the darkest moment of my existence. On that day, my son, a precious 6-month-and-17-day-old baby with a toothless grin and fragile lungs, took his last breath in my arms.
I never imagined what it would feel like to cradle half my heart and say farewell, never again to kiss those sweet lips on this side of eternity. I never wanted to know the depth of physical, emotional, and spiritual pain that came with longing for a boy who gazed into my eyes for only 200 fleeting days. I never wanted to know the sensation of sobbing until my body ached—deep, raw cries, muffled through the night to spare my older son from waking.
I never wanted to feel the emotional grenades explode within me when people innocently asked, “How many kids do you have?” followed by the even more painful question, “How old are they?” I never wanted to learn how to wipe away my tears, touch my cheeks to hide the redness, and carry on as if everything was normal, just to avoid the onslaught of questions like, “What’s wrong?” as if I should have moved on by now.
I never wanted to forget. Forget the scent of his skin. Forget the softness of that little tuft of hair atop his head. Forget the joyful sounds he made while watching his lion mobile spin. I never wanted to feel anger towards well-meaning remarks like, “God doesn’t deny us any good things when we ask in prayer,” because if that were true, my son would still be here with me.
I never wanted to learn how to keep my chin up, shoulders back, and a brave face on, even when my legs felt like jelly. Every step I took was with the knowledge that he would want me to find happiness, to love, and to engage with life around me. I never wished to understand the lack of empathy in the world—the “at least”s and “just”s that people toss around with good intentions: “He was just a baby,” or “At least he is free from pain,” or “He was sick, so…” They don’t seem to grasp that any level of illness or suffering doesn’t diminish his identity as my child. He was mine. He is mine. There’s no “at least” or “just.” It simply doesn’t exist.
I never wanted to know any of this. I never wanted to empathize or share a knowing glance with another grieving mother, assuring her she isn’t alone, that I stand with her, that I understand her pain.
Yet here I am, burdened with this knowledge. I am not alone in this; I recognize that one in four women will experience the heartbreak of pregnancy or infant loss. One in four women will face an agonizing journey, forever changed because that child they lost wasn’t just a momentary detour in life—it was an irreplaceable piece of themselves, vanished.
I know. And so do countless others.
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Summary
This heartfelt piece reflects on the painful journey of losing a child, emphasizing the deep emotional turmoil and unexpected knowledge that accompanies such a loss. It conveys the struggles of grief, societal misunderstandings, and the profound bond that remains despite the absence of a child. The author urges awareness of the shared experiences among grieving parents, highlighting that they are not alone in their pain.