December 21st was the winter solstice. The winter solstice is the longest night of the year. On that day, my church held a service to be a place for those grieving during a season filled with joy. There were so many positive messages in a time when so many need to hear it.
No one suffers alone.
This service was not just for those were are grieving, but it allows others to come walk along with you in your grief. It says that we see you in your difficult time. It was so healing to have a space where I knew that I could acknowledge my grief in this time. We lit candles for our griefs and for each other. We talked about the difficulties. We allowed a light to shine when the world feels dark. I still think that is the most important piece. When we are surrounded by people that can help us, the light shines a little brighter – even though it does not take away the pain. We were also given the opportunity to speak our griefs. When you talk about what you are feelings, it has less power over you. I wholeheartedly believe that. It is the essence of why I think it is so important to talk about the things were are going through. It is why I opened the door to be vulnerable and talk about the loss of my child. It was not because I was brave or strong or trying to help others. I knew it would bring healing. I knew that talking about my experience helps the pain sting a little less.
Today I don’t feel the pain sting as much. I am caught off guard by the number of times when I feel tears well up in my eyes. But I can be in the same room as my pregnant friend and not cry. Grief is such a journey, and the journey does not end. It does not end because the loss was so important. I have learned so much about grief through this experience. It is comforting to remember that you don’t grieve for things that were not important. My grief – the pain – reflected how deeply I already loved by son in his very short life.
I learned that back in the day wearing black had a very specific purpose. When I was younger, I thought that people were almost putting on a show when they wear black as if they were trying to stay sad rather than moving on. I know now that you don’t move on from loss. At one time people wore black for an entire year after the loss. It wasn’t to stay sad, it was to let others around them know that they were grieving, so please treat them gently. What an important point that we have loss! It is so hard to be in spaces where it feels like everyone forgets and moves on. I sit in the corner feeling like no one cares about my grief or my child as if I should just move on. Wearing black in those times for so long was a visible reminder for people to know that grief is a process and these people need kindness. I am not advocating that we all wear black again during our grief, but it is such a disservice to think that our grief should be wrapped up in a nice easy box and put away within three days.
I also have learned that losses of children are more difficult longer because of the milestones. I am reminded daily of the trimesters and scans I did not get to, the kicks I did not get to feel, the labor I don’t get to experience with this child. I fear getting to my due date because it was suppose to be such a special day. I grieve for the times when I’ll remember that my child should have been walking by now, talking by now, headed to school by now. Those milestones don’t stop. It is heartbreaking to know that I lost out on every single one of them.
But I also have learned that I get to still mother this child – it just looks different. That is comforting to know but so difficult. What does it mean to hold my child close when it is not here. It sucks, and there is not much more to it. But I will still enjoy my experience as a mother. This year I put up a stocking for Andrew. I will put up this stocking every year. I miss him, but I will make sure he is remembered here on earth – even if no one else remembers him. I don’t blame others for not remembering him. After all, I was the only one who really knew him. I will treasure my time with him – I was the only one who got to hold him with me and feel his presence.
I have found that I speak in terms of being a mother in very subtle ways. I did not intend for this to happen, nor did I expect it. When I talk to my clients, I use joining language now that I might have said a little differently before. “As parents we…” No one notices. It would have been normal to say and using this joining language even if I was not a parent. But I notice. I am a parent. I am a mother. I am a bereaved parent. I will hold onto that in everything it means.
So on this Christmas, I ask you to remember my child too. And I will see you in your grief. Together we will remember that no one suffers alone – even when the darkness is the most powerful.