The Things They Say

Words are powerful tools. They can be nurturing and healing; unfortunately they are often not. Too frequently they are daggers that cut deep. Sometimes innocent words sting, and insensitive comments can be excruciatingly painful. At times it is even the lack of words, the silence, which hurts. I suspect that most, if not all, baby loss families can relate. I have heard many stories of horrific things said to bereaved mothers, and I myself have received more than I care to hear.

I hate that innocent question, “How many children do you have?” and all the variations of it. When I am with my son, I am often asked, “Is he your only one?” How do I answer that impossible question? It cuts my heart to omit Elena, as if I am denying her – how can a mother deny her precious child – but it hurts to tell about her and have the inquirer stumble over some awkward response and then turn and flee as fast as possible, as if my sweet baby is a monster from which to run. I almost feel sorry for the people who ask, when I am brave enough to answer honestly, anyway. Who expects to ask such a simple question only to hear about a dead baby?

The other night I was at dinner with a group of mothers. I found myself only admitting to my living child, not specifically denying Elena (I simply stated that I had a son at home) but not acknowledging her either. Sometimes that’s just easier, as much as it hurts. Then later, I decided to be bold and mention her. I was surprised at the response from two of the women sitting across from me, neither of who appeared horrified that I would mention a dead baby at a light-hearted, social, “moms night out” dinner. I learned that both of these women had also experienced baby loss (all of us under very different circumstances). I was pleasantly surprised when both actually asked questions about my daughter. One of the women asked me her name, and then later in the evening brought Elena up by name. She may never know it, but what a gift she gave me that evening, hearing my daughter’s name “Elena Marie” from the lips of a near stranger, a kindness that many of those close to me do not even give! It was one of the highlights of my entire week. It blesses my heart when someone finds a way to use words so kindly. It is a step forward in the healing process, to be able to talk freely about my child and for others to feel comfortable speaking of her as well. After all, what mother does not like to talk about her child? I have learned that most bereaved parents are like any other parents who are eager to tell about their children. Because our children are often considered taboo topics, I think we are all the more grateful when someone gives us the opportunity to talk about them.

While the “how many kids” question is difficult, I know that it is innocent. I am guilty of asking the question myself, and I now wonder how many parents I have hurt in the process. I don’t blame the people who ask – how would they know? What truly bother me are the insensitive comments. My daughter is not a pet, and I don’t care to hear someone tell me he can relate to my pain because he lost his dog that was like a child to him. Not the same. I did not miscarry my daughter, and I don’t want to hear someone say that she knows how I feel because she had an early miscarriage. Not the same. I’m not sure if people truly comprehend that I gave birth to my daughter. Yes, that’s right, I went through labor and gave birth (and I experienced all that comes with that too, including having my milk come in days after my baby died – talk about adding insult to injury). There was a very real and very alive baby as a result of that labor and birth. Then I watched my baby girl die. I held her as she struggled to breath with her underdeveloped lungs. I cried as I cradled her in my arms, unable to do a thing in the world to help her. I felt her weight in my arms and examined her perfectly formed body. I bathed her and dressed her in a tiny gown and bonnet that were too big for her. While I would not give up the two hours I was blessed with her for anything, it was not an easy two hours. Now I don’t want to come across as my situation is worse, or that I do not care about the grief of others. That is not it at all. The loss of a loved one (or a loved pet) is always difficult. It is heartbreaking. It is just not the same. Not to mention the fact someone else talking about his or her loss brings absolutely no comfort to me. It does not make me feel better that someone else has experienced something hurtful. Bereaved parents with similar stories may be able to understand some of what my family experienced, but loss is not a competition, there is certainly no winner, so let’s just not compare please.

We are all broken in some way, we have all endured some kind of loss, and it is fine to share our experiences and how those experiences shape us. Just don’t presume to know how I feel. You don’t have to know how I feel; it’s okay if you don’t. I’d actually prefer that you didn’t. A simple but sincere, “I’m sorry” is really all you need to say. If you really want to say or do something more, tell me Elena was beautiful, let me know you miss her too, explain to me how she has touched your life, let me know that you think of her too – give me specific examples of when you think of her, call or email me out of the blue just to tell me you are thinking of her, tell me things that remind you of her, ask me questions about her and then allow me to share my memories while you listen, sit beside me and cry with me. Please don’t be afraid to mention her and to “remind” me of her. I promise that I have not forgotten nor will I ever forget. She is always my daughter, and I think of her as often as I think of my son, who is constantly running around my house. I am in a place now where I do not burst into tears every time she is mentioned; in fact, I usually smile when I think of her, and I always feel blessed when others remember her, even if I do cry. If you want to talk about Elena, please feel free to do so anytime!

Please don’t try to comfort me with some cliché phrase. Don’t tell me it was for the best or that something good will come from this. Don’t tell me I’m lucky to have an angel watching over me now. Don't tell me to get over it or to move on. Don’t tell me better that she die now than later when I really had a chance to love her first. These things are hurtful. If you are not comfortable really talking about her, then please just know that often less is more, and again, a short and heartfelt “I’m sorry” is sufficient.

The omission of Elena is painful too. Comments about our son being an only child hurt. He is NOT our only child. He may be the only child living in our home at the moment, but he has a little sister. He talks about his little sister Elena. Remarks that he is going to be a big brother are painful to us and confusing to him. He is not “going to be” a big brother, he already IS a big brother. Comments about us expecting our second child hurt. We are NOT expecting our second child; we are expecting our third. My husband was recently in a situation where the births of new babies over the last couple of years were publicly acknowledged. Elena was left out. My husband was upset about that, understandably so. To make the situation even worse, someone asked him about it and when he responded, the person abruptly dropped the conversation. What is that? Don’t ask the question if you don’t want the answer.

A few days ago I was floored by what may have been the worst thing someone has said to me since Elena died. It wasn’t so much what was said but by whom it was said. An immediate family member, a person who was present at Elena’s memorial service, actually asked me, quite casually with no hint of apology or remorse, and I quote, “What was her name again?” At first I was confused. I thought we were talking about Elena, but this person must have been referring to someone else to be asking her name. Then I realized we actually were still talking about Elena. An immediate family member actually had the audacity to ask me such a question! I hesitated, and then asked, “Elena?” still wondering if I had somehow gotten lost in the conversation. Part of me really regrets not calling the person out on that. I mean REALLY, how do you not know her name, she is an immediate family member, you were at her memorial service, you should know. How could you not know? It borders on unforgivable that you, of all people in this world, do not know. I wish I had pointed out that the person should have known, how could the person possibly have forgotten that? I was so shocked that I didn’t even know how to respond (and I am not typically a confrontational person anyway, I generally try to be the peace keeper, so adding that with the shock and I just didn’t say anything). Part of me wonders if this person truly forgot her name or if this person was just trying to get a reaction from me, to take a jab at me (because I just cannot comprehend the person not knowing her name). I honestly do not know which is worse, taking a malicious stab at a bereaved mother by pretending not to know the baby’s name or ACTUALLY NOT KNOWING the baby’s name. What a slap in the face! This is someone who should love Elena deeply, how could the person not even know her name? I was cut to the core.

If we are not particularly close, I don’t mind you asking my daughter’s name. I am happy to remind you (or tell you for the first time if that’s the case), but if you are family or a close friend and you don’t know, figure out another way to find out that information. Look up her obituary, read my blog, refer to one of the numerous past emails about her, ask another family member or friend, but do NOT ask me (or my husband). Asking the parents when you should know is HIGHLY, HIGHLY offensive. And on that note, if you plan to write her name, please check the spelling if at all possible. Her name has been written on my facebook wall, in the memorial service bulletin, in the obituary, on the blog, on our Christmas card, in numerous emails both around the time of her death and recent too (remember us asking for acts of kindness for her birthday two months ago?). Spelling her name properly is a small kindness that goes a long way, and spelling it incorrectly is hurtful, especially coming from someone close to us. A typo here or there is one thing – simply not bothering to check is quite another. Again, this is more about people who should know better – close family members, close friends. I hope I do not come across as overly harsh, but I am a heartbroken mother, and it makes things so much worse when those close to me add to the pain. I apologize for the rant; I am hurting. I feel that my daughter has been dishonored, and she is not here to defend herself, and I have gone into mama bear mode (which I should have done a few days ago instead of waiting until now).

In an effort to focus on the positive, to search out the good in this world, I want to end by acknowledging the blessings, the words used for comfort, for healing, for compassion. I complain about the hurtful words, but there are so many helpful ones as well. I will always be grateful for those strangers and casual acquaintances who do not run from the conversation when Elena is mentioned, who are gracious, respectful, and kind about her, who are brave enough to ask questions and caring enough to offer a genuine word of gentle comfort, who take the time to read rants on an random blog and leave thoughtful, compassionate comments. I am especially thankful and blessed by those friends and family members who have shown us such love and concern over the last year or so, who listen patiently when I want to share the same memory again and again, who smile when I talk about her, who do kind acts in memory of our baby, who say her name and bring her up first, who ask questions about her, even when they know the answers may be difficult to hear. So many people have loved us and cared for us as we trudge this road, and we appreciate you so much. To those of you who honor our little girl’s life and memory, please know that we are eternally grateful for you and the ways that you remember our daughter. Her memory and our faith are all we are able to cling to as we wait to reunite with her in heaven, and we are so blessed by those of you who help to keep her memory alive in this lifetime. Thank you from the depths of our hearts.