It's been six years since I've had a miscarriage. I
refer to that life-changing event every now and again, but have never taken the time to blog about it. After all, there is snark to get done, and "being funny" is my default mode.
In Real Life, however, I talk willingly and openly about miscarriage whenever the need arises.
And I
hate when the need arises.
I've found that after experiencing a traumatic miscarriage, the next worse thing is having
a friend go through
the same thing. It causes me to relive all my own pain, all the while knowing that for her:
THERE'S NOT A THING. I CAN DO. TO MAKE. IT STOP.
Oh. That slays me.
I remember a lot of people attempting to sweep the pain and grief away with a few trite words. Trust me. I've heard enough
"God is in control" and
"You'll have another baby" and
"Be thankful it didn't happen any later" kinds of statements to know they do more harm than good.
I've learned that "I'm sorry" is the best thing to say, along with a truckload of groans. I mean that with all sincerity.
That being said, I'll never forget the two words that meant the most to me, spoken by someone who always knew how to make me laugh:
"THAT. SUCKS."
It was the perfect blend of compassion and humor--and something that rattled around in my brain and brought me out of the funk time and time again.
One of my friends just said "goodbye" to her boy that she had carried for 16 weeks. When I heard the news, I immediately felt that horrible, gut-level pain that is so hard to bear.
How do you help someone who's grieving such a tremendous loss?
I don't have many answers, but having just watched a friend walk a path so similar to mine, I was reminded of many of the things that
did help me during that time. And it wasn't the things that made me avoid the loss--it was more the things that let me gently deal with it a bit at a time.
Gifts don't always come wrapped in shiny packages, but these are some great ones that were given to me:
The Gift of Presence
I do not like initiating conversations with people, especially when they're going through A Hard Time. However, when *I* was the one grieving, I felt
more hurt when people did the same thing to me--avoided the topic, or worse--avoided
me. It was at that point that I promised myself that I'd get over my Introverted Self long enough to at least say to the grieving person, "I'm sorry."
Some of my closer friends came and sat with me, hugged me, and listened to me (blubber) as well. It was a great gift of presence. Those people couldn't make the pain go away, but they carried some of its weight.
The Gift of Acknowledgment
Regardless of how old the baby was when s/he died, and whether or not the gender was known--it was a
child. A...Real...Person. Someone who was already a part of the family in a hundred different ways. Acknowledging the reality of that child in an appropriate way is another way to help someone process their grief.
After my miscarriage, I was given a baby blanket that I still hold onto today. It is a tangible reminder to me that yes, I
do have another child. Not one I'm raising, but my son or daughter nonetheless.
My husband and I also have a tradition that whenever we add a child to our family, he buys me a special necklace to commemorate that event. He chose a birthstone necklace (using the month I was due) which I wear with pride, and with personal remembrance of every place that painful event has taken me.
One of my favorite sites to recommend to friends and family members who are helping someone grieve the loss of a child is
La Belle Dame. They sell jewelry specifically aimed at the mother who has suffered a miscarriage, stillbirth, or other infant loss. You can also find some things on
Etsy, and of course any birthstone items can be found online or at your local store.
The Gift of Tears
The thing I love about women is their comfort level with tears. Just seeing another woman crying is enough to send a whole room of hens into tears. I remember several times where I was trying to hold back the floodgates and one of my friends would cry on my behalf and yep, we'd all be a mess. But a GOOD mess nonetheless.
The grief over the loss of a child is huge, and crying helps release some of the pain. I'm not someone who feels comfortable sobbing my eyes out in front of an audience, so what always works best for me is music. Maybe I'm unique in this, but there are songs out there that reach the deepest parts of me like nothing else can.
Here are ten of my favorites:
The Gift of Remembering
It always meant a lot to me when someone remembered to ask me how I was healing, long after everyone else had moved on with their lives. I used to think that bringing up the subject was insensitive to the grieving person, but in reality, many people want to talk about their loss. It's all part of the process.
The other way to remember is to jot down key dates on your calendar (the due date, the actual delivery date) and send a note to the person around that time. There are very few people who take the time to do this--but it is a great act of compassion when it's done.
I'm hoping these tips help
you help someone
else who is grieving the loss of a child. And if that grieving person is
you--then I want to say "I'm sorry" and "
I will listen" and "I will pray."
My heart goes out to y'all--those who
have grieved, those who
are grieving, and those who are grieving
with those who grieve.
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:: Kudos to 
In a moment of reckless abandon, I decided to play a game with my kids.
I've determined there's 
