Healing the Hurt

 As I began going down a dark, uncertain path of my grief journey and was contemplating leaving my job, a family member asked me, “Claire, do you think that you might have too high of an expectation of others[in your healing process]?”. Great question. I had returned to work 6 weeks after losing Piper half-way through our pregnancy and I was hurting, depressed and I was angry at a lot of people. First, it was my doctor, then society, then other happy pregnant people, and now my village of co-workers and friends. I just couldn’t believe that I would be subject to insensitive people in such an awful and raw time in my life. I had been told by others in the loss community that people would say insensitive things, I was told that people wouldn’t know what to say and would be more likely to be silent. I knew about the stigma around pregnancy and infant loss. But, I hadn’t believed it all until going back to work, wow, it REALLY EXISTED. It exists because in the minds of most, well-intentioned, humans, lives the idea that people need to move on and get better. Women. Men. All of us. Just as I could never comprehend having a pregnancy that ended in the death of my child, I certainly couldn't believe that people would say insensitive things to me…no, not my village. I was wrong, and in my most vulnerable, sensitive, fragile time of grief I could not handle the thought of my loss, not being considered with the utmost importance by others. It hurt when women who had experienced losses themselves didn’t acknowledge my experience. When women that I had worked side by side with for years didn’t consider their choice of words and topics of conversations before delivering them to me. The isolation I was experiencing was growing power minute, by, minute, being fed by that very stigma around pregnancy and infant loss that I hadn't believed existed. I had entered back into the fog, covered world as a bereaved mom, in shock still from my experience, believing that I would be understood and protected by those closest to me. But when that didn’t happen, I found myself staying in more, less likely to talk to friends, less confident in my own reality. Why? Because those few, silent, voices took up a lot of space in my broken heart. Not saying my baby’s name anymore, the loud announcements of new healthy babies being born followed by sarcastic, apologies are what hurt. And without having the energy to take time to understand their intention, and dealing with my own depression, I was stuck playing their comments over and over in my head.  My focus on these few voices, made me question my ability to get out of my head and enter the healing space of my heart. So maybe my expectations were a little off, but how could I really know, when I couldn't really believe my own reality existed. I answered the question as best I could, standing in the kitchen, slouched over, exhausted from depression and sadness and said, “Well… I had no idea what the world would look like as a bereaved mother, and I had to believe that those closest to me had goodness in their hearts that would embrace me and walk alongside me with only compassion and acceptance. But I was wrong, not everyone is ready or equipped for that. It takes a special person to walk alongside a friend on this uncomfortable journey. But for now, I must heal whether those around me understand or not, or whether I am ready. I want to heal but it scares me to do so when I feel so alone.”