It's Easy to Say...

There's a unique kind of awkwardness that accompanies the loss of a baby. The onlookers, who always want to take away your pain somehow by saying something magical and healing. Unfortunately, there are few words that bring comfort when the grief is so all consuming. I've heard it countless times, and even though I know it's true, the fact that my son was "too good and pure for this world" or that "it was meant to happen this way, he just needed a body" doesn't change the fact that I selfishly want him with me. It doesn't take away the physical ache of wanting to hold him, or the emptiness you feel. It's easy to tell someone "God needed another angel", when he didn't need yours. There are no words, no ways of explaining the pain of losing a child. Unless you've been here, you simply can't understand. You can try, but the loss of a baby or child is unlike any other. And those of us who, for whatever reason, are chosen to carry this cross, hope that you never do understand. This is something I would not wish on my worst enemy. Ever. When my son passed, truly a part of me did too. There's a quote I read somewhere that said something to the effect of "To make the choice to have a child is to also make the choice of having your heart walk around outside of your body." So what does that mean when your child dies? How do you continue on with life like you did before? I think the answer is that you simply don't. How could you possibly be the same person after experiencing this? Having a child changes you forever, and when that child is called back to their heavenly home, you're altered even further. I will never be the person I was before. I know that I will know happiness again, but I don't think it will ever feel quite the same. I know that there will be days where I won't cry, but there will never be a day I don't think about what I've lost. I pray that there will be other children that I will be allowed to raise, but I know already that whenever I see them, I will also see my son. I will wonder if he would have had the same eyes. Would he have smiled the way they do? Would his cry, his laugh, his voice have been similar? Every milestone my future children reach will be a reminder of my son. I certainly don't think that his loss will diminish my joy in raising other children, in fact, I'm sure it will only make me love and cherish each moment with my future children that much more. But I will always mourn the loss of what could have been. When Hunter left, there was no shaking of the Earth, no noise, no trembling. Just quiet. Though my soul was screaming and shouting at God, at the Universe, and it seems impossible that the sound of my heart breaking could not be heard, there was just quiet and peace. My heart still cries out to God, wanting answers, wanting relief. But that's not how it works, I suppose. This is the ultimate test of faith in Him. To trust Him enough to let my son go. To trust Him enough to take care of my sweet boy. I'm learning. Slowly, but surely. And though there will most likely not be a sudden healing of my pain, I know my Heavenly Father weeps when I weep. He hurts when I hurt. And miraculously enough, He still loves me when I'm angry at Him for taking my son from me. It's the unconditional love of a parent, of which I now understand so greatly. Who better to understand the pain and suffering of losing a child then our Father in Heaven? The only comfort I will be able to find is through Him, and though I appreciate all the kind words of support, I hope none of my loved ones will take offense if I simply nod and smile when you say something to me in an attempt to help heal the wound. I know they all come from a place of love and concern. But at the end of the day, the only peace I will find is from within and from Him.