You’re casually scrolling social media, maybe just passing the time or taking a brain break when you see it – the unfortunate news by your friend that she lost her baby.
Or you pick up your phone expecting to hear anything else but get told by a family member that your new niece/nephew/grandchild has tragically passed away.
And suddenly, you want to help. But you really don’t know what to do.
I get it. I’ve lost two babies and sometimes, I really don’t know what to do.
Don’t try and come up with something to say to make the situation better. You won’t. Especially if it’s still fresh. There is nothing in that moment that can change the fact that their baby is gone. No “at least” statements, no “they’re in a better place”, no “God needed another angel”. Just say, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Especially if it’s not someone you know well.
Here a few other things that you can do to help in ways that will be helpful.
After Judah died, a lot of people sent flowers and some brought meals. And a lot more said, “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
And we didn’t let them know. Why? Especially in the early days of grief, everything is foggy. You’re tired. You cry a lot. The last thing you’re thinking of are ways that other people can help you. You just want to curl up on your couch and shut out the world.
Instead, try and come up with something you think would be helpful and then ask if that’s something they would like.
For example, some friends of ours texted and asked if they could send their cleaning lady out every couple of weeks for six weeks so we wouldn’t have to worry so much about keeping things clean. Another family sent us a coffee maker to help with the grief fatigue.
Tangible things that they don’t have to put a lot of thought into are so helpful. And are remembered and deeply appreciated.
You may be thinking, if they want to talk, they’ll let me know. Or I don’t want to bother them. They’ll reach out when they’re ready.
That’s not really true. Again, they’re not really thinking of that. They’re not thinking about talking to anyone. They’re thinking about their baby and how they’re going to get through the days without them.
But pregnancy and infant loss is so isolating. Reach out to them, especially if you haven’t seen or heard from them in a while, and make sure they’re doing okay (if it’s still new, they’re not – don’t try to make it better).
You may see them grieving and think, it’s been x amount of time. They should be past this by now. And you may even tell them so. But this grief does not end.
It’s been almost 5 years since we lost Judah and 7 years since we lost Jack. And I still grieve. I have been told by mamas who lost their babies 40 years ago that they still grieve. This doesn’t end – it just ebbs and flows.
Yes, joy still exists. Yes, there are days when it doesn’t feel as heavy. But it’s still there. It’s not that the grief goes away or lessens – you just learn to live with it.
I remember one of the first times I brought Judah up in a conversation after he died. I was just trying to relate, saying that Judah had done whatever it was too. I was met with deafening silence. And then after an awkward pause, the conversation continued with no acknowledgement of my son. And that hurt more than someone bringing him up.
There’s various versions of this that float around the loss community so I’ll just paraphrase it – you don’t bring up my child because you’re afraid you’ll remind me that he died. But you won’t remind me because it’s a knowledge I live with every second of every day.
Talking about my babies and hearing someone else talk about them keeps their memories alive. It warms my heart. It stops me in my tracks to see it written down somewhere. It shows me that I’m not the only one who remembers when you say their names.
The only way I can mother my boys is to speak life into their memories and create a legacy for them. You talking about them and saying their names shows me that that’s not in vain.
August 22, 2013.
August 22, 2016.
October 7, 2016.
January 12, 2017.
February 23 – 25, 2017.
These are dates that are seared into my brain. My body is so acutely aware of them that leading up to these days, I feel anxious, tired, cranky, and just off. Because the body remembers. On these days, grief is just as heavy as it was the day my loss occurred. And I can’t fathom going into these days alone.
These aren’t days that everyone remembers. A few are forgotten by everyone but me and my husband. But on the big days – Judah’s birthday and the anniversary of his death, we have a few friends and family who will reach out and just let us know they’re thinking of us and what Judah meant to them.
Yes, I cry while reading them. Sometimes, I avoid reading them all day depending on how I’m feeling. But, with those messages, I know he’s not forgotten. And those tears are a mixture of grief and joy because someone is remembering my boy with me.
Grief is hard and it’s isolating and it’s lonely. I can’t count the number of times I have broken down simply because I feel alone in my grief and I feel forgotten. And Judah feels forgotten.
Yes, a griever will need your lifelong support. Does this mean you have to be everything to them all the time? Absolutely not. In fact, that’s not healthy for either of you. But showing you care, not shutting them out, and treating their grief like it’s just a normal part of their life will help so much.
If they want to laugh, laugh with them. If they want to cry, hold space for them. Don’t treat them differently. Don’t leave them out for fear of hurting them.
Pregnancy and child loss is painful enough. Let’s walk alongside these families, takes their hands, and let them know they can always count on us.
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