Turn My Grief to Grace

“How are you doing?”

“Are you feeling better?"

“How are things going?”

When I see people I usually get asked something along those lines. People want updates. People check in. It is so appreciated. It is a reminder that I am not alone. It is also hard to know how to answer. Yes, I guess I am doing okay, a little better. Though I don’t like the word “better” because it just doesn’t feel right. This isn’t really “better” than anything. One of my doctors asked if the grief was “less intense.” I like that phrasing. Yes, the grief is less intense. The first three weeks or so it was like drowning, like suffocating, like a pain I’ve never known existed. It was hysterical crying I could not control. It was a deep, all consuming fear of never getting out of the darkness. It was a physical ache in my arms and my soul for the daughter I carried for eight month and held for three days. It was wanting to hide in the closet, or under the covers, all day. It was brokenness to its full extent.

I'm on my knees 

Only memories 

Are left for me to hold 

Don't know how 

But I'll get by 

Slowly pull myself together 

There's no escape 

So keep me safe 

This feels so unreal 

Nothing comes easily 

Fill this empty space 

Nothing is like it seems 

Turn my grief to grace 

I feel the cold 

Loneliness unfold 

Like from another world 

Come what may 

I won't fade away 

But I know I might change 

Nothing comes easily 

Fill this empty space 

Nothing is like it was 

Turn my grief to grace 

Nothing comes easily 

Where do I begin? 

Nothing can bring me peace 

I've lost everything 

I just want to feel your embrace

I love you

I love you

(Kate Havnevik)

It is less intense now five weeks out. Most of the time. It is crying softly a time or two a day instead of many, many times without control. It is missing her with such power that it is indescribable, but still feeling joy at having known her at all. It is a paralyzing fear that a fire will destroy all her memorial items. It is the peace I feel when I sit in her space and remember every day I had with her. I will never be “better” or the same person I was. But, little by little, it feels less intense. I know the grief will never end, because the love will never end. A few people have said or hinted that they expect me to move on, to have Mira be just a part of my past. To those people I ask, when do you expect to stop loving your child? Just because mine is not in my arms does not mean I love her any less than you love yours. 

I know I am very fortunate to have so many people that are here for me. I talk to other bereaved mothers who hear almost nothing but hurtful comments and have so many people who dismiss their pain. Though Joe and I have encountered those people for sure, we have far more who support us. I thank those people for their patience and compassion. Though the funeral is over, and the world moves forward, we do not. Not yet. And not ever fully. According to research a mother who has lost her infant child does not feel resolution to her grief for on average four years. And never fully “moves on.” Not to say she does not feel joy again, not to say she doesn’t enjoy her life. But she does not move on. She thinks of her child and she grieves her child forever. We have many people who understand that, and for those that do not we ask that you try to understand, but if you cannot we will focus on those who do.

Grieving the loss of an infant is so unique. You grieve the child you lost, but also the future you dreamed about with the child. You have some many things to wonder about. You can’t brag about the milestones they hit early, or the words they learned, or their grades, their talents, or the career they chose. You can only wonder what their life would have been like. Part of healing after the death of a loved one almost always involves talking with others who knew them and reminiscing over the memories. When an infant dies, there are so few memories to reminisce over. They are so few people who knew the child. There are so few people who want to hear the parents tell over and over about the few memories they do have (and cherish).

I’ll love and miss Mira forever. Feel free to ask about her anytime. I love hearing other people use her name. I love to talk about her. Just like any Mom.