Faceless

A year ago, I was immersed in overwhelming grief. Not one, but two more babies gone before I knew they existed. It was a deep, dark pit that I struggled to accept.

There was a period of time when I had barely enough energy to crawl out of bed and I spent most of my days crying, sobbing and lost. I questioned why I would be stuck in this strange place all alone and be forced to deal with even more loss.

I don't know when it ended. In reality, it didn't end. The tenderness of loss never truly goes away. It changes. The days slowly return to a normal routine and the loss no longer consumes the majority of your thoughts.

Now, a year later, I know that pain only surfaces when I see a newborn or hear a baby's cry. And for a brief moment, I wonder why such precious moments would incite high emotion in me. Then I remember.

As I was coming out of my grief induced fog at the end of last year, I watched my hair stylist enter hers. I didn't know her well at the time and we aren't super close now. She lost her four month old. Because she is so open and honest and well known, her loss has been very public.

She posted something on social media yesterday that opened my eyes to a part of my grief I rarely consider.

It wasn't the first time, but she posted a photo from a year ago of her baby boy. A chunky little guy who was full of life. She mentioned that she disliked and liked those reminders from a year ago. The photo made her sad and made her happy.

Most of the time, I can somewhat identify with the pain parents feel when they lose a baby. We've been down that road ten times.

There's a difference in miscarriage. I've been told more than once that miscarriage should be easier to grieve because you never form a true attachment to the child. I don't think that could be any more incorrect.

With miscarriage, there is a deeper grief because you grieve everything. You grieve not giving birth, not naming the child, not knowing the sex, not touching their cheek, not changing their diaper or hearing their cry. You never see their precious face with their tiny nose. They are a faceless being who only ever existed to you.

Your grief is over so much and it's rare for anyone to understand unless they've had a similar experience.

When I see a newborn or hear a baby cry, it touches that place inside me where the grief is tucked away. It reminds me that my grief is faceless and all I've lost.