“At least you can get pregnant.” The words were said to me on the very day that I lost my son, William.
I was still in the hospital, looking out the window at the bleak, dreary world that became ever so much colder that day. I know that the statement was not intended maliciously. In fact, it was said in a way to try to comfort me. The speaker meant no harm. And I tried not to take offense. But, I hated hearing it.
There were many other phrases said to me that hurt just as much, such as, “Everything happens for a reason” or “Just try again.” People don’t understand how much these sayings make the heart ache; how much they increase the distance between grieving souls and those intending to comfort them. The statements made me feel so much more alone. People didn’t truly comprehend the suffering that I was experiencing or they would never have uttered those words.
At times, it can feel like I am living in an orphanage. But, instead of children who are searching for doting parents, it is parents who are longing for their much-loved children. Only the parents in the orphanage truly understand what it is like to be there. Visiting caretakers are amazing souls who come to help, but they don’t really, fully comprehend what it is like to be a member of the orphanage. They visit with their hearts full of compassion and their arms full of food. And they do wonderful things while they are visiting the parent orphanage. But it is the resident caretakers — the ones who have been members of the parent orphanage — who make living in the orphanage bearable.
They are the ones who model how to endure at the orphanage. All are having a very difficult time residing there, but these veteran parent orphans help the newbies get through the day. They may send texts on important dates, give cards, randomly bestow a present to the newly bereaved parent orphan to let them know their child is not forgotten. Because all parent orphans want the reassurance that their children are still remembered and cherished.
I can recall when I was one of the visiting caretakers, living outside the parent orphanage. I know I probably muttered some of those hurtful phrases to the aching souls that I wanted so badly to heal. Now that I live in the orphanage myself, I know the damage they cause.
My first visit to the parent orphanage was in 1993 when my cousin Julia died. I don’t remember much about that trip, just a feeling of sadness for my aunt and uncle. When my aunt became pregnant with another girl in 1996, I was so thrilled that she was having another girl. I postulated that at least now she could watch a daughter grow, braid her little girl’s hair, play Barbies — all the things she would have done with Julia. I didn’t realize that this new cousin, while much loved, was no replacement for Julia. Julia was her own person and is still deeply missed today. It was hard for me to understand that until I became a member of the parent orphanage.
Maybe that is why phrases such as, “At least you can get pregnant” bother me so much. They imply that this baby’s life never mattered and that a new baby will replace the one who was lost. But no baby will ever take the place of my son.
My second visit to the parent orphanage was in 2005. My boyfriend’s twin brother had just died in a sudden car crash. I was at the hospital with the family, watching as his mother gently caressed her son’s head. I stepped outside to comfort my boyfriend, who couldn’t stop crying. At the time, I remember believing that everything happens for a reason. I kept wondering what the reason for Michael’s death was. Now, I understand a new truth. Death doesn’t happen for a reason. It’s not meant to punish or to teach a lesson. Death is just part of life. There is NO reason that my son or anybody’s child should be taken from them. There is NO reason to cause a person that much pain.
Believing that everything happens for a reason puts a ton of pressure on a parent orphan. “Because of your tragedy, you need to do something different with your life. You were meant to help others with this pain,” is the message.. But it is hard enough to wake up in the morning, let alone decide how you are going to use the heartache to make the world a better place. A majority of the parent orphans I have met want to do good, but most feel it is an accomplishment to make it through another day without their children walking beside them.
My third visit to the parent orphanage was in 2011. My brother-in-law’s daughter had just lost her life in a car accident. My husband and I couldn’t go down to the funeral. Plane tickets at short notice were prohibitively expensive. We did plan a trip down the following summer, and when we arrived it had been almost one year since Kara’s passing. I found my brother-in-law a changed man. He seemed so very sad. I remember thinking that it had been one year. I expected sadness, but not this much after one year. Now, I know that the pain does not ever leave. It does not lessen over time. You learn how to deal with it better, but your heart always aches and longs for the child who is gone far too soon.
My fourth visit to the parent orphanage was in 2014. My neighbor’s son had just passed away suddenly. I didn’t know what to say or do. I brought food over. I went to Patrick’s funeral. But I felt so helpless. Now, that neighbor has been one of my greatest orphan caretakers in the orphanage. She knows when I need messages, when I need cards, when I need comforted. She knows to support me at events, like a recent walk she, my dad and other friends attended in William’s memory. She has been one of the parent orphanage caretakers I most admire and respect. I look to her example when I wonder how I will make it through another day.
I am so, so very grateful for all the resident caretakers at my parent orphanage. They have all been tremendously supportive. The outpouring of love has been fantastic. And I don’t mean to diminish any visiting caretaker’s roles by sharing phrases that hurt. I am so, so blessed with a loving family, a supportive workplace and many caring friends. But if I could offer advice to visiting caretakers, I would tell them to listen. Ask questions. Ask to see pictures. Share memories. Say my son’s name to let me know he is not forgotten. When I am having a difficult day, let me cry. Because those are the most precious gifts you can give to us, the permanent residents of the parent orphanage.
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Kelly’s world was forever changed when her son, William Robert, was born on Jan. 5, 2016. He was such an active baby, constantly kicking and moving when Kelly and her husband, Stephen, were able to see him on ultrasounds. His strong heartbeat gave them hope that he would be born healthfully. Kelly and Stephen lost William suddenly when he was 15 weeks and 3 days old. He had another sibling, Angel Baby, who was born at 9 weeks gestation in May of 2014. While trying to navigate her way through this unexpected journey of childless parenthood, Kelly leans heavily on a support network of other bereaved mothers, along with friends and family. She and her husband have one dog, Sadie, and two cats, Sam and Sully. Kelly teaches special education at a middle school in Massachusetts. When she is not working, Kelly can be found blogging, taking her dog on walks, exercising or relaxing with friends.
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