In the wee small hours of the morning, if you listen closely, you can hear it.
Silence.
Silence, when there should be a baby crying for a 2 am feeding.
Silence, when my husband and I should be debating whose turn it is to get up.
Silence, when I should hear sweet moans of contentment as a baby sucks down warm milk.
Sometimes silence feels like the enemy.
Sometimes silence happily mocks my pain.
Sometimes silence is the loudest sound you’ve ever heard.
Some would say that silence is golden. No doubt, there are some haggard, overworked parents at the point of exhaustion who would give just about anything for a moment’s peace. But for us, silence means a death sentence. For us, silence means we walked out of the hospital empty-handed. For us, silence feels like a cruel joke.
For a while, that silence tried to consume me. It slithered up and surrounded me so there was no chance of escape. It coiled itself around my neck in a stranglehold and squeezed so tight I could barely breathe. Then, after rendering me powerless, it rammed itself down my throat and possessed me, body and soul.
And there are those who like me that way. They would much rather me suffer in silence and play the quiet game. They think it’s time to “get over it”. They want me to “buck up and move on”. They don’t like being made to feel uncomfortable by the mention of his name.
But losing a child is not something you get over. You can’t just move on when your flesh and blood is buried beneath the ground. It continues to speak to you in an otherworldly voice. You are no longer the person you once were. The old has gone. You have been made new.
And this new me can’t suffer in silence. That’s not how to win this quiet game. He’s resurrected when I write about him. He comes alive when I say his name.
Cohen Andrew Fifield. Beloved baby. Precious son.
Forgive me if you feel uncomfortable. Just scroll past his name in your news feed. I don’t mean to be an inconvenience. This is just me being the new me.
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By Andrea Fifield
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This is beautifully written and very true
Thank you so much for reading and commenting, Nat! XO
Thankyou
My son – Onyx Mason Marshal
DOB – 23.01.2017
Thank you for writing this. I have been living with the silence for over 12 years now (my daughter, and only child, was stillborn in 2004) – it never goes away, you just get used to it.
It never goes away and we never go back to the people we were before.That much silence can be deafening. But don’t let it consume you. Be the new, authentic you and don’t ever apologize for it. XO
Thanks for your comment, Lee. So sorry about your recent loss of Sebastian. The first year after loss is so hard. Just know you are not alone. XO
I felt your pain as you described the silence. It’s true though, they’re just gone all at once and it’s so hard to accept. For most, and maybe even all, it’s a lifelong battle. I’m so sorry for your loss. Warm hugs.
Thank you, Kathleen. Those scars they left on our hearts are proof of how deeply we have loved them. Hugs to you, too! XO
Beautiful and true… life will never be the same.
Thanks,honey! 🙂