If there is anything that I’ve learned from this walk with grief it is how puny words can be.
Countless times I’ve found myself muttering, “I don’t know how else to describe it” or “That’s not the right word, it feels bigger than that.” Sometimes silence is the only thing I can bear to say because the heartache can’t be conveyed in words I know. The emotions are so much larger and more powerful than can be defined using pitiful words.
There are moments where I feel like I’m swimming in a world of grief laden clichés, “empty arms,” “aching heart,” “shattered… irrevocably broken” — these words alone seem to fail in their attempt to describe the events that occurred and painfully struggle to convey our reality to those who haven’t experienced it. But, how else do you describe the indescribable?
How do you describe what it feels like to be told your baby has died? To be told that they couldn’t find a heartbeat. To see your deepest, most gruesome nightmare brought to life and standing right in front of you instead of your perfect newborn. How do you describe the gut-wrenching scream that fills that small room, or how the world becomes nothing but a blurred tunnel of lights and indistinguishable sounds? Your body shaking uncontrollably, convulsing with every sob; pure disbelief and terror left coursing through your veins.
How do you describe the instant you met your child? The feeling of such immense love and pride and heartbreak wrapped into that moment when you finally could hold your beautiful baby for the first time. For the only time. A entire lifetime of hellos and goodbyes tucked into mere hours… or maybe, minutes. The purest forms of joy and devastation you will ever experience.
How do you put into words the moment you watched them take your baby away? How you could feel every cell in your body scream and cry out in agony. You can hear your words playing over and over again in your mind as she is slowly taken from your arms, “No, wait. Stop! Bring her back to me.” But you are left frozen in shock, unable to form the words on your lips. You’ve lost the power of your voice. So you sit. Silent. Speechless. Wishing someone would see the terror in your eyes and bring her back just for one more moment. One more kiss goodbye.
How do you describe the feeling of not knowing if the tears will ever stop flowing? You breath only because your body is trained to do so. Your heart still beats but it is as if you are holding it, exposed, in your hands, trying to keep from spilling the broken shards onto the floor. How do you describe the lingering suffering? The aching emptiness and unrelenting hopelessness that become so unbearable you want to tear your hair out and peel off your skin off in a desperate attempt to escape from your own body. Escape from yourself.
How do you tell them about the undeniable love you have for your little one? How we are left reaching for the stars, the moon and the sun to describe a power so immense, a love so boundless, that at times even the word love fails to convey the strength of the connection we have with our children. It is stronger than love, it surpasses love. It is a feeling that is too fierce, too limitless to be named.
Sometimes the words just can’t be found. The words fall flat…they’re too small.
And I’m left wondering, how we describe the indescribable?
Amy continues to search for ways to build purpose and promise back into her life as she fights to honor the memory, and story, of her only child.
- One Whole Year - May 22, 2017
- Dear Grief Bully - February 27, 2017
- Indescribable - January 18, 2017
My grandson, Isaiah, was born sleeping on March 26,2015. He was full term! I still feel the same as I read described in Amy’s Indescribable. My heart aches for all who has had this experience. Lord love and comfort you.
Beautiful words my son was born sleeping over 30 years at 40 weeks and there is still a big hole in my heart xxx
Written perfectly. Sending lots of love xxx
My baby was born into Heaven last night. My husband and I are still in shock. This was beautiful and I feel as if I had written it myself. I am so sorry you lost your baby too. I told my husband that this emptiness and pain that I feel is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Saying prayers for you and your family too.
That was written perfectly. It brought back a lot for me. I lost my daughter at 35 weeks sept 5th 2014. All I can say is it gets better. I know at first it feels like there’s no way you can live again and be happy but it gets easier. I just want you to know that. I still think about her every day and I have bad days where I just cry but that’s all normal. Im so sorry for your loss and pray for you and your family.
I have just lost my baby girl Isla, she was born sleeping on the 10th of December, she would have been 6 weeks old now. What you have written is perfect. I will never forget that feeling of numbness and shock as I had to walk out of that hospital with empty arms, all the time I just wanted to turn back around and have one last cuddle and to tell her again how much I love her.
I’m sorry for your loss, I too lost my beautiful son on the 23rd December at 36weeks. No one will truly understand this pain, only the mummy’s and daddy’s going through this, sometimes I wonder how am I still alive my heart literally aches, it pains to hold my baby in my arms one more time… for all of time! I’m sending you and your family all my love x
Leeann x
This is so beautifully written. I have experienced pain in my lifetime, but not the unimaginable pain that you have had to endure.
Yet your description of the mixture of the deepest, most exquisite love colliding with the torture of having your baby ripped away from you leaves me breathless. Thank you for trying to articulate something only you can truly grasp.
And thank you for voicing what I’m sure others wish they could put into words. Even if they feel inadequate. They are still breathtaking.
So perfectly worded. Reading this my heart was ripping apart. It’s almost as if we were in the same room. We lost our own Savannah on 11/02/2015. I’m so sorry you had to lose yours too..