“It’s just too sad. I don’t want to think about that…I can’t be around it.”

I remember when I had this switch you seem to be referring to. The switch that could turn off the sympathetic hurt that I was feeling when someone else was dealing with something awful; that switch that basically said “sucks to be you but don’t bum me out, yo.”

Then my son died.

Let me tell you, that switch not only has no power to it, it is busted right the f* off so even if I wanted to try to turn it off, I couldn’t.

I know it isn’t easy to sit with people in their sadness, especially grief, and especially while they are grieving for their child.

Before you hit that switch right now, I invite you to take a minute and dip a toe into my world for just a quick second.

A very important piece of me is gone. Forever. I have survived 4 and a half years without my son. I didn’t get to change his diapers, feed him, or even have the chance to complain about him keeping me up all night.  I was never puked on. I never had to scrub crayons off of the walls. I didn’t get to watch my boy learn how to crawl, then walk. I didn’t get to experience potty training. I didn’t get to see his sweet baby face transform into a toddler and then into a little pre-k man.

I will not get to take my son to kindergarten this year when all of the kids that are the age he should be will be attending; their parents waiting outside crying because they’ve grown up so fast and they don’t know how they will get through that first half day without their little one in tow.

Every time I re-establish with a new doctor, I have to rehash all of these very personal details regarding the death of my son and my infertility. Every time, I have to brace myself to see if I’m going to get a compassionate response or if I will be dismissed as a parent at all and the short life of my son discounted.

I can put those things out of my head?  OK.  Well….

I have this scar, see. This scar from when my son was cut out of my belly. It still hurts sometimes and in many parts I don’t have feeling ever since.  There is absolutely no way that I can be made aware of that incision and not think of the time they pulled my lifeless boy out my body while my heart broke into pieces.

I hope you can understand what I’m getting at here. You can forget this. I can not.

I am sorry that this is uncomfortable and sad for you.

As you hear yourself saying that…. how do you think it makes me feel? Should I adjust the way I choose to remember my child to make you more comfortable and happy? Do you think I should find a way to put that out of my mind while I am around the rest of the entire world just to make sure nobody else is effected by the death of my child? Do you think I should just keep all of this to myself and add to the illusion that pregnancy and infant loss is rare and that those who survive it should move on and get back to their old self again?

Or…

Perhaps it would be easier for you, just while you’re around me, to not pretend like my son didn’t die. Maybe it would be easier for you to take just a couple days out of the year to help me celebrate the short life of my son. Maybe it would be just a little bit easier for you to be supportive of me for the brief time that we are together.

If I can handle bearing this pain for the rest of my entire life, I think you can handle supporting me on the hard days and maybe even the not so hard days.

Do you think you can be just a little bit sad while being just a little bit joyous with me as I celebrate and honor my son? Do you think you can handle a couple hours of submerging yourself in the reality that babies die and mine was one of them?

My friend, if I can wake up every day and keep going without the ability to escape his absence, I think you can handle a couple hours.

I will not be silent to make everyone else comfortable. I will not hide my tears. I will continue to advocate for survivors of pregnancy and infant loss. I will not be silent because I know that it would contribute to burying this darkness further and further for my fellow bereaved parents and for me.  I will continue to honor my son. If you want to be a good friend or family member, I hope that you will too.

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Amber Smiley

Amber met Chris when she was in high school and married him as soon as she could at the age of 18. She was certain that she wanted children right away but that was not how things were going to work out. They lived in Las Vegas for over 10 years before they finally became pregnant via intervention and plenty of patience. Jasper’s heart stopped at 40 weeks and that was the beginning of what has become a sometimes brutal and sometimes hopeful, new way of life.
They knew they wanted more children and have since suffered many early miscarriages during the process of multiple IVF and IUI cycles which have left them with broken hearts.Feeling defeated and alone, the bereaved parents moved to Connecticut in search of a much needed new start.

Amber was inspired to work towards becoming a therapist during her process of trying to find support after her loss. She is currently a freelance graphic designer, artist and marriage and family therapy graduate student. She takes comfort in the idea that their son was a driving force for her to help other people through a time that she and her husband felt so alone.

Latest posts by Amber Smiley (see all)

• On Being Too Sad To Support Me In Celebrating My Son. - April 9, 2018
• Therapeutic Endeavors III: The Letter - January 26, 2018
• Therapeutic Endeavors Part II - January 24, 2018