Over the last few days I have tried many times (and failed that same number of times) to write a meaningful post about Baby Loss Awareness Week.
What could I say that would not be biased by my own acute pain? How can I convey sympathy (empathy) without being trite, or offering what seem like platitudes (time heals, your baby lives on in your heart, a life well remembered lives on)? Will my attempt to raise awareness/recognise this day scare prospective/expectant/new parents into worrying that they will be one of those unlucky families who suffer this unimaginable (literally – no one could ever have prepared me for the heart and gut wrenching agony caused by the death of my child) bereavement?
I don’t know. I don’t know what the answers are. I don’t know why my baby died. I don’t know why we had to be one of those unlucky families (yes, I know I should count myself lucky with the beautiful children I have managed to hang on to, but still….).
What I do know is that it still hurts. It hurts every time I think about Rosie. It hurts when I realise I haven’t thought about her ‘enough’.
And for the other families who know that anguish, that eternal feeling of wishing for a rewind button or a chance to do-over, I owe them my words. To say out loud that I see you, and I hear you and I absolutely feel your pain.
So I will light a candle for Rosie, for my clients’ lost babies, for those of my family who I never got to meet.
And I will light a candle for you, the parents, the grandparents, the siblings, the friends. The ones left behind. I wish you the gentlest of days