My baby sister wrote a poem for me for one of her high school assignments. She is very talented and it really meant a lot to me for her to express my feelings and experiences so thoughtfully!
When she sent me the "rough draft" I was shocked at how perfectly she captured my grief. It made me realize maybe I talk about my experiences a little too much ;) I know that for people who haven't experienced something like this knowing what to say, or I guess NOT knowing what to say, can be awkward and scary...but let's remember the silence is much worse!
I've loved the recent movements in social media about speaking up about infertility and loss. It's scary to talk about something so vulnerable but it should never be shameful!
I would like to dedicate this poem to all my friends and loved ones going through/ who have been through something similar! You know who you are! Xoxoxo
(This is a slam poem p.s.)
Two years ago I would have told you that the worst pain you can feel is wanting something so, so badly and not being able to have it. But after months and months of naivete, I found out I was wrong. And that realization came in the form of life kicking me in the stomach, and then continuing to kick me in the stomach while I was down. You see, the worst pain you can feel is losing something you loved long before it was even a thought--over, and over, and over again. The worst pain is the fear and the guilt that comes after the heartbreak--the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there’s something you could have done. And these people that don’t have anything close to resembling a medical degree all prescribed to me time. They told me time would heal both my body and my soul, but all I found myself doing was adding up the days and thinking about how old each of them would be now. And as my loneliness became more palpable, so did the awkward glances and uncomfortable silences that held much more meaning than any one of the apologies that you weren’t sure you should give. Because you thought that my pain would somehow be lessened if we all just ignored the elephant in the room, but to me it wasn’t some awkward topic that should be avoided by all parties involved at all costs; it was my kid. To you it was just a poppy seed, then a blueberry, then a peach, but to me it was my kid. And if you had met him, you never would have asked me to come to the party on the night I had to say goodbye to him. You didn’t understand when I grieved over something so small, because you never held him. But I did. I carried him. Not in my arms, not in a baby sling, but I carried him. And you--you had the audacity to tell me that me and my husband and my dog aren’t actually a real family, but you don’t know. You don’t know that my husband and I bought that dog to help me deal with my depression and anxiety--both of which have stayed with me longer than any one of my children. You don’t know what it’s like to put all of your hope into a single faint, pink line. You don’t know that I could have a family of six right now if only life had treated me a little differently.
Love, C
