There are certain truths in life I wished I could have avoided. Like that unsettling statistic from elementary school about the number of spiders we supposedly consume while sleeping. Or the calorie count hidden in my favorite glass of wine (I’m still trying to ignore that one). But the most painful of all the things I never wanted to know is the heart-wrenching experience of losing a child.
On November 15, 2014, I crossed into the heart-wrenching world of grieving parents—a day forever etched in my memory as the worst of my life. On that fateful day, my son, a 6-month-and-17-day-old little boy with a radiant smile and fragile lungs, took his final breath in my arms.
I never wanted to experience the agony of holding a piece of my heart and saying goodbye, knowing I would never kiss those sweet lips again in this lifetime. I never wished to know the physical, emotional, and spiritual ache that comes with longing for a child who shared just 200 days of life with me.
I never anticipated the tears that would flow until my abs hurt—deep, wrenching sobs silenced in the night so my older son wouldn’t wake. I didn’t foresee the emotional grenades I would hurl at well-meaning individuals asking, “How many kids do you have?” followed by the crushing follow-up, “How old are they?”
I never wanted to understand what it felt like to wipe away tears, pat my cheeks to lessen the redness, and continue with my day while being bombarded with questions like, “What’s wrong?”—as if I should have moved on by now. I never wanted to know the fear of forgetting—forgetting his unique scent, the softness of his little tuft of hair, or the delightful sounds he made watching his spinning lion mobile.
The anger I felt towards well-meaning phrases like, “God doesn’t withhold good things from us when we pray,” haunted me. If that were true, my son would still be here. I never wished to experience the strength it takes to put on a brave face, knowing that he would want me to be happy, to love, and to engage with the life still ahead of me.
I never wanted to comprehend the misunderstanding that often accompanies grief—the “at least” statements and “just” phrases thrown around with kindness, like “He was just a baby,” or “At least he’s not in pain anymore.” Such comments fail to grasp that no amount of illness or suffering diminishes the love I hold for him. He was my child, and he always will be. There is no “at least” or “just.” Period.
I never wanted to be this person—someone who understands the depths of loss, who can look another grieving mother in the eye and assure her she is not alone. I never wanted to share this bond of sorrow.
But here I am, fully aware of these harsh realities. I recognize that 1 in 4 women will face pregnancy or infant loss. I know that 1 in 4 will endure unimaginable pain, as losing a child is not simply a bump in their road—it is a piece of their very being that has vanished.
And I know I’m not alone. Many others share this painful journey.
For those seeking guidance on similar experiences, consider checking out our post on the at-home insemination kit for more insights. Additionally, if you’re interested in boosting fertility, fertility supplements can be a valuable resource. For a deeper understanding of insemination techniques, visit Healthline’s informative article.
Summary
This poignant reflection delves into the painful realities of pregnancy and infant loss, expressing the overwhelming grief and longing that accompany such experiences. It highlights the isolation many feel and the well-meaning yet misguided comments that can exacerbate that pain. Ultimately, it serves as a reminder that one is not alone in their sorrow, and that support and understanding are crucial during these difficult times.
Keyphrase: Pregnancy and infant loss
Tags: [“home insemination kit” “home insemination syringe” “self insemination”]