“Grief is the internal part of loss, how we feel. The internal work of grief is a process, a journey. It does not end on a certain day or date. It is as individual as each of us. Grief is real because loss is real. Each grief has its own imprint, as distinctive and as unique as the person we lost. The pain of loss is so intense, so heartbreaking, because in loving we deeply connect with another human being, and grief is the reflection of the connection that has been lost.”
For me, grief is a sneaky pain that hits me like an arrow, straight in the heart, when I least expect it.
Grief is this sadness that has descended over me like a thick blanket as soon as my baby took his last breath.
Grief is waking up happy in the morning only to be cruely reminded by my first thought that my baby is no longer with me.
Grief is duality: feeling happy for my friends who have had a baby boy in the last few weeks while the other half of my heart is weeping for my missing boy.
Grief is feeling guilty for being alive one moment and laughing hysterically the next.
Grief is slightly losing my marbles or consciously act as if I already have and saying “nipples” in the presence of my pastor. Because I can. And because I don’t care about what is appropriate anymore.
Grief is feeling foolishly in control of my emotions just to collapse in a pile of rubble the second I see on the street a father happily tickling his baby boy’s tummy.
Grief is keeping my son’s ashes close so I can fool yourself into believing he is doing this trip with us.
Grief is waking up in the morning feeling already exhausted.
Grief is naming my daughter’s new teddy Georgie and cuddling it when I go to bed.
Grief is carefully avoiding baby boy clothing aisles when I go out shopping.
Grief is eating to forget. And forgetting to eat.
Grief is the palpable fear that one day I will forget my baby’s face. His expressions. His talking eyebrows. His smiling eyes. That if I age less graciously and end up with Alzheimer’s I will forget the very existence of my baby son.
Grief is bursting into tears when my husband is trying to make love to me. Because my son’s face is the only thing I can see at that moment.
Grief is catching myself thinking “he would have been six months soon. I wonder if he would have been sitting like Emma at exactly six months.”
Grief is closing my eyes at night and relieving vividly hospital moments to the point that I want to jump in the car and drive there in the hope that I will find my baby son in the same room he used to suffer in.
Grief is the sadness of realising my baby will never grow beyond five and a half months. That I will never know how he would have been as a toddler. That I will never get to recognise the sound of his voice calling me mummy. The personality he would have developed.
Grief is stopping my daughter from asking questions again about my dead baby and his whereabouts. Because it is just too painful to have to repeat it again and again.
Grief is getting a sharp stab in the heart every time my eyes fall upon my baby’s smiling pictures.
Grief is getting irritated with people who talk too much. Or children who are too loud. Or friends who don’t mention my baby to me at all, as if he never existed.
Grief is having my heart shattered into a million pieces again and again and again…