Once in a while, usually without any warning, and almost always when I am alone and it is quiet, I remember what is missing—No. Not what, but WHO is missing—and I am overcome with sadness. But sadness is not even an accurate description of the overwhelming feeling of grief that envelopes me when I remember. The word “sadness” does not do this feeling justice.
Sadness is what I feel when a friend moves away. Sadness is what I feel when someone says something mean and hurts my feelings. Sadness is what I feel when I think about pets we have had in the past who have died. Sadness is what I feel when I think of a special material possession I have lost. Sadness is what I feel when someone else loses a child.
The feeling I have when I think of my sweet baby girl who never took a breath is beyond sadness. The feeling that I feel when I think of my Chaney is a heart wrenching pain. It is a physical ache in the middle of my chest that leaves me feeling sick to my stomach and unable to breathe well. My eyes fill with tears and my vision blurs. I can get lost in this world of overwhelming grief if I am not careful.
And so when I begin to remember, and the grief takes hold of me, I get up and move. I clean a closet. I cook a meal. I play a game or read a book. I take a walk or turn on some music. I write about my feelings in a blog post. Because if I sit and think about what could have been, and dwell on the things that cannot be, I will only miss out on the things that are. And that would rob my husband of his wife. and my children of their mother, and benefit no one.
I will see her again someday. She’s waiting in a better place. And that makes my grief so much easier to bear.
To read more about my experience with miscarriage, see Loving Chaney.