I’ve got 3 kids, 4 if you count Lincoln. I always count Lincoln even though some people think he doesn’t count because he never made it into this world, well he never made it here healthy and alive anyway. He’s still here to me, he’ll always be here. He holds a part of my heart just as big as my living children.
You’d be surprised what people will say after you lose a baby the way I lost Lincoln. They don’t mean any harm, they’re not intentionally being insensitive. They don’t know any better. They don’t know what it’s like to live without a part of your heart and I’m so glad they dont. I wouldn’t wish this pain on my worst enemy. People will say, “Atleast you didn’t get further along, that would’ve really been sad.” 17 weeks is more than enough time to fall in love with your child. That’s 117 days, 2,856 hours, 171,360 minutes, 10,281,600 seconds. I wanted Lincoln and loved him every single moment since I found out he existed. It’s heartbreaking to lose a child at any age or gestation.
People say, “Atleast you have 3 other kids.” Yes, I’m blessed to have given birth to 3 amazing children but that doesn’t have much to do with losing THAT child. Let’s say God forbid, something were to happen to my living children and Lincoln was born perfectly healthy, he wouldn’t take their place just as they can’t take his. I would never want them to feel the need to do that.
“It’s been 3 months, it’s time to move on.” There would be nothing I’d love more than to do that. To forget about it and pretend it never happened, God, I wish I could cope and be myself again. I can’t do that. I won’t even pretend to do that because I’d have to forget my son, my son that I saw move and suck his thumb on ultrasounds, I listened to his heart beating. He was real, he was there and I’m not going to pretend he wasn’t to make other people feel less uncomfortable.
“It was just meant to be.” Yeah. OK. Well, that doesn’t make it hurt any less. It still sucks. It’s cool and all that “God has a plan.” But I wanted my baby here with me. I wanted to hold him, I wanted to watch him grow, I wanted to know what color hair and eyes he’d have. I should be in my third trimester and as big as a house. I wish I was complaining about my back and my swollen feet. I’d give it all, anything.
People don’t know what to say and I used to be one of those people who fumbled over my words trying to say the right thing. Hoping to bring some sense of comfort or peace. Here’s the thing, there isn’t anything in this world that you can say to someone who lost a child that will make them feel better. Nothing
What you can say is “I’m so sorry.” “I’m here for you.” “I’m praying for you.” Don’t try to find a reason why it should be okay for someone’s child to be dead. It’s natural to want to do that but for women who have gone though what I’ve gone through, it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Knowing that there is someone there for you, to talk to you, to listen to you, that means the most. Calling their child by name lets us know that you remember too. That’s all we want. We want our child to exist even though they’re gone. We want them to be real to someone other than us. Acknowledge them, don’t be afraid to bring them up for fear of making us sad. I love talking about my child, I love talking about all my children.