I remember a few years ago, before I had either of my babies, when one of my dearest friends experienced her first miscarriage. I saw the way it completely broke her heart, but it didn't really click. I'm sure I said something inappropriate, because I was completely blind to the depth of her pain. I didn't fully understand her heartbreak until I lost Emmett. I remember shortly after losing him, talking to someone about how I had gained this understanding, when they said, "But that's different." Their tone and comments suggested that my loss was greater, because I was 30 plus weeks along further than my friend. Similarly, I've had conversations with people who have tried to say my loss wasn't great compared to those who have lost children at later ages. Infants, toddlers, and beyond. The horror of knowing there are people who really think this way really stirred something in me, and now this is something I think about on a nearly daily basis.
May I speak bluntly? There is no such thing as loss hierarchy. There is no such thing as, "At least, (you fill in the blank)." There is no "at least". These lives that are lost are all precious. Each life counts. Each life touched someone else's heart, and that heart is forever impacted, having known them, even if it was only for a moment. No one's pain should be minimized because of how long someone lived. It doesn't matter how long a parent knew their child - one day, one month, one year, thirty years. I always think of the Dr. Seuss book, "Horton Hears A Who". The echoing theme of that book is, "A person's a person, no matter how small."
No matter how small.
No matter how young.
No matter how old.
No matter how far along.
Every life counts.
If you've stuck around here for any amount of time, you will probably have noticed by now that I repeat this often about Emmett - he still counts. Even though he never took a breath. Even though he never opened his eyes outside of my womb. Even though we never heard him cry. As a parent, I do not want my child's brief life to go unnoticed. I don't want him to be forgotten, and while I've seen over and over that he won't be, it's still something I will fight for.
I will fight for his name to be spoken, and his memory to live on. I will speak freely about the little boy who made me a mother, and Ryan a father. I will laugh as I tell you about the way he hated having the hiccups. I will bravely share my experience, even the raw parts. I will let me tears fall, unashamed, because he is still my son. His life, and my subsequent loss, have made a great impact on me.
He still counts.
They all count.
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