It would be so easy to allow myself to slip into what I picture to be a pool of grief. The pool is dark…the water looks black; you cannot see where it ends. The only thing you know is once you allow yourself to slip beneath the surface, there's no telling when you'll come up for air. I've allowed myself to be dipped in this pool; I've toed the first few inches of the blackness, twirled my fingers in the water. In those moments, I find myself completely broken and hopeless, missing my perfect baby boy. I never even got to kiss his soft belly. I think of these things.
I never heard him cry, never saw him smile - I don't even know what color his eyes are. (My heart tells me blue, just like his daddy.) It is in these dark moments that I find myself staring into the pool of grief. My reflection stares back, wondering how I will ever overcome the pain of losing my first son. The knife twists in my gut, and I often find myself without breath for a moment or two. I am then faced with a choice - turn my face towards the sun, and the Son, or fall head first into pain.
…
On the few occasions when we've been with friends and family, I can sometimes feel their apprehension. They don't know what to say, or what to do. They tend to walk on eggshells around me, which I understand. Prior to us going through this experience, I probably would have done the same thing. I wouldn't know what to say, or how to act. God forbid anyone I know ever have to experience this kind of loss, but if anyone did, I like to think that I would give them room to grieve.
I want to say I could just be with you as you walk through the pain. However it looks, whether you break down sobbing or screaming, or if you want to sit quietly. I like to think I could laugh with you over menial things, while silently remembering how fragile your emotions are, knowing that in the next second you may feel like your laughter is so hollow, because your pain is so intense.
But who knows. I've never walked on that side of this kind of experience. I've only just begun the process of figuring out my own grief. So please be gentle with me. Anyone who has experienced loss knows what I mean. I know you may not know what to say or do, and I'm truly okay with that. I understand…but just be gentle. You don't have to have some deep, profound advice to share (in fact, please don't, unless I ask you to). You don't have to be nervous about reminding me of my son, he's never more than half a thought away in my mind. Just be there, and be gentle.
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