Trigger Warning: this post is about pregnancy and infant loss.
Here I am. 1am finds me lying in bed reading the story of a couple pregnant with a child who the doctors say will die soon after birth.
I click the link, read the story just like I’ve done time and again with other similar stories. I can’t seem to stay away from them. I don’t understand my compulsion to know every story I come across.
I hate that babies die. And, when I say hate, I don’t mean dislike. I don’t mean it just causes me to frown. I don’t even mean it puts a damper on my day. No, when I say hate, I’m saying my intestines twist themselves into knots. My facial expression contorts, every muscle tight and gathered. My teeth clench. I desperately want to punch something but all there is is air. The emptiness engulfs me and angers me and drags my soul away from its hiding place and into the very edges of my body. It falls out drop by drop.
Because babies shouldn’t die. Parents shouldn’t have to watch lives extinguished so early.
I wish I had a ‘why’ to console myself with. Maybe if I had a real, tangible ‘why’ then somehow eventually it would be okay.
But, my own attempt to find a ‘why’ has been futile. I think maybe that is why I read these stories of babies gone on before. The parents, the sisters, the brothers, they don’t wrap the stories up nice and neat and provide us with a happy ending. no. When the stories are shared, the ache is shared, the pain laid out and the beauty of love shines.
It is not a logical thing to love what is so easy to lose, but when I read their stories, I see why it is so important.