Most days, it is not too hard.
Now, nearly five months after Theodore was born still, I sometimes do not even think of him until something reminds me.
Like, seeing a picture of a baby or a young child. Or hearing the name. Or hearing of someone who is pregnant or who just had a baby. Or seeing the painting of his feet on the wall or the toys that were bought for him.
Daily things, really.
Sometimes the reminders are not too bad. Maybe a little sad. Occasionally relieved that my baby will not have to suffer through what another baby might.
Sometimes they hit so hard. Like suddenly you’re carrying a rock in your stomach and another on your heart. The heaviness and ache and pain and heart-brokenness of those moments cannot be understood by someone who has not experienced it.
Does that mean I have more understanding – that I “get” grief better?
I do not know the pain of watching parents separate. I do not know the pain of losing a parent. I do not know what it is like to lose practically all my belongings in a housefire.
I can imagine, and I can sympathise, but I do not know.
The pain I know is the pain of losing children. Jeremiah was miscarried. Theodore was stillborn.
I know the pain of burying my baby. Of standing in a cemetery, looking at a plaque with my son’s name on it.
But, the pain is not constant. It is not all day, every day.
It is moments throughout my day, most days.