Capture your grief - Day 5. THE UNSPOKEN

Normalizing grief is so important and that I why today I am calling upon those who feel brave enough to speak about the nitty gritty side of grief. Share something about your grief journey that you might feel is strange or not common. It might be something you do to remember your children by or maybe it is something you fear about the future. Often while grieving we have feelings of isolation because we fear judgement that what we are feeling isn’t normal. But it is amazing to see just how many people feel the same way. When others stand up and express how they feel through sharing their experiences, it allows us to say “Hey, I feel that way too!” and the fear of feeling like we are crazy is lifted and in some cases embraced!

Grief at its darkest

Initially after Charis passed away, my strongest connection to Charis was the sadness, the emptiness that I felt. There were moments that I wished I could have died with her. The initial days and weeks were so dark and so incomplete without Charis. As we prepared for Charis' memorial logistics, slideshow, eulogy, song dedication, there was so much ache and sadness but the desire to create this last little piece of memory of Charis kept us powering through these preparations. On the day of Charis' memorial, I remember walking into church and setting up Charis' memorial table... and then seeing my mom walk in, then progressed to touch each little piece of item that reminded us of Charis, the bunny, the photo, the tiny single pink rose, and her knitted booties as she sobbed uncontrollably. I wanted to break down with her there and then, without caring about what was happening around me. I composed myself to hold my mom and lead her to sit down. Then came my dad and brother. My dad sat down at the pews at the front of church, staring at Charis' memorial program, with tears quietly rolling down his cheeks. Most of the memorial, I just felt numb. The flowers and the warm embrace from all those who attended helped us get through the day when I said my last goodbye to Charis. The grief didn't end there though of course.

I remember one evening, Daryl and I went to visit Charis' resting place because I missed her terribly that day but didn't have a car to go visit her. When we arrived, we learned that the cemetery was already closed with the changing seasons and earlier sunset times. I was so mad and tearful and bitter as we stood at the gate to the cemetery because I thought, "I miss MY daughter so much but I can't even visit MY daughter whenever I wanted or needed." I knew the cemetery had its own rules that I needed to follow and Daryl reiterate that this is merely Charis' body's resting place and that she lives in our hearts and in heaven, but not here. I just couldn't help but feel this way. Her body is hers; her now dead body was once a part of me; this is her right here and I can't reach her.

For a while, feeling sad was the only way I knew I could miss her, the only way to keep remembering her, even though I knew my memory of her should also be positive and happy because of all the great things she has brought to us. My feelings just weren't in sync with my mind. Initially such sadness almost consumed me, and controlled my day to day life. Although I promised God and Charis that I would treasure each day, I was too down to do anything besides talking to visitors, talking to Daryl, reading infant loss books, praying, listening to Charis' music playlist, and looking at Charis' photos over and over again.  Oftentimes, I just curled up in bed, holding on to her stuffed toy bunny and quilt that once wrapped her warm body... or I escaped the reality by watching hours and hours of Netflix/Shomi. There were often days and moments where I couldn't bear the sorrow, that I eventually unconsciously numbed any feelings. I switch between feeling absolutely suffocatingly sad to feeling absolutely nothing when looking at pictures of infants, hearing infants' cries, holding infants, looking through Charis' photos, talking about how I was doing... Just. Hollow. It was my body's way of protecting myself. I still have these days and sometimes they sneak up on me without my knowing until I suddenly realised my avoidance behaviours and lack of energy and motivation for anything at all. Thankfully, these days are not as often as before, now that I have been practicing to allow myself to feel the grief, face the grief, and integrate the grief into my life.

Normalising grief

One of the most stinging comments that some people, who knew about my loss, have made was one of those, "when you have kids, you'd appreciate the hour long train ride home from work all to yourself." First of all, I do have a kid, but I didn't get to bring my kid home like you could; and second of all, I don't understand how you feel because all I wish is to have more time with my baby. Although I have accepted that Charis' life on earth would be short, and that she is resting in peace in a better place, that doesn't mean I don't crave for her presence, or yearn for more time with her. Parenthood doesn't only pertain to those who have kids to show, who have kids at home. So don't say to me, "when you have kids.." as though this is how I ought to feel if I have a kid at home because there are many - PLENTY visible and silent "lossmoms" and "lossdads" out there who have miscarried, who have a stillborn, who have lost a child, or whose child is fighting a serious illness that keeps them in a hospital or that may take away their lives. Parenthood is different for everyone. 

So don't say if we have kids, we would like some alone time from them because all we would want is time. More time.

I noticed that I usually give socially acceptable responses to insensitive comments because I don't want my grief to inconvenience others. I am always concerned that my grief, my new life journey, makes others uncomfortable because they don't understand how I feel, they don't know how to respond, or they aren't prepared to hear something many grief-stricken people suffer silently. This then silenced me - it silenced my ability to voice my own opinion, just like anyone else who are free to voice their opinion based on their own personality, values, experiences, etc. Despite knowing the importance and the difference that I could make by breaking the silence surrounding infant loss, I chose to not voice my opinion, which may not flow with the social norm, for fear of others' reactions. 

I am learning to break this silence, educating others of how grief can affect one's life, values, and decisions, starting with my own grief journey.