I know, I know, October is also Breast Cancer Awareness month. We are ALL aware of that. Pink everywhere. Pink ribbons, pink shirts, pink shoes, pink incoporated into every NFL team's uniform/field/apparel. Everyone knows someone who has been touched by breast cancer directly or indirectly. Everyone also probably knows someone who has been touched by pregnancy and infant loss too. But you don't see any ribbons or colors or special outfits for all of our babies, gone too soon. It makes me that much more sad and mad too.
In order to help educate others I've been doing this blog and I've been posting articles on my Facebook page that I hope convey the importance and meaning of my son and of other babies taken too soon. I don't know if anyone has learned anything or not, but I hope it at least opens their eyes to us in the Baby Loss world. Here is an article that I found shortly after losing Alfy. It is one I shared on my FB page today. It makes me miss my son, Alfy, so very much.
The heartbreak of infant loss = Milwaukee, Wisconsin Journal Sentinel
By Laura Schubert
Did you know that October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month? I'll bet not. Despite the infant mortality crisis that's been at the forefront of Milwaukee's public health news for months, the only people who have more than a cursory comprehension of what it means to lose a baby are those who've lived it.
Infant loss is nature's cruelest practical joke. It's investing all of the required time and effort into pregnancy, only to be robbed of the result. It's cradling a body that grew within your own and trying to reconcile the cold, lifeless form in your memory of the baby who turned double flips in your womb.
It's worrying that you'll forget what your child looked like and snapping an album's worth of photos that no one will ever ask to see. It's sobbing so hard you can't breathe and wondering if it's possible to cry yourself to death.
Infant loss is handing of a Moses basket to the nurse who's drawn the unfortunate duty of delivering your pride and joy to the morgue and walking out of a hospital with empty arms.
It's boxing up brand new baby clothes and buying a 24-inch casket. It's sifting through sympathy cards, willing your foolish body to stop lactating, clutching your baby's blanket to your chest in hopes of soothing the piercing ache in your heart.
It's resisting the urge to smack the clueless individuals who compare your situation to the death of their dog or who tell you you'll have another baby, as if children are somehow replaceable.
Infant loss is explaining to your 7-year-old that sometimes babies die and being stumped into silence when she asks you why. It's watching other families live out your happy ending and fighting a fresh round of grief with every milestone you miss.
It's being shut out of play groups for perpetuity. It's skipping social events with expectant and newly minted mothers because, as a walking worst-case scenario, you don't want to put a damper on the party.
It's listening to other women gripe about motherhood and realizing that you no longer relate to their petty parental complaints because, frankly, when you've buried a baby, a sleepless night with a vomiting toddler sounds something like a gift.
Infant loss is pruning from your life the friends and relatives who ignore or minimize your loss. It's recognizing that, while they may not mean to be hurtful, the fact that they don't know any better doesn't make their utter lack of empathy one whit easier to bear.
My baby girl would have been 5 years old this month. I don't know what she'd look like, what her favorite food would be. I've never had the privilege of tucking her into bed, taking her to the zoo or kissing her boo-boos. I will never watch her graduate or walk down the aisle.
Infant loss is more than an empty cradle. It's a life sentence.
Tonight was also Day 15, the Wave of Light, for the Capture Your Grief 2012 Project. Everyone who has lost a child was to light a candle at 7pm local time and let it burn for one hour. The idea being that there would be a constant wave of light around the world for our children. Last week we had agreed to eat dinner with some friends of ours. I had only seen them once or twice since we lost Alfy. We took our candle with us and asked if we could light it at their house. Of course they said yes. We lit the candle at 7pm sharp and then shared a moment of silence, in honor of Alfy. I am grateful they let us share our light with them. Here is Alfy's light. Ironically, we just received this candle and holder from Tony's mom yesterday as a thank you for watching their dog. It couldn't have come at a better time.
As time continues, I hope I am able to share more than just his light.
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