Does my grief even count if there are no bodies to bury?
The crass thought swirled around my mind in the weeks that followed my pregnancy losses. I was unprepared for how much our losses would shred my heart. But I was even more unprepared for how much the world would minimize the deaths of my unseen children.
Youâll Be Fine
Mere moments after a doctor told me, “your pregnancy is not healthy,â a nurse told meâwhile drawing blood from my veinâ”Don’t worry, you’ve already got kids. You’ll be fine.”
I sat frozen, tethered to my seat by a needle in my arm and shards in my heart.
Another doctor said, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you pregnant and keep you pregnant.”
As if one child is the same as the next. As if all newly formed lives are the same. Products of a baby-making machineâvirtually indistinguishable from one another.
“At least it happened early, you know, before you could get attached,” others said to me.
At least. Donât worry. Youâll be fine.
When another asked me what was done with the contents of my uterus after my emergency D&CââI mean, do they just throw it in the trash?ââI begged God to open a cavernous hole in the floor.
Make me disappear, Lord. I canât handle this. I canât do it.
These comments along with the variety of ways my children were describedâ”miscarriage,” “failed pregnancy,” or “spontaneous abortion”âfelt like punches to my gut. I felt my grief being minimized, and I began to wonderâ”Am I making too big a deal out of all this?”
Does my grief even count when there are no bodies to bury?
Surely I was being dramatic, right? Everyone else seemed to be in on some cosmic secret, some hidden knowledge that unborn children were exempt from personhood. If a life dies early enough, then it doesnât qualify for grief.
Donât worry. Youâll be fine.
But deep in my heart, I knew nothing was fine. There are three childrenâwith three sets of DNA, three completely different peopleâwho will never be with our family here on earth. Never.
Permission to Grieve
When our unborn children died, I was unprepared for how much the world would minimize their deaths.
But I was also unprepared for how our family and friends would ascribe dignity and value to our childrenâs lives in some of the kindest, most thoughtful and loving ways.
During those darkest days and months following our losses, Iâm sure I didnât adequately express gratitude to everyone who reached outâI was numb beyond words. But every kind word, text, card, meal, or gift felt like permission to grieve, validation of our losses, and dignity for the hearts I so desperately wished were still beating.
My husband and I found our own private ways to honor our childrenâs lives. But having others honor their lives, too? That helped me put one foot in front of the other.
Youâre Not Alone
If youâre reading this and youâve walked through a loss, I hope you know you are so not alone. Your grief matters. What happened to your child was terrible. And Iâm so sorry.
Youâll be bombarded with insensitive comments from people who mean well but have no idea what to say. Youâll feel like your loss has been dismissed, devalued, and minimized.
And itâll be one of the hardest things in the world, but youâll have to choose to show grace. To forgive the thoughtless words. To not replay them in your mind again and again. To choose to believe what Godâs word says about the immeasurable worth of your child, rather than what the world says.
Grieving doesnât mean your faith is weakâit means your love for that child is strong.
The losses canât be undone, but the wounds do begin to heal. Scars remain, and thatâs okâtheir deep imprints remind us of our deep love.
God does not look at a brokenhearted mother and say, Youâll be fine. He does not and will not minimize your grief. Rather, Scripture says he is close to the brokenhearted, and he holds us up when our strength is failing.Â
And thatâs a promise worth clinging to.
Remind Her Sheâs Not Alone
If youâre reading this and someone you love has experienced a pregnancy loss, Iâd encourage you to treat her the same way you would if one of her family members had died.
Because thatâs exactly what has happened.
Shoot her a text. Mail a card. Leave chocolate on her porch. Babysit her kids. If you donât get a gushing response of gratitude right awayâor everâshow some grace. Your friend is most likely in a fog and trying her best not to drown. She may not write a thank you card, but I promise you she cherishes the small acts of kindness and love.
Her loss may be âcommonâ in terms of statisticsâbut thereâs nothing âcommonâ about her experience or the life she lost. So when she asks that terrible questionâDoes my grief even count?âyou must respond with an emphatic and compassionate yes.
There may be no body to bury, but there is most certainly an empty wombâand thereâs not a moment that goes by when your friend is not painfully aware of that truth.
The world will tell your grieving friend her loss doesnât matterâthat sheâs overreacting.
When the world whispers, âyouâre fine,â put your arm around her and sayâin a voice thatâs compassionate but also clear and strongââYou are not fine. Youâve lost something precious. Iâm here with you. And no matter what the circumstances, your grief counts.â
Because all grief most definitely counts.
And sometimes itâs ok to not be fine.