This isn’t the best day for me. I keep looking at the clock and remembering where I was at that exact point in time. Two years ago. I try and not think about how much I miss her. What she should be doing right now. How much we would be enjoying her.
I was reading a post of a woman who lost her baby at 27 weeks. I’m going to copy what she wrote because it just seems to fit. And that’s all I’m going to say.
1. I wish my baby hadn’t died. I wish I had her back.
2. I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to speak my baby’s name. My baby lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that she was important to you also.
3. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my baby, I wish you knew it isn’t because
you have hurt me. My baby’s death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my baby, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both.
4. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn’t shy away from me. I need you now more than ever.
5. I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you; but I also want you to hear about me.
I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my baby, my favorite topic of the day.
6. I know you think of and pray for me often. I also know that my baby’s death pains you too. I wish you would let me know those things through a phone call, a card or note, or a real big hug.
7. I wish you wouldn’t expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my baby until the day I die.
8. I am working very hard on my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my baby, and I will always grieve that she is dead.
9. I wish you wouldn’t expect me “not to think about it” or to “be happy.” Neither will happen for a very long time, so don’t frustrate yourself.
10. I don’t want to have a “pity party,” but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I can heal.
11. I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I am feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.
12. When I say, “I’m doing okay, ” I wish you could understand that I don’t “feel” okay and
that I struggle daily.
13. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I’m having are very normal. Depression, anger, frustration, hopelessness, and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So, please excuse me when I’m quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.
14. Your advise to “take one day at a time” is excellent advice. However, a day is too much and too fast for me right now. I wish you could understand that I’m doing good to handle an hour at a time.
15. Please excuse me if I seem rude, certainly it is not my intent. Sometimes the world around me goes too fast and I need to get off. When I walk away, I wish you would let me find a quiet place to spend time alone.
16. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my baby died, a big part of me died with her. I am not the same person I was before my baby died, and will never be that person again.
17. I wish very much that you could understand-understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. BUT, I pray that you will never understand.