“So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.”
Hello, my friends. I feel as though an explanation is due. For years I’ve been posting a weekly blog of some sort and enjoy the eclectic sharing. As always, my interests range from aging, creativity, and health, to, um, Tad stories. (My husband, Tad, isn’t always as thrilled about that, but hey. Is it my fault he does wonderfully wacky Tad things?)
Of late, however, I’ve struggled to find words. It’s been even harder to string words together into legible sentences.
I suspect it is a byproduct of the grieving process.
When my daughter gave birth to their stillborn daughter, Mila, in October, I had no idea how deeply the pain would settle into my being.
It’s not constant.
On most days I feel upbeat and accepting.
But then there are those random moments when something small, something far from the reality of Mila’s death, hits me in the heart.
Take tonight for instance.
The 6 o’clock news aired a story about a toddler in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, who was found wandering near a busy highway. The child had no shoes or warm clothes on. Apparently, the mother intentionally put the child outside. In Wisconsin. In the winter.
I wondered how someone could do that to, essentially, a baby.
I wondered why some people are blessed with children and others are not.
My daughter and son-in-law would be, will be, extraordinary parents.
And then the tears fell.
I let them.
Time will make this easier. At least, that’s what I am told.
I am choosing to be gentle with myself.
If the need to write and share arises I happily peck away at the keyboard.
If the words are dry and brittle, probably because the tears have stolen the moisture, I let them rest for another day.
I know I will get back to writing on a regular schedule. It’s like breathing for me.
But for now, there are more important things. I talk to my daughter a lot. We only need to look at each other to gauge the day’s healing…or not.
Writing will wait. I hope you understand and will come back when I do.
A dear friend, who lost her daughter many years ago to SIDS, sent me the following poem. It was written for her daughter, and she said I could share it.
If you have had a loss, or know someone who has, I hope you, too, find comfort in the words.
While walking on the beach
I found a tiny shell
Pink and white and perfect.
I held it in the palm of my hand,
Thrilled, and yet awed, by its
Beauty and fragile delicacy.
It held a few grains of sand, and
As I bent to rinse them away, the
Tiny shell slipped from my hand
And was carried away by a wave.
I shall always remember the
Exquisite beauty of that tiny pink
And white shell and am grateful
To God for allowing me to hold it…
June 6th, 1985