Things I Wish People Understood - Part Two by Suzanna

This is the second installment of an article I wrote. It discusses the things I have learnt – and wish others understood – about losing a child.

It is written in loving memory of our baby, Ella Rose Argyle (stillborn on 21 January 2017).

Death changes your relationships with the living

With every major loss I have endured, some relationships have developed or flourished, while others have perished.

In the weeks immediately following Ella’s death, I met a wise and compassionate mother who told me about losing her baby to SIDS. She spoke frankly of her experiences saying: People will surprise you, in both directions. You’ll experience amazing kindness, but you can also expect to lose some people from your life.

She was right. Despite the haze of my grief, some things have come sharply into focus. Grief strengthens and affirms some bonds. It destroys others. Sometimes, the parting of company has evoked fierce anger and bitter disappointment. At other times, it’s involved a gentle resignation and letting go.

You can’t humour people out of grief

It’s often said that ‘laughter is the best medicine’. Even in our darkest hour, it’s important to laugh – if only briefly and at the most absurd things. In saying that, you can’t humour people out of their grief. Several well-meaning friends have cracked jokes and offered cheerful, vapid remarks. They miss the mark – by a mile. They trivialise our loss, compound our suffering and demean our child. Sitting with us in our grief is the most powerful and generous thing you can do. Honour this moment; it is real and cannot be hurried.

It hurts to be excluded (when you have no living children)

A friend once observed that the hardest thing about being gay was the fact that he was excluded from the world’s largest club – the Married-With-Kids Club. While I can’t speak to being a persecuted minority, I certainly know about the pain which comes from loss and exclusion. Whenever my husband and I encounter a happy family, he says that ‘it feels like the whole world is having a party that we are not invited to.’

I haven’t forgotten

Sometimes, people avoid talking about children who have died because they don’t want to remind the parents. Let me tell you this: I forget all kinds of things, from where I left my keys to whether I’ve taken my vitamins. At my lowest, I shuffle from room to room, forgetting what I’m supposed to be doing. But I don’t ever forget my child. I think about Ella all the time – when I’m scanning my groceries, brushing my teeth, making small talk with the neighbours. Most parents love talking about their children because their children are the most special and amazing part of their lives. Bereaved parents are equally passionate about their kids. We want the chance to talk about them, albeit in an appropriate and supportive environment. 

It’s better to be awkward than absent

My husband and I feel sorry for people who encounter us. In fact, we often remark that ‘we wouldn’t know what to say to us’. Our culture offers no clear template for dealing with grief, or helping people through it. But here’s the thing: you don’t have to say anything amazingly profound or insightful. You just have to say you’re sorry for our loss and, if the relationship warrants it, offer your support. If there were ‘right words’ to offer the grieving, our poets and scholars and philosophers and clergymen would have found them by now. To my knowledge, they haven’t. For the record, I wrote the book on being socially awkward. I understand that there are few situations more uncomfortable than addressing a grieving parent. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. 

I recently saw an acquaintance who declared that she’d thought of me and prayed for me almost every day. All I could think was ‘that’s nice, but it doesn’t help me in any way’. If you don’t express your care, it does nothing for the person who’s suffering.  Sorrow tests our patience, but a bereaved parent will ultimately forgive a clumsy, awkward, ill-timed remark. They are less likely to forgive someone who is entirely absent in their darkest hour. 

Suzanna

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Suzi Maxwell-Wright

  

My name is Suzi. My husband, Ted, and I are trying to heal after losing our baby Ella Rose Argyle (21 January 2017). Ella was stillborn at 34 weeks, after what appeared to be a healthy pregnancy. As we declared on her headstone, Ella is ‘beautiful, longed for and eternally loved’. She is, and always will be, a part of us. My hope is that this blog will honour her precious life and help other bereaved parents feel less alone as they navigate their grief.

Things I Wish People Understood - Part One by Suzanna

At 36, I’ve lost a parent, a friend and a child. There is nothing on Earth more harrowing than burying a child, even if you never had the privilege of knowing them. My husband, Ted, and I lost our beautiful baby Ella in January of this year. She was stillborn at 34 weeks. She was, and always will be, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t bring myself to talk about the magic, and joy and horror of our experience. I can’t bring myself to share the details which are personal, and raw and sacred.

What I can do, is tell you about our grief and the things I’ve learnt.

There is abundant kindness in the world

It’s important to savour the great kindness that is apparent in times of despair. Since losing Ella, we have been touched by people’s tenderness and humanity. We have been shown support through flowers, plants, cards, texts, gifts, keepsakes, meals, phone calls, long distance visits and all manner of thoughtful gestures. Often, this kindness has come from the most unexpected places. We are grateful beyond words.

We are tortured by things which ought to bring us joy

Babies are a source of collective joy, especially among women. But for my husband and me, they are a form of torture – an excruciating reminder of our loss. I can’t see a pram or a pregnant woman without wincing. Sadly, babies seem to evoke in me a kind of emotional anaphylaxis – fear, paralysis, constricted breathing.  But babies are not like peanuts; they can’t be easily avoided. There isn’t a supermarket, shopping centre or café on the planet which is baby-free.

Leaving the house is Hell

Any journey beyond the sanctuary of my home involves walking the gauntlet of prams and mothers’ groups. Given that I live in a small community, it also involves visiting places which evoke memories of being pregnant, excited and full of hope. Finally, there is the horror of bumping into a myriad of acquaintances who, upon noticing that I’m no longer pregnant, gleefully ask how motherhood is treating me. 

Greif has no end point

At Easter time, I had a chance encounter with a bereaved mother whose son had been dead for 15 years. She knelt at her child’s grave, literally howling in despair. It shook me to my core. It made me realise this: time does not heal all wounds. We never stop mourning the loss of our children, and there will frequently be ‘triggers’ that reignite or intensify our suffering. Typically, the things which bring joy to others are our greatest sources of pain – Christmases, birthdays, Mother’s Day. This seems particularly cruel. Unfortunately, bereaved parents mourn more than the loss of their children. They mourn every milestone that ought to have been enjoyed.

Children are not replaceable

Let’s be very clear: children are not disposable. They are not replaceable. In the wake of Ella’s death, the most hurtful remark I endured came from a man – with three adult children, no less - who laughed and replied ‘oh well, you can always make another one’. Comments of this nature show a disgusting and disturbing lack of humanity. A baby is no less loved than a toddler or a teenager or an adult child. Next time you think that my child’s life doesn’t matter, consider which of your children you’d willingly trade or discard. A brief life is still a special one.

The conversation gets awkward

Bereaved parents – especially those of us who are still adjusting to our circumstances – often don’t know what answers to offer people. Inquiries as to whether or not we have children are painful to navigate. I can’t bear to tell people that I don’t have any children. Denying Ella’s existence dishonours her and causes me great pain. In saying that, I don’t want to tell strangers that my baby has died. I’d like to declare that I have a child, without any obligation to flesh-out the miserable details. But it’s deceptive and probably unhealthy to mislead people into thinking that you are parenting a living child when you’re not.   

Suzanna

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Suzi Maxwell-Wright

  

My name is Suzi. My husband, Ted, and I are trying to heal after losing our baby Ella Rose Argyle (21 January 2017). Ella was stillborn at 34 weeks, after what appeared to be a healthy pregnancy. As we declared on her headstone, Ella is ‘beautiful, longed for and eternally loved’. She is, and always will be, a part of us. My hope is that this blog will honour her precious life and help other bereaved parents feel less alone as they navigate their grief.