What Does it Feel Like? by Nicole Longmire
What does it feel like to be a mother who has lost her baby? To suddenly be chosen against your will as the bearer of something so unbearable? People will say they cannot imagine this. Neither could I. When it first happened, it felt confusing. It felt achy and nauseating. I often felt clumsy and out of focus. I was, and often still am tired and irritable. Sometimes I'm angry. I'm always sad. I feel like what I imagine that mother orca felt as she carried her dead calf around the ocean for 17 days in 2018. Shocked. Desperate. Lonely. Disintegrated. Separated. I wish I could ask her how she finally let go.
And then there's grief itself which feels a lot like standing with your back to the ocean. You’re never sure when a wave will hit or how big it will be. You don’t know if it’s one of those light ones that just knocks you off balance for a moment or one of those big ones that takes you down, tosses you around, and then you come up with a mouth full of salt water.
Grieving my baby also reminds me of the contractions of birth. Those waves rise to a peak and then release, but there’s no getting one step closer to my baby this time. Like birth, grief is a labor of love because grief and love are two sides to the same coin. It is in my grieving for my baby that I am able to feel my deep love for him, and in turn in my loving him, I am forced to grieve him. I cannot call my love for him into my mind and heart without also feeling grief; they are inseparable. Think about it...imagine your child and how much you love them. It might even make you smile. I cannot imagine my baby that way without also feeling the loss. If I deny my grief, if I try to make it go away, then I won't be able to feel my love. As much as I wish it wasn't so, this love and grief now coexist together, forever waltzing in the halls of my heart.
Sometimes when I acknowledge my “lovegrief" in this way, I can extract something from it that feels...better? Not better, but bigger. It feels a bit like an expansion of the grief into something more purposeful. After all, what's more purposeful than love? And again, I am reminded of birth contractions which also lead to expansion. In these moments when I feel this way I wonder, am I healing? I don't really know what healing feels like yet but I'd say for now, it feels more like I am integrating rather than healing. I am no longer trying to make my grief go away but rather to learn to carry it and to integrate it fully into my life.
So much in grief culture focuses on looking for meaning, striving for healing or recovery, and moving on to find some bigger purpose born out of the loss. If you can do this then you can finally reach acceptance. And acceptance seems to be the holy grail of grief work. But none of these ideas really resonate with me. Again, I am not trying to “get over” or make my grief go away. I am just trying to learn how to integrate it into my life. There’s not a time when I expect it to go away or to expire because grief has no timeline. It doesn’t have an ending. It doesn’t have a final destination. Once we can recognize that finding meaning, purpose, healing, moving on, and acceptance are not the goal, we as the ones grieving our beloved can really begin to do work that actually helps us integrate.
And once those around us can recognize this, they can stop inundating us with messaging, both subtle and overt, that isn't helpful. Sometimes, it's even harmful. It is one more thing that throws us off our tracks and destabilizes us. It complicates our process and denies us our own sovereignty in our grief. Sitting beside us and holding space for us to grieve and being okay with the discomfort this causes you is a hard ask. We know. Sitting there and watching us sob and holding your tongue even when "you have so much to live for," "but at least he's not suffering anymore," and "you will heal from this, you're so strong" are burning on it's tip, is not easy. We know. Letting us “still not be over it” is hard to watch. We know. We live in a culture that celebrates transformation so we know you want to see us get “there.” But that’s the thing, there is no “there”. There’s no destination.
So what does integration of grief look like for me? There are so many things that I have learned about grief and how to support those grieving, and one of the subtle language changes I have made when I speak about my feelings regarding my loss is exchanging the word "but" with "and."
Saying "I am devastated my baby died but I am glad that he is no longer suffering” subtly implies that because I am glad he is no longer suffering then I am less devastated. That somehow that realization and truth lessens the pain of the loss. But it doesn't. And for any other parent who has lost a child, I am sure they’ll agree. It doesn't. In fact, for me, the statement “I am devastated my baby died but I am glad he’s no longer suffering“ is only made a truthful and complete statement if it’s followed up with “But it doesn’t change how sad I am.” By using “but” it needs to be qualified by the second sentence to be made fully truthful.
However, ”I am devastated my baby died and I am glad that he is no longer suffering” allows both feelings to coexist. It allows me to be fully devastated and simultaneously fully glad he is no longer suffering. It needs no qualification. No additional words or explanation. And it is a more honest, truthful statement. I feel both fully. Making this tiny change allows me to feel both and not feel the subtle shame that comes with the "but he's in a better place" mentality that is so pervasive in conversations around grief and loss.
Some people in my circle think it’s probably better to just not say anything to me at all about my loss. But that’s not true. Not for me, anyway. I want people to say hi and that they’re glad to see me. That they’re glad I showed up. I want to be included and invited. I also want to be given a free pass if I cancel at the last minute or decline altogether. If people are thinking of me, I want them to send a message, even if they lead with “I don’t know what to say…” That’s fine by me because it’s honest. Because guess what, I don’t know what to say either.
I am 3 1/2 months out from the most devastating day of my life. I am no longer in shock. I no longer feel like a crazy person. I no longer hurt all over all the time. I no longer want to go to sleep and never wake up. But I promise I didn’t forget that my baby died. I didn’t forget that he was born with critical heart defects, underwent complicated heart surgery, and never came home. So by saying hi or sending me that message people should not worry about reminding me. I carry a pit in my stomach and a lump in my throat and I have what I’ve called “resting grief face.” But I’m still standing and I’m still sad. And I will be forever.
More from the author, Nicole Longmire:
My baby was born on Thanksgiving 2021. He was born with 4 critical heart defects that were undiagnosed in my pregnancy. He underwent a complicated surgery and had many issues with recovery. He was unable to separate from his life support and passed on New Years Eve 2021. He was 5 weeks old.
