Every year, 26,000 babies are stillborn in America. In 2003, one of them was my son.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010


Sometimes, there is nothing to say, even when the grief is fresh and raw.

Some days, it is enough to sit with sorrow, let it wash over you until it smooths the rough places, much as the ocean does to the rocks and shells it pushes up on shore.

Some days, the sorrow is more of an ache, a presence, always there, but manageable, while other days it is a sharp blow to the gut causing you to double over with pain so intense you feel you might not manage it.

It can take years to process the grief, years to learn to live with it, years to realize that though it is part of you every day, not every day will be like the early months of learning to be without. The days when the sorrow was so intense it carved your insides out of your body, leaving you a hollow, aching shell collapsing inward.

It gets better, I promise you. The grief will lessen, and you will learn to keep moving despite it. You will begin to see the flowers again, notice the warmth of the sunshine on your skin. Even the guilt you feel for noticing the flowers and the sun will subside as you learn that life is still beautiful, still worth living for.

Yes, it gets better. But it will never be the same.

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