No Tragedy is Private

Two people I know have recently lost beloved grandparents who had very long, mostly happy lives. Their grief is evident, but there is also a kind of acceptance that comes with the gratefulness for a long life with all it brings to celebrate. 

In the time I have been writing this site, I have never been brave enough to talk about other kinds of loss. Deaths that are just unfair. And yet, when one writes about childbirth, the fear is always there.

One of the reasons I have never written about the death of a baby, or even miscarriage, is because I don’t want dark thoughts to affect those who are already prone to PPD to be tempted to go further into their moods. There is also part of me that doesn’t want to contemplate that terrible idea of losing a child.    

At the same time, I know there are women who have left the birthing bed with empty wombs and empty arms. I want you to know that I care about what happened to you. I want you to know that there are people who understand what you are experiencing at this very moment.  

There is an organization called The Compassionate Friends that provides support to parents, grandparents and siblings who have recently lost a child of any age. They aren’t affiliated with any religious groups and the care is handled by people who have survived the same ordeal.

Salon, one of the first internet magazines, has run a series of personal essays on this topic that are moving on every level that can help those of us who want to comfort the grieving.

The physical recovery from a still birth can be much more complicated. Grief is the greatest sleep disturber, milk flows with tears and the flow of blood must still be stemmed.

I don’t know how to tell you to take a practical approach to taking care of your own body while your emotional energy is spent on grief, but that is exactly what you have to do.

Put cabbage leaves in your bra to help stop the milk, use the cheapest, softest pads you can find, sleep whenever you can, count each glass of water you drink until you reach 8 or 10 each day, eat the food people bring you and take your vitamins. It doesn’t matter if you don’t see the point, just do it.

Hopefully a family member or a friend will step in to make sure you do the above and walk aroundtheblock with you as soon as you can. Let them guide you. You may not want to return to normalacy, not ever, but normal life will intrude and like it or not, your body will have to deal with it.

In the meantime, let people know what you have experienced. Let them be gentle with you. Let them treat you with special consideration. Then, when you are ready for them to stop being careful, you can tell them that too.

As I write this, I am in Bulgaria where obituaries and memorial notices are posted on sign posts, stapled to gates and taped to front doors. My Anglo-Saxon background would say that this is dwelling on tragedy. It is a sign of the absense of a “stiff upper lip.”

Instead, I appeciate how these very public expressions help people to care for each other. There is really no such thing as a private tragedy.  You are part of a community. Your grief is not yours alone. It belongs to everyone who knows you and loves you.