At the cemetery where Logan is buried there is a section,just for babies. It dates back to the 1800s and is probably one of the saddest sites you will ever see.
All these tiny little graves with headstones conveying messages of love to babies who lived for a few years, a few months or just a few moments.
Most babies,like Logan, are now buried in family plots and the baby section shows signs of neglect.
I actually don’t know what’s sadder, the neglect or the few plots dated almost thirty years before my birth that are still being visited,plots are weeded and new flowers placed – all that years of love that had nowhere else to go for all these years.
So many little headstones have the same surname, and same flowers, WOW if they are siblings, just how many times did one family have their hopes and dreams shattered, it just doesn’t seem fair.
I stood around those graves mindlessly clearing spider webs, weeds and removing bugs from the little angel statues that watched the eternally sleeping babies, I was sure my husband and sister who were accompanying me would think I was loony, but when I looked over at them they had followed suite raising fallen angels and re-attaching broken crosses. All of us silently doing our little part for the field of broken hearts.
My dad has this saying “like buying a new car” which refers to the phenomenon that he never sees a certain car around until he (or someone close) buys one, and then suddenly it is all he sees.
In a way that is what has happened with the death of my own baby. Suddenly so many people I met understood my pain.
It started in the hospital, nurses who had heard my sobs, came to share their stories of child loss and their “happy endings”. One of my favourite teachers, our next door neighbour, a neighbour from across the road, even our mechanic had gone through something similar.
People reached out through this blog, through emails and through social networking sites.
Some stories were helpful shedding a glimmer of hope on our dark situation while other stories reeked of hopelessness, practically resigning us to a life of continuous heartache and pain, with no chance of breathing room (I always just try to take the best out of every story though)
Stories have come from everywhere, friends, family, acquaintances even strangers who were pointed in my direction.
Men and women from different races, age groups and walks of life with one thing in common, they understand.
And THAT SUCKS, I hate that they understand, in fact I wish I didn’t understand.
Understanding comes with so much baggage so much pain.
Growing up I knew my grandmother lost a young son as she spoke about him to me, but apart from him I didn’t think of children ever dying.
If you lose your parents you are an orphan, your husband/wife you are a widow/widower there is no word for someone who lost their child-because its not supposed to happen,its “the unthinkable”
It occurs to me that talking about infant death is not a common thing, you are just expected to “dust yourself off and try again” talking about it too much could make others uncomfortable you see *rolls eyes*
Keep the story to yourself like it’s a dirty little secret 🙁 as dwelling on it will get you classed as obsessive and unable to move on.
For that reason I am eternally grateful for people who were willing to open up their own wounds in the hopes of healing mine a little, it means so much. It really helps to know I am not alone…
Some more than others have become a lifeline I can reach out to and that’s really special. I hope I can do the same one day, help someone else with my story, even just a little.
To: the baby angels whose names I recite in my heart as I type this (I don’t know how your mums would feel about putting your names up)
Please look after my little one, if he is anything like his parents, it will take him a while to warm up to new people, but don’t count him out just yet. But then again if you are anything like your amazing mothers you have already taken him under your wings and are showing him the ropes 🙂
Thank you for that