An acquaintance of mine who recently lost a baby posted a very poignant sentence on Facebook a few weeks ago: "When will this ball of hurt go away?" If I were to post a reply, it would be this: "It doesn't."
It's weird. You'd think that having a healthy new baby in my arms every day would be the perfect antidote to losing our dear, wee other babes. But while my love for Jade is a balm that helps the old wounds heal, I have come to realize the hurt may not ever entirely disappear. And that's okay.
We lost our first babe two years ago in September, so that explains why I've spent a heck of a lot of time rocking Jade and sniffling lately. It's so bizarre though, how grief sneaks up and attacks when you least expect it. I can feel perfectly mellow, at peace with the world, enjoying a great day; then I'll happen to glance at a picture of my mother, or wander into the Blue Room (which was going to be Rose's nursery), or look under the old chestnut tree where I spent a lot of time sitting wishing I had a baby. And then it's all over for about half an hour: hello grief, goodbye mellow afternoon.
The good thing is that after I embrace my sadness a little, it melts away, leaving me no worse off than before. I could blame it on these pesky hormones but instead I tell myself that it's healthy and normal. I don't wish it away, no matter how intense the hurt gets. I think it's important to keep feeling, keep remembering and to keep acknowledging my grief. If it stays tucked away all the time, it's sure to come raging out in some wacko manifestation. So I'll continue to sit in the rocking chair with Jady on my shoulder and weather these little storms and take care of these little balls of hurt.