What Ifs and If Onlys

by Alex Hopper

It’s beyond hard not to think about the “What ifs” and “If onlys” after a devastating loss. It may not be the healthiest thing to think about but I think sometimes we just need to let our minds “go there” for a few moments. I think it is better to bring the thoughts to light instead of letting them fester in the dark. 

So here are some of mine:

What if we had tried to start a family sooner? What if it had happened easily for us like it seems to happen for everyone else? What if the pregnancy had been completely normal? What if that ultrasound didn’t show that something was wrong? What if there was no such thing as LUTO? What if the procedure (that was your only chance) had worked like it is supposed to? What if my water didn’t break at 18 weeks?  What if we never heard the terms “fatal fetal diagnosis”, or “incompatible with life”? What if your lungs had developed correctly, despite there being no fluid? What if the steroid injections and bed rest had helped? What if the neonatologist said that intervention would help? What if there was something (anything) that would have helped? What if you had lived?

If only you had lived. If only you had the chance to go to the NICU. If only you could have come home after a long hospital stay (months after birth is infinitely better than never at all). If only we didn’t have to bury our first and only child. If only people could “understand” without having lost a child themselves. If only people didn’t expect a bereaved parent to be back to “normal” after a week. If only there was more compassion and less judgment. If only the rest of the world would grieve along with you. If only others were sensitive to your pain, in spite of their own joy.

And the list could go on forever…..  If you’ve lost a child or someone you dearly love I am sure you could write your own list of infinite what ifs or if onlys - and maybe you should. Write them out or type them up. Then delete the file, or shred it, or burn it…or post it to your blog or share it with a friend (whatever is more healing for you). Show it to everyone or show it to no one. Allow yourself to feel it all and when you’re done give yourself permission to let it go. You will never let go of your love or your grief over whom and what you’ve lost or the memories, but you can let go of the impossible thoughts that only hurt your heart. Instead of thinking about those by-gone what-ifs, try to wonder. Open your mind to wonder who your child would have been and who they would want you to be. There will be pain in the wondering as well, but it is a pain mixed with the joy of your child’s life- no matter how brief. Wonder at the love that makes all the pain worth it, because it is a wonderful love.

~ ~ ~

Alex Hopper is a writer in North Carolina. She is married to her beloved, Trent, and mommy to her angel, Cyrus. Cyrus was diagnosis with a fatal birth defect in the womb at 12 weeks. He was carried with love until he was born at 33 weeks on November 25, 2013. He lived for 1 hour and 9 minutes. His life was short, but his legacy lives on.

The 2015 Twelve Days of Christmas

The 2015 Twelve Days of Christmas have come to an end. We hope you've found comfort from reading the stories of other families, reassurance in knowing you're not alone, tips for facing this holiday season, and ideas for honoring your child.

Most of all, we hope you know that what you do this year is completely up to you. No one but you gets to decide what's the "right" way to have Christmas/the holidays. Follow your heart and do what you need. 

Our heartfelt thanks to the writers for sharing,

 and to the organizations who helped provide
special things for our giveaways.

In case you missed any of the 12 Days, here is the entire collection in one place

Day One: Jessi Snapp

Day Two: Cheli Blasco  - including a tutorial for Holiday Stars

Day Three: Alex Hopper

Day Four: Emily Long

Day Five: Larissa Genat

Tutorial: Christmas Tree Shadow Box, by Jenna Gassew

Day Six: Samantha Chevez

Day Seven: laurelbox

Day Eight: Kellie Soper

Day Nine: MaryJo Carlson  

Tutorial: Holiday Remembrance Dishes

Day Ten: Kim Jackson - including tutorial for Initial Art

Day Eleven: Maureen Schaefer 

Day Twelve: Chloë Sóleyjarmóðir

Featuring giveaways from:

Luminous Light Studio - Invisible Mothers - The Stitch Starter - laurelbox - KM Designs

On a Butterfly's Wings - Two Little Monkeys - Aaron's Angel Arms - The Sacred Seashore

On behalf of everyone at All That Love Can Do, 

we wish you peace and healing this holiday season.

*If you'd like to connect with other loss families for the holiday season, 
join the private group, HERE. 

12 DOC: Day Three: Alex Hopper

*This post is part of our Twelve Days of Christmas series. You can read more here.*

When the Magic of Christmas doesn’t come…
by Alex Hopper

I’ll never forget that first Christmas. After my son was born and passed on November 25th, it wasn’t really Christmas anymore. It was the one month anniversary of my son’s death, the day that he should have been one month old. It was supposed to be his first Christmas, and our first Christmas as a “family”. It was supposed to be the day he would wear the outfit I bought specifically for him, 2 full years before he even existed. The one with the green-striped pants and the shirt that said, “Santa’s Little Helper”. But it wasn’t.

To me, there’s always been magic in Christmas Eve. It’s the one night of the year that you don’t want to sleep, because you’re too excited. The night that you lie awake dreaming about the next morning. I’m sure I didn’t sleep on that Christmas Eve either, but not because of excitement, because I could no longer sleep without a sedative. Because all I could do is lie awake and wish that this was all a bad dream. And that just maybe I would wake up Christmas morning to find everything as it should be. That maybe he would be sleeping peacefully in his bassinet. Maybe he had been there all along. And maybe if I believed and wished hard enough, the magic of Christmas could bring my son back to me. But the magic never came.

We awoke to an empty house that Christmas morning. We turned on the Christmas tree lights. The Christmas tree that was only there because we had put it up the weekend before his birth (had we not, there would be no tree). We exchanged stockings on the living room floor. And then we cried. Sitting on the floor by the fire, we wept. We wept for where our son was, in the cemetery down the street and we wept for where he was not, in our arms. When my husband told me that my present was upstairs, something inside of me thought it was our son. It didn’t make sense, but a grieving heart plays tricks on you. Somewhere inside, I hoped he would be upstairs in his room. As we took heavy steps up the stairs, I wished for a miracle. But when we reached the door to his room, he was not there, well at least not physically. What was there was a beautiful canvas of our son, on a wall of blue beneath a set of angel wings. Below that was his name, Cyrus, in white block letters, with pictures of our time together on them. And something about it was magical. It was our Cyrus Wall. I went into his room and I found the Christmas Outfit, the tiny striped pants and the little gray shirt. I held them close and then I carefully folded each piece. I opened his memory box, the one with the clothes he wore in the hospital and the program from his funeral, and I carefully laid the outfit inside. As I shut the box, I knew that he wasn’t coming back. And I knew that Christmas would never be the same.

So, to the mom or dad who is facing their first holiday season without their child, I wish you peace. I won't wish you a "Merry Christmas", or a "Happy New Year", but I will wish you a peaceful holiday. You don't have to be merry, happy, joyful, or even thankful. You just need to survive and that will be enough.

Whatever you can do each day will be enough.

Sending you love form one broken heart to another. 

~ ~ ~

Alex Hopper is a writer in North Carolina. She is married to her beloved, Trent, and mommy to her angel, Cyrus. Cyrus was diagnosis with a fatal birth defect in the womb at 12 weeks. He was carried with love until he was born at 33 weeks on November 25, 2013. He lived for 1 hour and 9 minutes. His life was short, but his legacy lives on.

Dear Cyrus

By Alex Hopper

Dear Cyrus,

Today marks 2 years since I’ve seen your sweet face. Two years that we’ve been separated by time and space. To say that I miss you is understatement. You are missing from me. And yet somehow you are a part of me. You are in every breath I take. You are in every thought. Your soul has been intertwined with mine. Your existence forever a part of mine.

And though you aren’t here physically. I still see you. I see you in shining sun. I see you in the colors painted across the sky. I see you in your dad’s smile. I see you in the feathers that fall to the ground. I see you in stars. I see you in the mirror. I see you in my own eyes.

And although I can’t touch you, I still feel you. I feel your presence in the dark of the night. I feel your love when I am all alone. And oh how I feel your absence. I’ll never used to the absence of you. I’ll never get used to me without you.

Then there’s the love. The love I feel for you. Just as there’s no way to explain the pain of missing you, there’s no way to explain the joy of loving you. No collection or arrangement of words can accurately describe. It is a love that exists in every cell of my body. It is a love that continues to grow, a love that cannot be contained. And I won’t contain it. I’ll love you today and I’ll love you everyday until I am with you again.

Love, 
Mommy

~ ~ ~

Alex Hopper is a writer in North Carolina. She is married to her beloved, Trent, and mommy to her angel, Cyrus. Cyrus was diagnosis with a fatal birth defect in the womb at 12 weeks. He was carried with love until he was born at 33 weeks on November 25, 2013. He lived for 1 hour and 9 minutes. His life was short, but his legacy lives on.

The Storm

By Alex Hopper

“You've never seen it miss this house and miss that house, then come after you.”

In the movie Twister, Jo screams this as she describes how it felt when an F-5 tornado destroyed her home and killed her father when she was a child. I’ve seen that movie about 100 times and that quote never stood out to me until after my son died. Because I realized, that is EXACTLY how it feels.

Child loss entered our lives like an angry, violent storm, seeking to destroy everything in its path. It swept us up and pummeled us into the ground, doing its best to kill us. It was as if everyone around us was basking in the sun, while we were nearly swept away. But Death doesn’t aim. It is an erratic storm, unbiased in its destruction – a spinning, driving force that only seeks to demolish.

We used to walk in the sun, feeling its warmth upon our face. Then one day we heard the wind howling in the distance, we watched as the skies turned gray. An echo of thunder sent a ghostly shudder down our backs - an eerie sign of what was to come. But it was far enough in the distance for us to believe it would pass us by, to believe that we might be spared. We received a premonition of the future, a fatal diagnosis, but there was nothing that could be done. We searched the skies for hope, seeing only darkness. The once blue skies became as dark as night, as the silhouette of a vast vortex was revealed. We ran and hid. It found us… and descended upon us with a gale force wind, burying us alive. It came straight for us and what we held most dear, our son. Nothing was left untouched - the dust and debris of our lives now strewn across the earth.

We felt targeted -singled out and alone.

But after the storm passed, we emerged from the dark cellar of grief to see others straining their eyes towards the sun. We saw others looking at the scattered remains of their lives - digging through the dirt and ashes trying to find just one piece intact. Our eyes met over our shattered lives, our pain reflected in theirs - and we were united. United as survivors. Walking with one-another, we began to rebuild our lives from the leveled foundation. Knowing that another storm could be just beyond the horizon but continuing on, sharing borrowed hope until we find our own.

~ ~ ~

Alex Hopper is a writer in North Carolina. She is married to her beloved, Trent, and mommy to her angel, Cyrus. Cyrus was diagnosis with a fatal birth defect in the womb at 12 weeks. He was carried with love until he was born at 33 weeks on November 25, 2013. He lived for 1 hour and 9 minutes. His life was short, but his legacy lives on.

Empathy > Sympathy > Pity

By Alex Hopper

Everyone knows the feeling. You hear of a terrible tragedy in which a child (or children) has died and you cringe inside. You watch the story on the news, you share the article on Facebook, you talk about at it work. It evokes feelings of sorrow, disbelief, and confusion. It also evokes a feeling that no one would ever want to admit… relief. Relief that that horrible story isn’t your story. Relief that your family is safely tucked in bed and away from harm. Sadly, this is a natural human response. You look for your best interest above all else. You stop watching the news, you stop reading the paper, and you begin to shield yourself as much as possible because it is just “too difficult” to see. You choose comfort over compassion. Sure, it is terrible that bad things happen, but not all that terrible as long as it isn’t happening to you.

You begin to pity others, but you don’t sympathize with them. This type of thinking/acting is devastating. Pity creates distance, and implies that you are above their pain. The more you distance yourself from tragedy, the more you alienate the people who need compassion the most. You feel sorry for them, but glad for you. When you think of their situation, you feel better about your own. Their pain reveals your joy. This is NOT okay and your thankfulness should not stem from tragedy of others.

From someone who has been there, I’m asking you to please forget pity. If someone you care about has lost their precious child, choose sympathy. Sympathy is not a natural response. It takes a conscious effort. Please make that effort. Allow yourself to imagine the pain, to feel what you can. It may be difficult, but remember, it’s not even close to the reality of the pain that they feel, and will continue to feel every day. You may want to relate but please don’t compare any other situation to the loss of a child. Your friend knows that you don’t understand (and they would never want you to), and a trite comparison only does harm. You don’t have to fully understand their pain to understand the magnitude of their pain. And more importantly, they don’t need your understanding, they need your love.

And then there is empathy. If you can empathize, please do. If you have lost a child (or a grandchild), please share that with your friend. Not in the sense of “I got through this, you can too”. But in the sense of “I have known this heartache and I am so sorry that you now know it too.” Acknowledge that though you have had a similar experience, you know that no one feels that pain the exact same way. The bond between parent and child is like none other and is completely unique to each person. Through your empathy they will feel less alone. Your empathy will encourage them to keep going when they want to give up. And they will see that there can be life after loss.

~ ~ ~

Alex Hopper is a writer in North Carolina. She is married to her beloved, Trent, and mommy to her angel, Cyrus. Cyrus was diagnosis with a fatal birth defect in the womb at 12 weeks. He was carried with love until he was born at 33 weeks on November 25, 2013. He lived for 1 hour and 9 minutes. His life was short, but his legacy lives on.

I Will Carry You

By Alex Hopper

Inscribed across my left foot are the words, “I will carry you”. They are just above the imprint of the tiniest, most beautiful pair of feet. The imprint is of my son’s feet. Every time I look down, I see them. And every time I see them, the words, “He is real”, come to my mind. This has become a little “reality check” that I do, several times a day. This may seem weird to someone who has not lost a child, but to those of us who have, this is quite normal.

There is never a time when my son is not on my mind. In the beginning, he was in the forefront. I just had a newborn, so of course he should be on my mind as he would need constant attention. But my son never came home. As my mind was becoming the mind of a mother, my child was taken away, and I was left with constant thoughts of my son, who was no longer here to mother (at least not physically). But I quickly learned I must still mother my son, in the ways I knew how. I mothered my son as I carried him for 33 weeks. I mothered my son as I endured a 12 hour labor and delivered him into this world. I mothered my son as I held him and cherished him for 12 hours. I mothered my son when I set him in the bassinet, for the first, and for the last time as he was wheeled away from me. I mothered my son as I planned his funeral and laid him to rest. And I have mothered him every day since, by grieving him, loving him, and making sure he is never forgotten.

This reality, where I am separated from my child, my heart, is too much to bear. But I must bear it, so my mind may let me believe that this is all a nightmare from which I will soon awaken. But I am awake, and this is the harsh truth; my son died. And though he died, he also lived. So every time I see those tiny footprints, I know that he was real, and he still is. I carried him while he was here and I will carry him until I see him again.

~ ~ ~

Alex Hopper is a writer in North Carolina. She is married to her beloved, Trent, and mommy to her angel, Cyrus. Cyrus was diagnosis with a fatal birth defect in the womb at 12 weeks. He was carried with love until he was born at 33 weeks on November 25, 2013. He lived for 1 hour and 9 minutes. His life was short, but his legacy lives on.

Hope

by Alex Hopper

hope / hōp / 1. a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen. 2. an optimistic attitude of mind based on an expectation of positive outcomes related to events and circumstance in one’s life.

As humans, we are naturally inclined to hope. From an early age, we are told to hope for the best, hope for the future, and to not lose hope. And many times our hope is realized. We maintain a positive outlook that everything will work out in the end, and it usually does; but what about when it doesn’t? What happens when we remain hopeful, but that for which we hope is lost? In this case, our longed for, prayed for, hoped for, precious child dies. After months or years of preparation, desire, and hoping we are left empty-armed, broken-hearted, and utterly hopeless. In an instant, our world comes to a halt. The sun is blacked out, time stands still, and our lives are shattered. In our shock, we feel that our reality is the truth, and that the world has truly ended.

And yet we quickly realize it hasn’t. The earth still spins, the sun continues to rise and set, the moon appears each night. The world around us races on, the lives of others are seemingly unchanged, and we realize, nothing will ever be the same. We will never be the same. As time passes, the gap grows wider, and the isolation sets in. [Most of] the world is not kind to the hopeless. Our “worst case scenario” reality does not mesh well with the, all too popular, “happily ever after” ideal. Most of the world would rather close the door to the bereaved. Our pain is too difficult to look at. It rips away the veil of delusion, and exposes that tragedies can and DO happen. And not just to other people. As a form of self-preservation, many will turn away, in hopes that denial will protect them from such a tragedy. But it won’t. Death can not be outwitted, nor tragedy skillfully avoided. Try as we may, at some point we all must stare death in the face. Whether it comes vying for our own life, or the life of someone we dearly love. It becomes clear that no amount of hope or optimism can prevent death from striking.

After death strikes, we are left in the dust of grief, struggling to clear our eyes and see a way out. Just as the cloud surrounds us, threatening to bury us alive, and we fear we will never again see the light of day, we see it. A barely visible pinhole ray of light. Something we thought died along with our child: it is HOPE. Because although grief is unrelenting, so is hope. True hope is inextinguishable. Though we know now that children can die, and that tragedy can happen at any moment, we also know the value of life. And though life can be devastating, it is beautiful, and so we choose to hope. We hope for a day that our heart will beat without breaking, for a day when the clouds will part, and the sun will shine on our face again. We hope for a day where the beauty of their life weighs more than the devastation of their death. Grief may be forever our shadow, but hope is the light ahead us, that keeps us walking forward. One step at a time, until we see them again.

hope / hōp / 3. an unrelenting, inextinguishable, providential force that allows us to move forward, one step at a time, even in the face of unimaginable adversity and disillusionment.

~ ~ ~

Alex Hopper is a writer in North Carolina. She is married to her beloved, Trent, and mommy to her angel, Cyrus. Cyrus was diagnosis with a fatal birth defect in the womb at 12 weeks. He was carried with love until he was born at 33 weeks on November 25, 2013. He lived for 1 hour and 9 minutes. His life was short, but his legacy lives on.

What I Wish I Would Have Done

by Alex Hopper

This isn’t something I have wanted to write about, or even think about for that matter. To think back to such a trying time, and to think of things I wish I had done, is so so sad, because those are wishes that will forever stay unfulfilled. My son died, and all the “if-onlys” will forever stay undone. But there are others who are still carrying their sweet children. And though their children will not live, they are still living at this moment. For them, there is still time, even if it is far too short. So I will write this, for them, so that maybe my regrets won’t have to be regrets for them.

I wish I would have talked to him more. I know that he could hear my voice, and I know that he knew my love, but I wish I would have said more. I wish I would have told him all the things I was thinking and feeling. All the things that I would not have the chance to say, by not getting to see him grow up: “We’re so proud of you”, “You’re such a big boy”, “We love you”, “Happy Birthday, Son”. 

I wish I would have sung to him. Lullabies, my favorite songs, “Happy Birthday”.  

I wish I would have rocked him to sleep. I know I couldn’t physically, but I wish I would have sat in his room at night, and rocked him peacefully in the dark. 

I wish I would have read to him. The Bible, cards we were sent, my favorite books as a child: Jamberry, Good Night Moon, Love you forever. 

I wish I would have taken more pictures. We started taking pictures as soon as we knew we were pregnant, but after the diagnosis, it was so hard to continue doing those “normal” pregnancy things. It was hard to smile for a picture, knowing the future. 

I wish we had gotten a lock of his hair when he was born. Just to have that physical reminder, that he was real. 

I wish we had gotten casts made of his hands and feet. To have his likeness in 3D is something I will always yearn for. 

While there are many things I wish I would have done, there are so many more things that I am thankful we did. I would encourage anyone who is currently in this unimaginable situation (carrying your child with a fatal diagnosis), to consider doing some of these things. And this is extremely personal. What worked for me may or may not work for you. But the point is, though it may seem impossible, try to cherish the short time you have.

I am thankful that we shared our son with others. It seemed impossible to share our happy news, being so unsure of our son’s fate, but we did. I am so glad we were open about our situation and our struggles. By doing so, it allowed our son to touch so many lives. It also provided a lot of support while we were pregnant. 

I am thankful we still had a gender reveal party and baby showers. Though it was extremely difficult, our son’s life deserved to be celebrated. It gave others a chance to love on us and our son, and we are forever grateful for that. 

I am thankful we took maternity pictures. I never really had a chance to share the photos, but having them is such a treasure for me. Those are some of the few photos of the three of us all together. 

I am thankful that we planned and decorated his nursery. It might seem like having an empty nursery with no baby to bring home would make things more difficult. But here’s the thing, the most difficult thing is having no baby to bring home. Any other things or reminders can’t add to or take away from that fact. Losing a child is terrible, period. But, for us, having a nursery for him validates his life. That room, no matter what it is in the future, will always be his room first. 

I am thankful that after he was born, we dressed him, held him, and shared him with others. I am also eternally grateful to NILMDTS (Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep) for coming and taking tons of pictures for us. We will always treasure those photos. 

Lastly, I am so thankful we chose to carry our son. We fought for his life and gave him every chance possible at life. 

During my pregnancy, I was constantly torn between knowing my son would die, but knowing that, for the moment, he was still with us. I am so thankful for the amount of time we had with him, knowing that he could have easily passed months sooner. I am so thankful for the time we had with him once he was born. 1 hour and 9 minutes of pure love. And though we should have had so much more time together, I will never forget those 231 days he was alive. I won’t lie; this will be the most difficult thing you’ve ever faced. But I can assure you your child’s life, no matter how brief, is worth it.

~ ~ ~

Alex Hopper is a writer in North Carolina. She is married to her beloved, Trent, and mommy to her angel, Cyrus. Cyrus was diagnosis with a fatal birth defect in the womb at 12 weeks. He was carried with love until he was born at 33 weeks on November 25, 2013. He lived for 1 hour and 9 minutes. His life was short, but his legacy lives on.

Welcome to the Club

by Alex Hopper

You’ve just joined the club. The club that no one wants to, yet so many are forced to join. It is an exclusive, life-time club for members only with one non-negotiable condition. The condition: your child has died. Unless you are in the club, you don’t even realize it exists. It is on your subconscious list of “worst case scenarios” that will never happen to you, only to others. Until one day you become an “other”. You are forcibly ripped from your “everything works out in the end” world and submerged in the cold truth of “sometimes it doesn’t” reality.

Once initiated, you may experience: uncontrollable crying, loss of words, physical pain, trouble breathing, irrational fears, insomnia, social anxiety, jealousy, disillusionment, fear, sadness, anger, paranoia, depression, insanity, shock, numbness, or all of the above. One of the first things you learn is that no holds are barred. Anything goes. There is no rhyme or reason, no order or organization. Time becomes irrelevant. Your mind can replay in exact detail any moment and yet you can’t remember what day it is. You become the ultimate multi-tasker. Your mind is on a constant loop of the life and death of your child. At first, it is in the forefront, and everything else is optional. At some point, it will switch, as the demands of the world force you out. You will resume your responsibilities, but with a different frame of mind. Everything is suddenly in
perspective, and your outlook is more “big picture”. In certain ways, this is a gift. You are no longer plagued by the minutia.

You will get a new pair of eyes, eyes that are permanently fitted with a “my child died” lens. Everything you see and encounter will be filtered through this. Everyday you will have a choice. You can go to either end of the spectrum. The two extremes are compassion or condemnation. You will probably alternate between the two on a daily basis. Your heart, which has been ripped open, will feel more, love more, care more but will also get hurt more. People will arrange themselves into two categories: supportive or not-supportive, which is basically present or not-present. But the categories are ever shifting, as people will move from one to the other and back again. You will find that only those in the club can truly understand. Although you are all different and may have nothing else in common, you know how it feels to have your heart shattered. This
club, of broken hearts, will support you when no one else will. They will allow you to vent, allow you to reminisce. Your grief won’t make them uncomfortable because even though grief is very personal, you will see common threads that make you feel less alone. And although you wish this group didn’t exist, and that no one else would endure this pain, you are thankful for it.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Alex Hopper is a writer in North Carolina. She is married to her beloved, Trent, and mommy to her angel, Cyrus. Cyrus was diagnosis with a fatal birth defect in the womb at 12 weeks. He was carried with love until he was born at 33 weeks on November 25, 2013. He lived for 1 hour and 9 minutes. His life was short, but his legacy lives on.

Held

by Alex Hopper

“This is how it feels when the sacred is torn from your life, and you’ve survived. This is
what it means to be held...to be loved and to know that the promise was when everything fell, we’d be held.”
Held by Natalie Grant

You wake up, for half a second you believe it was all a nightmare. You do a sanity check.
You look at your baby’s name tattooed on your wrist, or see their picture on your phone,
or reach to feel your no-longer-pregnant belly. You remember. You remember every
detail that led to where you are today, waking up with no child. You will yourself out
of bed. On the days you can get away with it, you do the bare minimum. On the days
you can’t, you do your best to look presentable. You pass your baby’s empty room on
the way downstairs. Some days you look. Some days you open the door, and do another
sanity check. Check the crib, bassinet, and stroller, half expecting, fully hoping, to see
your sweet baby sleepy peacefully, but they are never there. Some days you simply stare
at the floor and pretend that room doesn’t exist. You make your way out into the world.
Suddenly you are just another person getting your coffee, heading to work, sitting in
traffic. But there is no “baby on board” or stick figure family on your back window.
Instead, there is a magnet that has your child’s name written over angel wings. Once you
get to work, you do your best to be sociable and do your job well. You work hard, and try
not to look too sad when you pass the baby section or the customer with a newborn. You
laugh with your co-workers, you look so normal sometimes.

After work, you head home to a dark house. You turn on the television to cover up the
deafening silence. You spend time with your spouse and stay up as late as possible. When
it’s time for bed, you lie down, but know that sleep won’t come easily. Your mind begins
to re-play everything that led up to your loss. You relive the entire thing. Some nights it
is all sadness, other nights it is the happy memories too, but it is always on your mind,
until you finally drift off to sleep. If you’re lucky, your dreams will be sweet and you
may even see your baby. Some nights there will be nightmares. You will wake up, and
wish it was all just a nightmare. You will do your sanity check, see the tattoo on your
foot, and remember the reality.

This is how it feels when your precious child dies. When everything that was beautiful in
your world is ripped away, and somehow you’ve managed to live through it. Sometimes
you will wish you hadn’t survived, because this new world, without your baby, is just
too much to bear. But you will keep on living. As much as you want to be in the place
of no pain, you’ve made a promise. A promise to your spouse, to never leave each other.
A promise to your baby, to keep living, in honor of them. To live a life that would make
your baby proud.

You will survive. You will continue on. When you feel you can’t carry on, allow yourself
to just be held, by the only One who can.

 

~ ~ ~

Alex Hopper is a writer in North Carolina. She is married to her beloved, Trent, and mommy to her angel, Cyrus. Cyrus was diagnosis with a fatal birth defect in the womb at 12 weeks. He was carried with love until he was born at 33 weeks on November 25, 2013. He lived for 1 hour and 9 minutes. His life was short, but his legacy lives on.

An Ocean of Grief

by Alex Hopper

Feel the sand beneath your feet. The water rushes across your ankles. As you wade out past the breakers, you begin to feel the strength of the sea.

Waves come and go.

Rise and fall.

A never-ending cycle.

Some waves are gentle. Jump high enough and you just might soar, if only for a fleeting moment. Other waves seem to come out of nowhere, and by the time you see them, it is too late. They rise against you with such enormity, threatening to take you away. As they crash down upon you with impossible force, you are swept below the sea, and left struggling to reach the surface.

This is grief.

Constantly ebbing and flowing as the coming in and the going out of the tide. At times, you simply rest on the surface, breathing. Then there are the moments you have to fight to keep your head above the water, above the drowning sea of grief. You thrash and cry as it pulls you under, to depths where only darkness exists. Where light and hope are extinguished. Slowly and painfully you rise to the surface. Feel the current, the silent force that pulls you away a little at a time, until you look up to the shore --the shore of your new life --and you realize just how far you've gone.

The current of grief changes you, shapes you into something new.

Something better…

Something worse…

Something different…

A NEW you.

You try to swim against the current, to fight the grief, but it is useless. Try as you might, you cannot escape it. Grief is required. Because you love, you grieve, and the greater the love, the greater the grief.

So let it take you, let it change you, because the truth is, you will NEVER be the same, and that is okay, in fact, it is beautiful.

~ ~ ~

Alex Hopper is a writer in North Carolina. She is married to her beloved, Trent, and mommy to her angel, Cyrus. Cyrus was diagnosis with a fatal birth defect in the womb at 12 weeks. He was carried with love until he was born at 33 weeks on November 25, 2013. He lived for 1 hour and 9 minutes. His life was short, but his legacy lives on.