4 Things I Wish My Friends Knew about Infant Loss
It was strange the number of people who went silent after our son died. People who once had been active (or at least friendly) parts of our daily lives suddenly disappeared. Over the years, I’ve contemplated quite a bit about why these people walked away during our most intense season of hurting. God has had to do some deep soul work in me to filter their responses through the lens of grace.
And as I have processed their absence, here’s what I’ve come to understand:
Their silence wasn’t a lack of caring but a lack of understanding.
Yes, the vacuum their absence created was hard to handle, adding more loss to my already complicated emotions. But if I could go back, if I could have helped my friends understand what it’s like to go home from the hospital without my baby, here’s what I wish I could have said.
1. Talking about my son doesn’t compound my grief; it gives me a chance to be his mama.
If I had a dollar for every time someone has apologized for bringing up my son or broaching the subject of grief in my presence, I’d be a VERY wealthy woman. What many people don’t realize is that talking about my loss doesn’t make my grief worse. If you asked me about my son, it’s not like suddenly I think, “Oh wow. I had forgotten about him. That really sucked.” You’re not reminding me I lost a child—that’s always with me. Rather, talking about him gives me opportunity to maintain connection with him—to be his mama in the here and now like I would my other four boys.
2. If you don’t know what to say, just say so.
Not once did my hurting heart find healing in a cliche or random Bible verse lobbed in my direction. Even if they were true (although they often weren’t—”Jesus needed another angel in heaven…”), words offered merely as a space filler or with the intent for me to move past the pain faster were just not helpful.
What was better were the people who expressed how they were experiencing the loss—like “gosh, I ache for you so much” or “I keep trying to imagine what you might be going through” or “I’ve been thinking about your family often.” And if what you’re experiencing is a loss for words, then say so—”I hurt for you so much, I don’t know what to say.” I would have even preferred people admit they were uncomfortable than to pat me on the shoulder and say “Well, he’s in a better place” and then walk away, leaving me feeling like I just wasn’t being positive enough.
3. The wrong words are better than no words at all.
Yes, people said some really stupid stuff to us. They were people—it’s what we do from time to time. But no matter how careless or unhelpful their words might have been, I always appreciated the effort.
Silence was always worse.
Silence can be misinterpreted in a thousand different ways. There’s absence in silence, only amplifying the loneliness of grief. And as a result, silence often seems like abandonment.
Even if we must fumble through our expressions of love and support, it’s better to be awkward and flailing than absent. And if speaking just isn’t your thing or you’re terrified of saying something dumb, send your words in a note.
4. Support isn’t helping me get rid of pain, but being in it with me.
One of the greatest gifts some friends gave me was permission to grieve. They sat with me through my tears—sometimes speaking words, sometimes not. They brought gifts of remembrance—adding weight to my son’s short life. They stocked my refrigerator with chicken casseroles and my wallet with Applebees gift cards.
And what they did best was ask questions:
Tell us about your labor and delivery.
What did he look like?
What did you do after he was born?
One question would lead to another, and they’d just stay there in it with me.
Even on my most raw days, giving words to my grief in the presence of others was healing. My friends and family members who consistently showed up became an extension of God’s presence—the first fruits of God’s grace in a bitter season.
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Dear ones, grief makes us all uncomfortable. Even now after carrying my own loss for nine years, I still find myself fumbling when I’m on the other side. I don’t always respond well. But I’m convinced there’s no better way to display love than to show up in each other’s mess, to be like God by coming “close to the brokenhearted” (Ps. 34:18). There’s deep healing simply in being present, especially in the wake of loss.
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“All five boys were together for the first time—but never where I had imagined. They ran around in circles on the cemetery grass, dashing in and out of headstones, their footprints sinking into the damp earth. The youngest two drove Matchbox cars along the top of the marker bearing their brother’s name.”