Plain and simple.

I want my son back. 

I don’t want Christmas gifts. The only thing on my list this year is the one thing that no one can give me.

I don’t want people to pray for me. I’m not like other people. I don’t feel comforted by prayers, nor do I feel like they do anything for me. I don’t want to offend people who read this who feel differently-and I certainly don’t want to offend the people who’ve been kind enough to make time to pray for our son and for our recovery. I appreciate the sentiment. I think some people say “I’m praying for you” as a way to say “I care about you.” I think it’s a way for people who feel powerless in a situation to do something for the people they care about. I really wish I felt differently about prayer, about faith, and about God right now. It’s hard though. During my pregnancy, and for the first time in my life, I genuinely felt that I opened up my heart to God, my mind to religion, and put my faith in Him— that He would take care of my family. Having that little baby in my belly was really the first time in my life that I can remember having so many people pray for us—and on a regular basis. I suppose I look back now and wonder where my faith in God and all of those prayers really got me. It’s one hell of a devastating place.

I don’t want to swallow my sadness and despair anymore in order to keep up with the daily grind of the work week or the expectations and needs of others. I’m so tired. I just wish I could take the time I need to adjust to what has happened to us and to mourn the loss of my baby. No matter how long it takes.

I don’t want to be subjected to the tons of people who have babies without complications and tragedy. Whose families grow as effortlessly as weeds in a garden. They’re everywhere. Everyone but us. I know that people like us exist—because I’ve read stories and met people over the web—but in daily life it feels like my husband and I are so alone. Being expected to survive this loss shoulder-to-shoulder with a world full of people who are so different than us seems impossible and cruel. I wish that we didn’t have to do it anymore.

I don’t want anyone else to put me on the spot when I least expect it. We had to take our dogs to the vet over the weekend and the vet, although with very good intentions, asked us, “ah, you’re both here, who’s watching the baby?” I just shook my head, no. I’ve already had this conversation with him and he must have forgotten. When he walked out of the room my husband said, “I’m sorry.” I said, “It’s okay.” But it’s not. I’m tired of having to explain what’s happened to us. I’m tired of having to tell people that my son has died. It’s like I’m stabbing myself in the heart. Every time I say it I feel like he’s dying all over again. I’m tired of my husband having to feel bad for me when he sees me in pain. I’m tired of having to feel sorry for him and his pain, too. It’s not fair. We shouldn’t be here. This isn’t how it was suppose to be. 

I don’t want anyone else to tell me how I should feel or what I need to do with regard to my son or “moving on” from his death. Good intentions or not, nobody else knows how I feel. I don’t want to know where you think my son is or why he was taken or that you know he’s in a better place. In my opinion, the only better place he could be is in my arms. I don’t want you to tell me that things will get better or easier. I can’t see that. I don’t feel that. No day that exists without my baby, my son, will ever feel better or easier. Not today, not next year, not ten years from now. It will just feel farther away from the day that I lost him. And, stop telling me that we should have another baby. It’s not the antidote for my pain over Rylan. And, furthermore, you don’t know that the next time we try—if I can make it through nine months of extreme fear—that we will leave the hospital with a living, breathing baby. Yes, this can happen more than once.

I’m sorry to the people who read my blog who are searching out hope. Over time I began to feel a sense of responsibility to try to end my posts on a positive note, when possible—to give others some optimism in their journey—to not let my writings get too dark. But I’ve given this additional thought and believe that my initial need to start this site was to tell our story, in the truest way possible. Obviously, I would still like to help other people and give them something to relate to… but first and foremost I need to be honest. So much of my life is filled with lying about or hiding my true feelings from others—this place, my blog, must be more about truth. How I really feel, even if every post says the same thing over and over. I hope that my readers will understand where I’m coming from and not be pushed away.

Until next time I have only one thing left to say.

I want my son back.

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14 thoughts on “Plain and simple.”

  1. I guess all I can say is that I am thinking of you, and I am praying for you, even though you don’t relate to that, and I really and truely hope that tomorrow may be slightly better than today.

    Thank you for your honesty xxx

    1. Thank you. I appreciate your thoughts and prayers and look forward to a day when my hope and faith in life is restored. I hope that my words did not offend you. For now the pain in my heart is just so great. I miss my son so much-I feel so lost without him in my arms.

      1. You are perfectly entitled to your beliefs, and it’s not mine or anyone else’s job to convince you of anything. I can see how painful it must be to here what seems like useless empty words over and over again when your heart has been shattered and you are desperate for the one thing you just can’t have. Believe me, I know.

        As my granny used to say, prayers are well and good, but make sure you scrub the floor while you’re on your knees.

        I wish I could help you more practically, but please know I am reading your posts, and I do understand your pain.

      2. You’ve captured it well and your granny’s words gave me a smile. Thank you for reading and for taking the time to give such a genuine response. I’m sorry that you have lost your son too. What was his name?

  2. 😦 It is such a hard path we have been shoved onto against our will. I’m sorry it’s so rocky at the moment. I think it’s good that you vent honestly when you need to and I am always happy to listen. I have been and will continue to pray for you. It’s not always visible, but I do think it helps. I feel like prayers have helped me at least. But I feel dark sometimes too. Hang in there, friend. Do whatever you need to do for yourself.

  3. I stumbled on your blog while looking for something completely unrelated.

    Your words touched me deeply and I am so sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine the pain you are in. Please don’t apologize for being honest.

    I have no idea who you are, but you will be in my thoughts and prayers. You didn’t offend me at all. I’ve been there. Big time.

    1. Thank you so much for taking the time to reply. I’m always curious how people find out about my blog…especially when they aren’t searching specifically around the topic of child loss. Thank you for being so understanding and for keeping my family in your thoughts and prayers. I always find it amazing how people I don’t know can make me feel so special. I hope that you have a lovely holiday season.

  4. I too don’t want to do the Christmas thing this year. Christmas Eve cannot be avoided because of the grandchildren. Christmas Day I will spend feeding children in a very, very poor area. If I did not try and find purpose in the death of my child I would go mad. Vic asked that people remember her with an “act of kindness.” I hope that you will find some “purpose” in your dreadful, all consuming loss.

    I found solace reading a book called Journey of Souls.

    1. We are certainly having a difficult time as we try to celebrate this season. I will be writing a few blogs about it once my schedule at work slows down. I understand about having to “go through the motions” for certain family members (like you with your grandchildren). Don’t you just wish you could push a button and put the world on hold for awhile? Until you were ready to take a step forward? It seems so unfair to have to keep going when all you want to do is go back and have one more second with your loved one. So unfair. I feel your sadness and hope that you can take comfort in keeping her memory alive by doing good for others. My husband and I feel a strong need to help others right now, but are having a difficult time finding the energy so far. It is something we’d like to do in time, though. Thank you for sharing the name of the book you read, I will definitely check it out. I hope that you have a nice holiday with your grandchildren and hope to connect with you again soon.

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