Five weeks after Emma died, we staggered into our first support group. I might have managed to comb my hair before leaving the house but I probably didn't. I don't think I said much - I don't think I said anything. I let Emma's daddy introduce us and our baby daughter. I sat, still wearing my coat; hunched over my saggy, still pregnant looking belly, staring at the floor. I don't remember crying - I don't like crying in public.
During coffee, a woman came over to talk. She seemed familiar and it turned out we'd been to school together. Small world, with lots of dead babies in it. She was two years out from the death of her daughter and she smiled ... she actually smiled. Her daughter was dead but she smiled. And her face didn't crack in two and her eyes weren't dead and I had a glimpse that maybe one day, I'd hang my coat on the back of my chair and sit up straight and, maybe, I'd even speak. She's five years out now and she still smiles and reaches out to people arriving, hunched and broken and hurting like they've never hurt before.
Last Saturday and Sunday, I parked my car outside a neat little office block. Inside, was a familiar set up. Chairs in a semi-circle. Thirteen bereaved parents all sat waiting quietly. I talked A LOT this time and listened hard too. Not about dead babies - not all about dead babies - but about reflective listening and about non-verbal communication. About how to move from being supported to being supportive. We were asked why we were there. I said I was there to honour my daughter's memory. It has been a long time coming - finding a way I can give back what I got in the early days.
I don't yet know if my training was successful. I will find out soon. I wish I wasn't needed - that babies had stopped dying, that parents had stopped being heartbroken. But we are needed. Bereaved parents who can come alongside a new, raw hurting member of our group and bear witness to their pain. To alleviate it, not by endless prattle and platitudes, but by silent, attentive listening and gentle care. We are needed.
10 comments:
Bless you for reaching out to others. I hope one day I'm a place in which I can do the same.
You are certainly are needed and I just know that you will be a fabulous support to those hunched and broken new arrivals. How I wish that there were new members arriving. Sigh.
Yes, a beautiful way to honour Emma's memory and I think, very brave of you do head into this area of support.
What a way you've come. I like how you put it where you were five weeks out compared to the lady you knew in an earlier life, not believing she could smile while also having a dead child. And now, here you are able to do the same thing for someone else. I think that's amazing. Beautiful Emma. xo
I've never been to a face to face group, it didn't feel right for us. I don't think I could face seeing people either as bad as us, or even seeing that there was a 'better'. I knew there was, being sort of that person already, I didn't want to face it.
But you are so needed, for so many people. I think you will be brilliant.
Lovely Jill! It's always been my hope to help others.. someday, I will.. :)
You are amazing for giving back to the community in the way that you do. Sending love and light...
While we still draw a lot of support from our groups I can see us trying to make our way over to being the "supporters" it is a great way to honor our babies and I think it's great that you are able to help because smiling in those early days did seem impossible!
What a heart of gold you have. I would consider doing this myself, but I still don't feel quite ready. If you'd asked me if I'd have considered this three years ago, I probably would have laughed, or cried, or both. Time does do some strange things eh?
xo
Thanks for your comment on our blog, Jill. We have been happily quiet since the birth of our rainbow boy and are expecting another sweet boy in Feb. I am feeling hopeful and positive.
I am sorry there are more new babylost parents but how lucky they are to find you waiting for them to share and listen. Those early days and weeks and months of grief were brutal. I'm eternally grateful to the blogging blms who shared and continue to share the journey. (((Hugs)))
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