Abide With Me

A day or two after we lost Eliza, when I was home but everything was numb and foggy and my milk had come in and I didn't know how it could be possible that my body failed my baby and then somehow still thought that there was a baby to feed and it seemed like the worst and most cruel and unfair thing that had happened yet--to be so ridiculous and so uncomfortable, and literally, actually, for the first time in my entire life, wishing that I were dead, as I lay on the couch, staring into space, looking blankly at David or my mom when they would say, "What can I get you?" because there was only one thing I wanted and nobody could get it for me, somehow in those dark, horrific blur of days, I sent an e-mail.

I managed to find Glow in the Woods and I clicked through the website, trying to find a human being.  Anyone who would write to me and tell me how this could ever get better, get easier, get just good enough that waking up in the morning was bearable instead of a crushing disappointment.  I wanted to send an e-mail to someone, and I wasn't brave enough yet to post on the message board.  I couldn't even tell you where I found the list of e-mails, or why I chose the one I did.  Maybe because I've always liked the name Kate?

At any rate, I sent an e-mail to Kate Inglis.  I knew nothing about her except there was her e-mail address on a website for parents whose baby has died.  I don't know what my e-mail said.  Something along the lines of "My baby died three days ago and now how am I supposed to keep living?" except with lots more details and run on sentences, as is my style.

And bless her heart, she wrote me back.  Almost right away.  I still have her reply saved in my e-mail in a folder labeled "Baby Duck."  Her response was so kind, so perfect, no platitudes but real compassion, and in it there was a promise that Eliza would be remembered but that memory would not always be so painful.  There was assurance that I would find myself again and even if I were different, I wouldn't be ruined.  And she told me that I was not alone.

Over this last weekend, she spoke at a walk for remembrance, in memory of her son Liam, who died four years ago.  She posted her speech on her blog.  I wish I had been there to hear it in person, to fight my tendency to be shy around people who intimidate me and leap out of the crowd to hug her and tell her that she was the first person outside my family who shone a light on that terrible, bleak darkness.  I would tell her how sorry I am that Liam's not here, and how grateful I am that his mother reached out to me in the worst days of my life.  I would cry and tell her thank you.  I'd tell her she's a brilliant writer, and I'm lucky that she took the time to write to me.

Just as they were almost ten months ago, the words she shared at her city's walk for remembrance were exactly what I needed to read today.  They address all the complexities of grief, the sorrow that sucks away your will to live, and the unexpected gifts such sorrow brings--the compassion, the clarity, the people.  These gifts can never make up for the loss of a child, but they can't be ignored either, because they are so real and so meaningful and so wonderful.  If you are one of those people who continue to abide with us as we grieve for our daughter, you are one of those gifts.

Please take a moment to read Kate's words here.  Find the part that's meant for you, whether you deserve my thanks or forgiveness, and know that I mean it, too.