Saying Goodbye When Saying Goodbye Hurts

"The death of a baby is like a stone cast into the stillness of a quiet pool; the concentric ripples of despair sweep out in all directions, affecting many, many people."

When I was twelve, my best friend's niece died at five months of age. She'd had heart trouble since the day she was born and one day, while laughing with her grandmother, her heart simply gave up for good. My heart broke for the family and for the beautiful little baby the world would never know. My sister and I went to the funeral and my heart broke all over. When we walked into the chapel, the family was holding her in the first pew, crying in anguish over the loss of their daughter, their niece, their granddaughter, their cousin.

Two years ago, the quote at the beginning of this post was brought up during the days of mourning following my young cousin's death. He was on the way to see the doctor for a bout of stomach flu when the axle on his mother's new van broke. The van flipped across the highway, before crashing into a rock wall. His older brother tore through the seat belt and flew from the car. Hunter never made it out of the van alive; his carseat cracked in half during impact. He was gone before they ever got him out of the car.

On Monday, my 9 month old cousin, Hayden, pulled a plant down from the table while his mother was in the laundry room. He couldn't get out from beneath all of the soil and by the time she found him, the dirt had clogged his nose and mouth and they simply couldn't revive him.

We buried Hayden today and as I sat there, looking out at the flood of tears coming from every pew in the chapel, my heart broke all over again and I remembered the quote that had been repeated by a woman that had never met Hunter, but had come anyway to say goodbye and to lend her support to our family.

The death of a child is the most excruciating heartache there is. You never expect to outlive a child. Even when you have time to prepare, it comes as a shock, felling you where you stand. When it happens unexpectedly, you're felled just as quickly and just as completely. A hole suddenly forms that was not there before.

As time goes on, the ache lessens, but the hole is always there and it will never be filled with anything. Those who knew that child will, in many ways, grieve forever, even as they learn to laugh and to smile again. That first smile that you never thought would come finally does. And when it does, it feels like a betrayal and drives home just how unfair it can be. The first hint of laughter fades and your eyes fill with tears as you realize that you just laughed for the first time since you buried that child.

You almost hope those moments don't come... that you never smile again, that nothing ever brings you laughter again. What good are laughs and smiles when you just said goodbye to a piece of your heart? But eventually they come anyway. It doesn't hurt as much. And, perhaps most surprisingly, it doesn't seem like such a big betrayal. At some point, you remember that child not with sobs but with smiles. It takes a long time getting there however.

My family still isn't over the sobs surrounding the loss of Hunter and on Monday, wounds that had not yet been covered were torn open in ways just as painful and deep. The grandfather that has always been the rock was noticeably gone today; the tears that seeing his empty rocking chair brings to our eyes were nothing for the tears of watching grandma latch on the Aybra as if she were salvation itself... nothing to watching her approach that casket a widow and walk away lost and alone.

But despite all of the hurt, or perhaps because of it, we saw in the midst of everything just how far those ripples of despair spread. The pews were full of people we had never met, but who put their arms around us and leant us their support as our knees trembled and threatened to topple us. They flanked my grandmother right alongside aunts and uncles, acting her own personal sentries as she approached the casket to say her final goodbyes; they lifted aunts and cousins from the floor where they collapsed. When my shoe broke with Alo in my arms, one of those people reach down and took it from me before sliding it back on my foot and helping me out the door that I couldn't even see. I never knew her name and I can't even remember what she looks like now, but that little kindness amidst those ripples and waves touched me in ways I can't even begin to describe.

Driving home from the funeral today, every song was a sad song; an echo of a grief still so new and so strong that everything seemed a little duller... the world a little less bright. But the kindness of those complete strangers lingers even now, bringing with it a sort of comfort I had forgotten could exist in such times. They say that a grief shared is a grief halved...

I can't help but wonder if I could ever willingly take such a grief upon myself as those completely unfamiliar faces have done thrice in my life with no more reason than that it was the right thing to do. I would like to say I could, but in truth, I really don't know. All I know is that I have again been humbled in the most unexpected of ways and that the heartache and loss mingle and intertwine with gratitude that even to the darkest of places, the lightest of people willingly go. We may have lost an angel, but I can't help but feel as if my faith in humanity has slowly begun to be restored as a result. And even through that sea of hurt, a smile dances at the back of my mind.