Ben & Shae Cecka's family in Gilbert, AZ

This time last year we received an insightful comment from one of my favorite bloggers, Seth Simonds. I like it so much that I am re-publishing it in a new post:

I think one gets to the point where a loss becomes less inflamed and settles in as a deeper hurt. Something like when you sprain your ankle and it swells up, you’re on crutches, and people know to treat you differently. Once a bit of healing takes place and the swelling goes down, you hang up the crutches. Others forget how recently it was that you struggled to walk and they wonder why you have trouble keeping up when they want to run.

It still hurts inside though. The outer part may have healed but that deeper hurt remains.

You’re not being selfish to remember a recent wound. If you force yourself to run when your ankle isn’t ready, your body responds by building up scar tissue that can extend the pain and cause stiffness until re-torn and healed properly.

I’ve never lost a child but I assume it resides far up the spectrum of things that make one weep. (I have no idea how far up the spectrum or if it’s even in a realm of its own which is probable)

If you need to sit in a closet with a bottle of tequila and something to wrap your arms around, please do so. Without apology. You’ll know when it’s time to walk again. And when the rain is near and that old wound starts to ache, I hope the people around you know to trust you to deal with the pain as you see fit.

“You are still a mom you know.” The nurse said, after she wished me a happy mother’s day. I didn’t bother explaining to her that I already had a child at home, and that the 12.4 ounce, 10 inch long, tiny human that lived for only an hour in my arms the day before was not my only son. We held him again that day- for some reason the discharge nurse in the labor and delivery unit thought we should say our last goodbyes to our baby, and brought his cold stiff body to us wrapped in a warm blanket. That was the last time we saw him. Some mother’s day. I am still trying to erase that lifeless image from my mind and hold on to the memories of the day before, those bitter sweet moments we had with such a beautiful baby boy, who opened and shut his mouth, moved his arms around in the air, and finally folded them together to rest sweetly under his chin. Such a beautiful boy he was, despite his tiny size.

I often wonder if the well meaning woman that wished me a “happy” mother’s day would have done the same had I gone into labor a week earlier. You see- medically, technically, legally, a life started in the womb that is expelled before twenty weeks gestation is considered a miscarriage. Anyone born after the twenty week line is considered to be a live birth, or if deceased in utero, a stillbirth. My placental abruption occurred at 16 weeks, and that lively little guy who was measured and photographed countless times through ultrasound and proclaimed healthy and perfect survived in my failing, bleeding body for another four weeks. Jeremy was the gestational age of twenty weeks and three days when he was born. Earned his birth certificate, which was immediately followed by the completion of his certificate of death. Is it really just three days, that makes the difference between the sprout and the bean?

So, know that I love you all, and I know it’s selfish, but you’ll just have to excuse me if I am a little less than enthusiastic about mother’s day. I wonder if it will ever be the same again for me, even with the joy I have for my living children, and the love and appreciation I have for our moms and grandmoms. It’s funny how I felt so needy of attention the first year, afraid to be left alone, offended when neglected. This May I just want to be left alone with my boys and supportive husband… or in a dark closet with some tequila and a teddy bear.