A year or two ago, I met a woman who had grown up in the same area in which I'd lived and worked for a year and a half. We made that connection, and we've chatted occasionally since. Recently, I talked about my losses. That's when she mentioned she, too, had lost a child, and recently, too. I had had no idea. I gather she figured my losses were so intense that her one second-term miscarriage didn't compare. She just never brought it up. We never know who may be a member of the empty arms/mothers of angels club.
I never wanted someone to feel somehow of a lesser rank in that club or that her loss was any less painful. There really shouldn't be any ranking at all. Yes, some of us have had more losses than others. Some of us have had later losses than others or more recently losses. But we're all members of that club of loss, a membership we wouldn't wish on anyone because the dues are too high. It's a membership that teaches empathy and understanding that can't be taught or learned in any other way. It makes me feel bad that she somehow feels awkward mentioning her loss with me. We should all be brothers and sisters in this club. We all understand what real pain is.
I'm thankful that she did share with me. Sharing implies trust. When you're a person in mourning, it's hard to know who we can trust because some people respond in more supporting ways than others to our professions of grieving. We often walk around like everyone else, saying nothing about our loss for fear of painful words. When we do say something, we're hoping for the right words or touch or contact of any sort that will make our pain feel that much more bearable. I would wish that all around me who have suffered loss would feel I was a person with whom they could share their hearts without worry that I'd cause them added pain. I pray the words I say to someone in mourning are the words that will help them feel loved. Always.
