This is what I used to say to people, when their grief was hard for me to even contemplate. "I can't imagine." This is what people say to me all the time now.
At first, it didn't bother me. "You don't want to," I would respond.
Now, it bothers me. The comment has been irking me for weeks.
I have been trying to figure out why, and when I read Brooke's blog and she pinpointed it exactly.
These people are saying that my life has become an incomprehensible nightmare that they can't even bear to think about.
You can't imagine because you don't want to.
I don't want to either, except I'm living this life.
Or, you could try to imagine.
You could stop and wonder what it would feel like to hear only silence while looking for your baby's heartbeat at your routine, 34 week appointment.
You can stop for a minute and think, "What if one of my children died?"
It's horrific, right?
I'm jealous that you can't imagine. That you get to choose not to imagine. That you can stop your mind from thinking such horrific thoughts.
What you can't imagine is my life.
I know I'm being sensitive.
I know I need to cut other people some slack.
I am trying, like when a faculty member just told me about how she had a scare with one of her babies... but she turned out to be fine.
I stood there and nodded my head as she went on about how scary that moment was, but thank God it she turned out okay. All the while thinking, please stop talking now.
My scary moment didn't turn out to be okay. My scary moment turned out to be your worst nightmare, the one you don't want to imagine.
Maybe I should be careful here. Because I hate even more when people don't acknowledge - to my face - the loss of my daughter. I hate when a meeting starts without anyone acknowledging that I haven't been at those meetings in 12 weeks, because my daughter died.
But I think I'd just prefer if they stuck with, "I've been thinking about you."