People I’ve Cried In Front Of

Besides the obvious ones (friends and family) here is a list of the many different people I have cried in front of:

  • Hobby Lobby cashier
  • CVS cashier
  • Random CVS customers
  • Random Publix customers
  • K-mart cashier who asked me to donate to March of Dimes
  • My entire church
  • Many Hobby Lobby customers
  • Random ER doctor who happened to be pregnant (Her response: You REALLY need to talk to someone. In my defense, it was only a week after Lucy died)
  • Pretty much anyone that I pull up next to at a red light
  • Guy with his son at the train table at Barnes and Noble
  • Anyone who asks me how many kids I have
  • Woman next to me on the plane (She ended up telling me about her four miscarriages and the miscarriage ministry that she started at her church. She then held my hand and prayed for me as the plane was landing)
  • Barnes and Noble employee helping me look for a kid’s book on heaven to show the boys where their sister was
  • Our pediatrician (I loved his response: Well, you cannot question God. It is His decision and you have two healthy boys to be thankful for. You cannot question God)
  • Lots of moms at lots of different playgrounds
  • Liam’s teenage swimming teacher
  • Random lady in the bathroom
  • My OBGYN, MFM and countless other doctors and nurses
  • Everyone in the waiting room at the OBGYN
  • My German students
  • Lots of happy families at the Tennessee Aquarium on the 4th of July (I passed the “Nursing Mothers Room” and lost it)

These are just some of the times I’ve cried in front of people. How many times have I glared at people with a “I want to kill you” look on my face? But in reality, I don’t even see the person I’m glaring at. I’m looking right through them as I wonder how I’m going to get through the rest of my life without my daughter. I’m looking at the “Happy Father’s Day Daddy, from your daughter” cards and dying inside. Before losing Lucy, if I had run into my future self in the store I would have thought, “What is her problem?” Now I know. Maybe her problem is that her baby girl died. Or maybe her husband left her or her Dad just got diagnosed with cancer, or she got diagnosed with cancer or she just got her 20th negative pregnancy test. I know now not to judge someone by what I see. I have no idea what they are going through. The best solution? Treat everyone with love, treat everyone as if their daughter just died and you can’t go wrong.


The Worst Thing to Say to Someone Who is Grieving

I remember being on the other side of grief, looking in from the outside and secretly thanking God it wasn’t me. I remember not knowing what to say, feeling awkward, not wanting to cause more hurt. I always wondered what the best thing to say was. Now I’m here, on the other side of grief. Grief has joined me in my life and will walk with me, hand in hand, from this point on until the day I die. I know I will feel joy again one day, but I will always grieve the loss of my daughter. It’s strange now to be the person everyone is glad they are not. I hate it more than anything, but I am thankful for the things I have learned, the compassion that is now so ready for the person who is hurting.

I also now know what I would like people to say to me in my darkest time of pain. I just want them to say something. It doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to be something. (Ok, to the person who said, “At least you won’t have to be pregnant during the summer!” Maybe I would have preferred if you had said nothing.) But it means a lot when they at least try. The worst thing to say to someone who is grieving is nothing. To say nothing is to pretend like it didn’t happen, this thing that stopped my world and changed it forever. This thing that has broken me, the hardest thing I have ever had to walk through. I want people to acknowledge my pain. I want people to acknowledge my sweet daughter. To not say anything is to act like Lucy never was, but she WAS. She was growing so wonderfully in me. She was kicking me everyday. She was going to be chubby with fat baby legs and jowly cheeks. She was going to be Liam and Asher’s baby sister to protect for a lifetime. She was going to have a first kiss, to be her Daddy’s girl, to go to college, to pick out a wedding dress, to name a baby of her own. But everything is lost and I want people to acknowledge that. I always wonder, if it had been my husband that died, would people acknowledge it more? Would they say, “I’m so sorry. How are you doing?” What if it had been Liam or Asher? Would they acknowledge it then? Is it because it’s was a “miscarriage” or “stillbirth” that it seems so hush hush? Sometimes I am baffled when I see a person for the first time since I lost her and they say nothing. Do they not remember that I was round and pregnant the last time they saw me? Did they forget that my daughter died?

And then I remember how I felt on the other side of grief. I didn’t know what to say, even when my heart ached for that person. I looked in their eyes and I said nothing because words couldn’t capture the grief or the healing that I wanted to give them. I remember that time and my racing heart slows and I understand how that feels. I know this is a personal opinion, and maybe there are a lot of people out there who would prefer that others say nothing. For me, a good thing to say to anyone who has suffered a huge loss is, “I’m so sorry about _____________ or about your loss. How are you doing?” I think a surprising amount of people actually want to talk about their suffering, they just want you to ask. I am so thankful for my many amazing friends and family, the ones who have cried with me, sent me cards, brought me food, given gifts, prayed for me again and again and even the ones who have said nothing. You have truly kept me afloat during this time of grief and you have taught me so much. I know your hearts, and I love them deeply, whether you have said the perfect thing or nothing.

Job 4:4 Your words have upheld him who was stumbling, and you have made firm the feeble knees.

Proverbs 16:24 Pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.