pain by proxy

today i saw a message that a friend had posted on facebook. one of her friends had lost her little girl in the night. 7 months old.

i'm not sure i can fully describe how much it hurts to hear that news. she isn't alone. a friend of mine has lost two babies (to some, pregnancies) in recent months. i know others who have lost as well. none of us are alone. i have found, since Jesper's death, that these stories, these women, these lost babies come to me more and more often. maybe because i am vocal about his death, my loss, this pain. maybe it is scrawled on me somewhere that i know, and so i'm safe, i understand. it doesn't really matter why. i accept them. where others may choose to stop listening at some point, i choose to *hear* when they speak of their pain. it helps me. it helps them. it is a small thing i can do.

i do not know her name. i do not know her face. i have never met her. i probably never will. but i *hurt* for her, with her. i've spent the better part of the day thinking about my friend and her friend and everyone involved. crying for them all.

it is not simply that the news makes my personal pain hurt again. certainly, it taps into my own pain, but that isn't the whole story. i can picture in my head the things they are having to deal with and go through. conversations they must have. things they must choose and decide. words they never in a million years thought they would have to speak. it is almost as if i can see into the heart and soul of that family.

not all of it is from experience. i was blessed with the presence of my parents when my son died. i never had to call family and friends and say those words. it was done for me. it took me a long time to be able to say it. i remember more than once being stopped in town by someone asking "how's the baby? he must be getting so big now?" people who didn't know. all i could do was stand there silently, the pain spilling out of every pore, marginally shaking my head at them. until finally, they would *see* me and try to suck those very words back in. i could not get the words out of my mouth . . . he didn't make it . . . he died.

i want nothing more than to put my arms around her and hold her, carry her, protect her for as long as it takes. my arms ache for that hug nearly as much as they ache for my child. i *hope* someone is there for her doing it in my place. no one should have to go through this alone. unfortunately, she will reach a time when she might feel very alone with it despite the presence of other, well-meaning, loving people. i sent information and encouraged her to find a support group, so that she won't have to feel alone even then. i hope that she can find someone to talk to who *understands* because they've been through it.

that's why i do this. it took so long to find someone else who had been through it, and i felt *so alone* until then. that level of loneliness is inhumane. the biggest difference between us right now is that tomorrow morning her loss will not be the first thing on my mind; it will be the second. and the pain i feel with her will ease much sooner than the pain that is my own.