all of the things you lose (1:30 pm)

People say a lot of things when they find out you lost your baby. "At least you didn't get to really know them." "At least you didn't lose a toddler." "At least you still have one child at home." At least. At least. At least. You hear someone open their mouths and "at least" comes out and you want to throw yourself on the floor and shout "THERE IS NO AT LEAST!" This is closely followed by "it's been a few months, I thought you'd be over it by now" or "just try again" as far as things I wish I never had to hear again but know I will hear more often than I care to admit.

No matter what age you lost your child, whether they were 12 or 22 or an infant like Wylie who never took their first breaths, you lost your child. You lost everything you knew about your entire future. You will have lost the things you immediately planned for -- like the matching Christmas PJ's that won't be worn by Wylie and Ethan this Christmas -- and the things you hadn't thought about yet, like the grandchildren you have also lost. Every family photo you take will never really be a family photo ever again. You will have lost Christmases and matching pajamas and gifts under the tree. You will have lost watching your child walk down the aisle at their wedding or across the stage at a graduation. You will have lost skinned knees and kissed booboos. You will have lost the feeling of pride at telling strangers the wonderful thing your child did, be it win an elementary science fair or graduate college.

So there is no "at least." There will never be an "at least." There will never be a "try again" or a way to "get over it." There will be time that constantly applies bandages to the wound, but it will always be open. No matter how much time passes.