|Could You Please Just Listen?|
|By Debbie Genmill|
|Could you please just listen?
My baby has died. Please don’t tell me you know how I feel. You don’t. You can’t. I hope you never do. Don’t tell me that she’s with God and I should be happy. How can I be happy when every time I go to her nursery all I see is an empty crib and toys that will never be played with? How can I be happy when my arms ache to hold her?
Please don’t tell me God needed another angel it’s hard for me to understand why God would take away this little one who was so loved. Maybe I will understand later. But for right now… let God find another angel. Please, please, please don’t tell me I’ll have another child. Maybe I will… but my daughter was not a puppy that ran away… she can’t be replaced.
Maybe you could just listen when I remember out loud all the things we did together … the walks, the early morning feedings, the first time she rolled over. Maybe you could just sit with me while I cry over all the things we’ll never do together.
Please don’t tell me it could be worse. How?
I really don’t want to hear about your grandfather’s death. It’s not the same. Don’t think my pain will be eased by comparison. Of course I’m glad that she didn’t suffer, but I’d be a lot happier if she hadn’t died at all.
I know it must be hard for you, but would you mind looking at her pictures just one more time, we don’t have many of her and I’m just a little bit afraid that I may forget what she looked like. She wasn’t here that long you know.
Could you please just listen?
Don’t tell me I’ll get over it. There is no “over it”, only through it. Maybe you could just be with me while I take my first steps through it. Please don’t tell me I should be glad she was just a baby, or that at least I didn’t get to know her. I knew her before I saw her. She was a part of me. And now she’s gone. I haven’t just lost a four-month old baby. I lost a part of myself.
I know you mean well, but please don’t expect me to tell you how to help me. I’d tell you if I knew, but right now I can hardly put one foot in front of the other. Maybe if you looked around, you could find some things to do, like taking my dog for a walk, or doing the dishes, or making some coffee.
Please don’t try to remove my pain or distract me from it. I have to feel this way for now.