No, no, no.

I can hear this simple, two lettered word in my mother’s voice just as I did when she first taught me it’s meaning. It had to have been my second word, after dada. Maybe that’s why I learned it so quickly. This simple word was the first I learned in order to become independent. As I grew older, she reiterated that no meant I didn’t want something to happen or that I disagreed. I came to know it was a powerful word that took courage to say.

My pre-loss self used this word without fear of being judged.

When I was pregnant, I told my doctor no every time I didn’t agree with his plan. Even when he suggested being induced at thirty-seven weeks, I just kept telling him no. There would be no way Jensen would miss out on those extra weeks of development if he didn’t have to. There were even times when my feet were so swollen that they hurt to walk on and when asked if I was uncomfortable, I’d just say no. I even imagined Jensen learning how to say no for the first time; knowing he’d say it while pointing his finger at me. It made me smile to imagine the first time he spoke his mind.

I didn’t realize its importance until I lost the art of saying no.

No was the only word I could mutter when I first found out his heart had stop beating. No, I didn’t want this to happen and it couldn’t be my reality. It had to be a mistake. There was no way he wouldn’t be born crying and learning how to use the strong voice. I needed to be able to see him grow into an independent, young man. The back of my throat was sore from screaming this word to the nurses and loved ones around me. No, I can’t this pain. My mind couldn’t believe this no went unanswered; it was the first time I really meant it. Yet my no’s were ignored by the ways of the world.

After he was born, I had to relearn how to live. Jensen, the future I had planned for us, and everything I knew to be true was gone. The word I believed in had abandoned me and there was no need to say no anymore. Even when I should have said it, I didn’t.  I craved the support people around me lent, even if it did more harm than good. Others would drag me out of the house when all I wanted was to stay under the covers. There were times losing him was downplayed and I stayed silent. The times where most people had the courage to protest, I said nothing. I had truly lost my voice and the independence I loved about pre-loss myself.

One small word that I’ve been able to say all of my life and I couldn’t let it escape my lips. I didn’t want to hurt others’ feelings, as mine had been crushed. The fear of losing more people was greater than my feelings being hurt even more. Then I had a memory that wasn’t a memory at all. It was that of a dream I had while I was pregnant. The one where Jensen learned the power of words and the art of saying no.

So, today I give myself permission to tell others no.

No, I will not allow you to say hurtful things to me about losing my son or how I’m journeying through my grief.

No, I will not do anything that makes me feel uncomfortable.

No, you cannot fix this, but you can be here to listen.

No,I will honor my son in the only way I know possible.

No, I will continue saying his name and sharing our story to let others know that loss is real and it can happen to anyone.

No, I understand that you don’t can’t possibly feel this loss or pain, but this is how I feel and I am validated these emotions are validated.

No, I’m doing the best I can and I will not let anything get in the way of my healing.

No, my son was here and he died, but his life was full of warmth and love.

There is not exact art of saying no, just as there is no rule book in any of our grief journeys. The only thing we can do is allow ourselves to be able to tell others what we need. Sometimes it’s as simple as saying, no, no, no.