Your children make me sad.
It’s not your fault. It’s not mine. It’s no one’s, really.
It’s just the truth, and, as they say, the truth can hurt. I don’t mean for it to –truly — but the reality is, seeing your child smiling and running and playing and hugging you and calling you mama and being the adorable human you and I both know they are is like a knife to my heart. Because my child can’t do any of those things, and never will.
Because my kid should be playing with your kid, smiling with your kid, eating cheerios and yogurt puffs and grape halves with your kid.
My kid should be here, too, wrapping her chubby arms around my neck and pulling me in close for wet, sloppy kisses. And I, her.
But she’s not, and your child is an ever-present reminder of that heartbreaking fact.
Your children make me sad. And I don’t know what to do about that. I just know it’s the truth.
But I also know that your children are beautiful and wonderful and the lights of your life and that parenting them is challenging, yes, but also rewarding and I’m so happy that you have them, and they, you. I just wish we could share in these moments, as mothers.
I know that I don’t want to lose your friendship. That idea terrifies me. I’m scared that one day my sadness will drive you away; that my longing for what you have will drive a wedge between us. That we’ll no longer be able to relate to one another as your children grow up and mine continues to be lost to us. I’m afraid that the grief mirrored in my eyes will make it harder to love me and that instead, drifting away will be easier than not giving up on who I am now. I hope you decide that I’m worth the wait, the extra effort – and I hope you know I’m trying, for my part — but if your patience wanes, I’m afraid our friendship will be the cost. And the idea of losing a treasured relationship while enduring the death of my child is nearly unbearable at times. Because what else can this loss, this cruel tragedy, take from me?
So I am trying. Each day, I’m trying.
Your children make me sad. But I hope you know that I still love them, and you. I understand that none of this is anyone’s fault, that the devastation that has befallen my family has nothing to do with you or me. And I hope you know that I’m trying, every day, to overcome the fact that your children bring tears to my eyes. To see them instead as reminders that there is still hope, somehow, someway. They are such beautifully imperfect, perfect beings, their quirks only making them more beautiful in the eyes of you, their parents. I know this because that is what Evelyn was to us too – beautifully imperfect but perfect all the same. Born too soon, is all.
Your children make me sad because mine is no longer here. I look at your children and without effort, I see my girl. You children who’s every milestone is one that should have been shared with my child instead of without her. The shadow children to my girl who is forever 23 wks 3 days, 8 hrs and 43 minutes. My child won’t ever grow up but yours will, and that’s a fact that is no one’s fault but it’s also a reality no one can change.
Yes, your children make me sad. But I’m trying. Every day, I’m trying.
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Melissa Nam is mama to her little bird, Evelyn, who was born prematurely after a spontaneous complete placental abruption on August 15, 2016. Evelyn was a fighter and fought valiantly for 8 hours and 43 minutes before passing away the next morning. Melissa is 32 and lives in Bloomington, IN with her husband of 10 years, Jason, and their beloved pets, Chloe (cat) and Kobe (dog). Evie was their miracle, conceived after an 8-year battle with infertility. Adapting to their new normal means taking each day as it comes — hand in hand — and continuously searching for ways to share Evelyn’s love with other families and children in similar circumstances, as a way of coping with their grief.
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