We waited until 10 pm to light the candles. Even though those participating in the Wave of Light were instructed to light candles at 7 pm, we still consider ourselves West Coasters.
Standing in the kitchen, we lit 7 small candles. 7 representing those embryos who didn't make it. And as we looked down on those 7 little lights, I watched as Grey cried in a manner I haven't seen him cry in since our losses. I watched him grief for what could have been, but was lost too soon.
There's a stigma associated with loss. Both in that you're not suppose to talk about it, but also who even is allowed to grieve. Grief is categorized based on whether you've ever been pregnant, had seen a heartbeat, whether the pregnancy was problematic from the beginning, from ectopics to those with hosts of other issues. We are pressured by others not to grieve as we are reminded that there are those who lost more. That they had it worse.
And yet, how can one possibly quantify pain? Step inside that person's shoes and determine that they aren't hurting as much? And what good comes from this comparison? Of telling someone that don't hurt as much or could never possibly know how painful it gets? Winning that argument never resolves grief and only isolates further.
So instead we stood in our kitchen and allowed the tears to fall. Because it is only through acknowledging our grief, facing it head on that we can heal. And though we will never be cured of this pain, the scar tissue that continues to form makes us stronger.
Good night my angels. You are forever in our hearts.