To the eager commenter,
I must admit, I very rarely scroll through the comments section on articles – even more so when it is my own story alongside others being featured. Why? Because there is always one person who, like yourself, reacts in a way that makes me question if your finger slipped on your keyboard by mistake. I mean, it’s possible right?
I only ask because it became quickly apparent to me that we share a completely different sense of humour. Because I don’t find babyloss humorous. I don’t find the fact that my daughter was stillborn comical in any sense. I don’t find myself laughing at my own grief or think it’s funny that other parents are suffering the same pain as myself. But for some reason, you do? You reacted with laughing emojis which perhaps you thought would stir some anger within me. Perhaps you wanted an argument, if not with myself then with another loss parent or family member? Would you believe me if I told you that not for one second did I feel angry. . . .
Instead, I felt curious.
It’s fair to say that any flames you were hoping to ignite with your childish responses were wiped out and lost amongst the messages of love and support. But I’m curious. Who are you? . . . .
I only ask because the joy of certain social media platforms means that you can’t always hide behind your screen. I can see a flicker of who you are with a simple click of a button and a couple of spare minutes in my day. And here’s what I learnt . . .
Two of you are grandparents. Proud grandparents. One of you is raising money for a childrens charity. Another one for mental health. One of you is a school teacher whilst I’m pretty sure one of you just hates the world in general. You all laughed at my loss and the loss of others. But did you all mean to? Some of you are parents yourselves. I can’t believe for one second that you would find the death of a baby funny. . . .
Either way, I think both of us can learn a valuable lesson here. For those of you who may have pressed the wrong button by mistake, please check what you are commenting on. Because you may unwillingly and unknowingly hurt someones feelings or spark their curiousity and later on become a subject for their blog post. . . .
For those of you who did mean to laugh at the loss of a baby. I can only pressume that you have faced your own struggles in life in order for you to be so outwardly bitter. Maybe you have not received much love? Maybe the love I hold for my baby even in death is much more than life has ever given to you? Maybe that makes you feel sad or angry in ways even I can’t understand. . .
And for myself? It’s not neccessarily a question of what I have learnt, more the reality of what I know. I know that I am a proud mother to my daughter. I know that I won’t ever stop talking about her, nor will I ever stop raising awareness and supporting other parents and families who are living with empty arms and broken hearts. I also know that for those of you who do log onto your computer with intent, we’re never going to get on. Funnily enough, I’m ok with that.
But, in the spirit of trying to find a common ground in our sense of humours, let me leave you with this. . . .
Two weeks before my daughter died, I went to the cinema to watch a film with her big brother. It was the film Trolls. A film full of love and fun. A film that would later become the soundtrack to my own daughter’s funeral. A film that, to this day, I hold very close to my heart because it will forever remind me of my love for her.
And a film where the Trolls promote “Good Vibes Only” . . . .