April 6, 2010
"Here are Harper's little hand and feet prints," I said as I handed over the little laminated card I carried in my billfold of my daughter's real-to-life sized prints. I didn't know for sure how my grandparents would react. I know that their generation is different than mine. I understand that. I know that women didn't talk about miscarriages or stillbirths openly. And grieving something like that? I'm assuming that grieving such a loss was a very private thing and not shared with many, if any at all. So I was surprised when I saw my grandmother's eyes well up with tears, "I'm sorry this happened to you," she whispered to me. And then I handed the card to Grandpa and saw him brush more than one tear away from his eyes.
I have to remind myself, she wasn't all mine. She felt like it. She felt like she was this tiny thing that only I experienced. But she was their family too. She was their third great-grandchild. They saw me when I was pregnant, when I was sick, the day before I went into the hospital. They heard the song Jeremy wrote with her mighty heartbeat in the background. They marveled at her before she was born.
She wasn't just mine. She was a part of my family, my very loving family.
It is an odd blessing when someone shares our grief, understands, and feels the loss, too. She mattered, Abby. Little Harper. Her life counted. It was real. She was real. She was loved...and is missed. I know that brings a bittersweet comfort.
ReplyDeletethose prints are just beautiful, Abby. Thank you for sharing.
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