“This has to be really hard for you.”

Sometimes, loving words are what we need to hear when painful memories resurface during joyous occasions.

As we try our best to make it day by day, while living in a pandemic and being days away from Christmas and a new year, many of us will be reminded of what we no longer have or what we still don’t have. For some, it will be a loved one whose life was suddenly taken by the coronavirus Covid-19. For others, it will be having to celebrate another holiday without the desires of our hearts whether it be a spouse, baby, career, house, etc.

Holidays and celebratory occasions are designed to be lively and enjoyable. They are exciting times spent with family, friends, colleagues, and strangers depending on the circumstance. However, for some they can also be painful and another sign of voids in our lives. On the outside looking in, the pain is not noticeable because we do a good job concealing our feelings. Moreover, we want to be present for others and share in their joy and happiness. Yet on the inside, it hurts like hell. If only others could see just how hard this really is …

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Shortly after suffering another miscarriage (it would be a total of five before Sammy’s arrival), and getting ready to attend yet another baby shower, I recall words a teacher/colleague said to me as we were walking out of our school building heading towards our cars. We were sharing weekend plans and mine included attending a baby shower.

“This has to be really hard for you.”

It was no secret to my staff … the number of miscarriages Randy and I had suffered. There was the time when, as principal, I had to assign a teacher-in-charge to oversee the school’s operations while I stayed home miscarrying and recuperating. In another occurrence, I had just walked out of our school’s conference room where I was hosting and celebrating my amazing teachers with a catered breakfast for Teacher Appreciation Week. One minute I was sitting, eating breakfast, and socializing with my teachers. The next, I had left the conference room to tend to school matters and, seconds later, was standing in the middle of the main office looking down at the sight of blood at my feet. Tears quickly filled my eyes as I knew this scene all too well. What happened next continues to hold a most special place in my heart.

After walking to the restroom with the help of several teachers, and after confirming my beliefs, I graciously accepted their affection and love. They waited outside the restroom for me and upon my return, I convinced them I would be fine driving myself home. Then Michelle, one of my kindergarten teachers, without prompt or hesitation, removed her beautiful green shawl that hung around her neck. In unison, my selfless teachers carefully wrapped the shawl around my body to shield me and the blood stains. They then slowly escorted me to my car and helped me get in.

“This has to be really hard for you.”

Whether my teacher/colleague knew it or not, I needed to hear her words. My heart desired to pause, reflect, and grieve again on the inside for something I so desperately wanted but did not have. As I stood there taking in her statement, I found myself exhaling a long and deep, innermost breath that I regularly concealed in public. In this moment with my teacher/colleague, I graciously accepted the love and empathy she gave to me as I once again prepared to attend another baby shower.

“This has to be really hard for you.”

Her words gave validation to all the pain and suffering I had been through both emotionally and physically having lost yet another baby. And the baby shower with all its beauty and joy for the mother-to-be would also be another reminder of my emptiness.

Memories of losing my babies would repeatedly play out in my head day-after-day. They included being in my doctor’s office, lying on the table and holding my breath as she rolled the ultrasound fetal doppler device over my abdomen to listen for a heartbeat that sadly, was no longer there. Or when I would anxiously grab the phone to get updates from nurses about my hcg levels. And then feel like the world caved in, again, as I was told they had not doubled in 48 hours, and more than likely, the pregnancy would not be viable. Or the time I sat in a sorority executive board meeting and then felt a gush come out of me. I gasped out loud and bolted out of the library’s meeting room and into the restroom. My Soror Debbie ran out after me and comforted me in my loss. I knew then – again – we had lost another baby.

“This has to be really hard for you.”

Looking back at how hard my miscarriages were, I can honestly say that with the loss of every baby, Randy and I never lost faith in God. We kept pushing forward with our desire to have a baby. We knew that we had to trust God and accept everything that happened in His way and in His time. And with the loss of each of my babies, my faith in God grew stronger.

After nine years of marriage and five miscarriages, our miracle baby Sammy was born. God had answered our fervent prayers.

“This has to be really hard for you.”

Thank you, Anna, for saying this. I still see and hear you today.  Thank you for acknowledging and validating my feelings with all that I had endured. Thank you for seeing me in this moment and showing compassion. I so desperately needed to hear those words as I continued to heal.

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So, as we celebrate current and future holidays and celebratory occasions, let us remember to be mindful of those in our lives who may be hurting on the inside. Perhaps a pause, a look into their eyes, a warm smile, and intimate verbal acknowledgement is what they need in that moment. 

“Because …  it really is that hard for us.”