Elephant Mamas

A friend of mine lost her baby a few weeks ago and I have been astounded by the amazing things she has been posting of women coming to her aide at this incredibly difficult time. She posted these pictures and the following explanation that I've copied below and gave me permission to share them on here with you. 

She said: Tomorrow is one month since our baby girl passed away. My friends wanted me to know that they are surrounding me in Love, Light and Support! All of the bags had elephants stamped in them.

"When a mother elephant loses her baby, the other elephants stand in a circle around her and allow her all the time she needs to grieve and mourn. They don't hurry her along, or push her to abandon the body. They gently touch her with their trunks, a silent show of unwavering support."

“Hold on to the love, we are all here with you.”❤️
I DO feel so VERY VERY loved! Forever #SophieStrong!

Istock image of elephants grieving together

I can't tell you how touched I was by this and numerous other posts she has shared of the acts of charity and compassion her group of friends and family have showered her with.  It makes me feel so happy for her that she has such a strong support network.  But deep in my heart, there has also lurked a twinge of pain when I see these posts.  Though never one to indulge in self pity, I admit that tonight, over a year out from our loss, I sometimes feel a bit forgotten.

Examining these feelings has caused me to ponder on the difference it makes to travel your road of grief if you have a strong tribe of supporters surrounding you along the journey.  Some days, especially early on, I have felt enveloped with love and prayers and a steady stream of kindness.  I do not wish to discredit in any way the outpouring of love we received in the first few days after Aiden passed and how very much it meant to us at that time as well as when we reflect back on all the selfless service.  Yet over the weeks and months, people move on with their lives, which of course is only natural.  However, in resuming their lives, they forget your sorrow, though the pain is sometimes just as raw, just as deep and haunting as it was in those first awful days of losing your child.  

Though I know there is a purpose, though I believe heart and soul in Heavenly Father's plan for me, my son and our family, there are still natural feelings of pain and sorrow that demand to be dealt with.  Most days I can manage, but at other times 

when the intense longing for my stillborn son takes me breath away, I feel so very alone on this arduous trek.  I feel as though there is no one to call, no one to turn to and I must carry this suffocating anguish in silent agony.  Even my dear Burkie, though my greatest friend and confidant through it all, I worry has his limits as to the amount of times I can soak his shirt with tears of sorrow, though of course he would never say so.  And so I have simply stopped doing it.  I silently shoulder my grief and bottle it up inside.  I slip into a closet in the middle of a busy day taking care of the demands of my three small children and sob into my hands for a brief moment before wiping my tears, splashing water on my face and returning to the fray with a pasted on smile and an artificially cheerful peek-a-boo for my littles.  And we make it through another day.  And we are happy for the most part.  But sometimes it feels heavy.  Oh so heavy.

Of course, I logically and spiritually know the answer.  I must turn to the Savior and allow His atonement to carry my load of grief for me.  And some days I do.  And He carries me.  But some days, I am weak and I can't muster the strength to even ask Him to do so.  At those times I long for someone to show up at my door and do one of two things.  One, to take over as mother for a moment so I can rest in solitude from my ever present responsibilities of a mother and just allow myself to address my grief instead of repressing it as I read stories, play puppy dog, cook meals and keep little people alive.  The other thing would be to have the shocking and refreshing questions asked, "Emily, how are you really?  How are you coping?  How are you feeling about Aiden?  Do you want to just talk about him?  I would be happy to listen."

Sometimes it feels as though no one understands this starving need to speak his name, to talk about the plans I had made for my boys, the joy and the struggle I anticipated in raising two rambunctious identical little men.  It's as if some assume that there is less for us to mourn because we never had time to make memories with him outside of the womb.  But that is precisely why the mourning has been so deep.  I grieve over what might have been.  I sob over the memories I had hoped to make.  Sometimes I feel as if the less his name is spoken the less he mattered and the more I long to scream, "He was here!  This special special boy was here!  Please acknowledge him.  Please don't forget him.  Please don't ask me to forget him either."  

On lonely nights such as these, I long for the feel of a trunk or two, gently pressed against me, not rushing for me to "move on", but simply reassuring me that there is someone else there who cares, who sees, who remembers.  

After all, they say an elephant never forgets.  This elephant mama certainly never will.