For the Love of Andrew, I Blog

A friend asked me yesterday how I could blog about my life the way I do. She was mostly surprised that I had the courage to be so bold. I answered that question quickly and easily, but then continued to add how blogging about the intimacy of losing a child continues to shape our lives as they are now. Here are some of the reasons I gave her, and some I have been thinking about since our conversation yesterday:

• Today is Andrew's 2nd birthday. Because of blogging, I've received an unprecedented amount of support from the babyloss community, friends, family, and complete strangers. We're honored that you care about us enough to celebrate our son. Thank you for the emails, comments, cards, text messages and overall love you've shared in speaking his name.
• It has introduced me to a huge community of babyloss families out there that can empathize. Misery might love company, sure, but I also think it's important to be able to connect on an emotional level to those who understand the trauma and sadness child loss has brought us.
• Because therapy is expensive. Okay, it has nothing to do with cost, but it does have to do with comfort level and how I know myself best. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, and I can't think of a greater need for some type of therapy than losing a child.
• Someone has to. Really, someone has to talk about stillbirth and babies dying. I wish that person was not me, but because our family was struck by this, it's only logical that I turn the topic away from being taboo. Our culture should be much more accepting. I actually think it's my responsibility to speak out. If I choose to be ashamed or hide my grief, others will treat it as shameful, too. Andrew is not shameful. He is all love to me. As his mother, I sort of set the stage for how I want others to handle his death. What I don't want is for him to be forgotten or his life trivialized. On that same note, not all of us grieve the same. I understand that completely, but this is how I've chosen to grieve; out loud.
• What's life really about anyway? If we're not vulnerable, how should we be? I feel it's fine in some situations to be reserved and I practice that {i.e. business}, but in my friendships and family relationships (note: my readership), I feel it's best to be more transparent. I feel less awkward that way. 
• Helping others. I receive emails multiple times a week from others who have recently lost a child, are pregnant with a subsequent child (incredibly traumatic), or are seeking advice about supporting a friend who just lost their baby. I feel honored that my experience can help others. Don't get me wrong-- I hate that I understand their grief. But I do, and I want to help. For those who have no connection to loss themselves but still read, maybe it will help prepare them if they ever encounter loss in their own life or in the lives of people they know. This stretches beyond child loss and into just being  caring and kindhearted individuals. When someone endures tragedy that affects them deeply, it's only logical to care for them. Avoiding them just trivializes their sadness. 
• Selfishly, it forces readers to think about my son. I can't post pictures of him doing the ultra cute things I know he'd be doing if he were here today. I had those pictures planned out well through elementary school on this blog. And yet, I'm void of pictures to share. He'd be eating cake today, naturally, and I'd be sharing pictures. He's not, and instead, I write about him because it's my way of attempting to scrounge for every little nugget of parenting I should've/wish I could've experienced with him here.

Today has been pretty somber for me. I'm sad. I hate this. I've been feeling pretty melancholy all day. Two. Wishing you were here, Andrew. I always will.