Where did empathy and compassion go?

Most of the comments were supportive, encouraging.  Some people commiserated.  Some shared their own stories.  Some expressed gratitude for their situations.  Some expressed anger and frustration at theirs.

They couldn't have kids.  Can't.

What those who expressed anger don't seem to understand, is that at least in my case, I've been in that place.  I've been told I wouldn't have kids without drastic medical intervention.  I've been half of a couple officially diagnosed with infertility.  I've mourned my period every month.  I've hated pregnant women, wondered why it seems like everyone else in the world can do this but me.  I've bought more than five pregnancy tests at a time out of sheer desperation.  

Not only that, but I lost the only baby I should have ever been able to get pregnant with.  

My point in writing those stories wasn't to upset people last night, any more than my writing this now is to garner sympathy from other people.

It's to communicate this truth: no one really knows what anyone else has been through.  

None of us is qualified to judge anyone else.

Recently, a good friend of mine posted something on Facebook about having a tremendous amount of gratitude for her son's upcoming birthday party.  That she had no memory of the prior one.  That she'd been through a lot that no one else could understand and was immensely proud of herself for coming out on the other side, with the fog lifted and cleared.  

Rather than express support and love for her, concern for her situation, or show respect for her honesty, she was bashed by family members. 

I'll tell you what kind.  

Her.  

Me.  

We both struggled with post-partum depression that manifested into bigger and bigger clouds of haze that sank upon us, crippling our lives.  Reached into every aspect of who we were.  Contaminated memories.  Ruined happy times.  Purely as a defense mechanism, I've blocked large pieces of those memories.  

She has too.  

I don't remember much of anything about the first 14 months of my daughter's life.  I think we had a small cake for her at home, but I'm not sure.  I saw a picture floating around once that told me I didn't screw it up completely.  That even if I didn't remember it, I had jumped through the hoops and done what I was supposed to do.  

I see pictures of her as an infant, most of which I must have taken, and I can't remember her like that.  The delicious rolls upon rolls.  I remember what I can through those pictures alone.  

Certainly not, though it's taken me years and years to reach the point where I could begin to forgive myself.  

The memories of my last child, limited by circumstances outside my control.  Ruined too.  Seeing pictures of him as a newborn break my heart and tear at my soul.  It wasn't depression this time that did it, but the effect is the same.

I want to believe it doesn't.  I haven't worked on forgiving myself for that enough yet.  Mostly because it wasn't anything of my doing that led to it in the first place.  Nothing I could have done.

I tell my friend at every opportunity I can that I love her, and that even though our situations are different, they are also very similar.  Good mothers can block the memories of their children, not by choice, but purely to survive.  

Then, a few days ago, I came across a blog recommended by We Band of Mothers.  It's called No Holding Back, written by a mother who lost one of her twins to TTTS.  

My heart broke for her, reading the piece about how she's never sure what to say when people ask her how many children she has. What do you say when there's a child missing who should be there?  

For a long time, I answered awkwardly too.  I would include the little girl who was supposed to come first.  The one that we hinged all our hopes and dreams on.  The one that didn't make it.  

Over time, I stopped.  I just told people how many living children I had.  Not because I cared one bit about making them feel awkward, because I didn't.  I stopped for my own sanity.  It was too hard to be constantly reminded of who was not here.  I stopped as a defense mechanism.  

Not too different than the repressed memories, I suppose.  

She's a piece of me, just as those missing years with my living children are, but I don't talk about them with many people.  

I share my stories only with those who I feel will understand, and sometimes I learn right away that I've made a terrible mistake in trusting someone with that information.  

Other times, I find that I make a connection with someone else, who starts nodding in agreement.  Someone who understands.  Sometimes that someone in turn confides in me.  There are usually a lot of tears.

We all have our tragedies.  We all have our demons.  

And no book can ever be properly judged by it's cover.  

Have empathy and compassion for those around you.  You don't know what path they've walked.  

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