At least....

When you have lost a child, it is true that there are no words of comfort. Strangely, though, I found that there was an odd list of comforts that I could offer to myself that, in contrast, felt like awkwardly hurled insults when spoken from the lips of well-meaning sympathizers.
She will always be with you. And yes, I do feel her, and feel comforted by her presence, whether it's a true spiritual presence or simply the ways in which she has permenantly changed me. She will always be with me. But those words, as comfort, said, you haven't really lost her, so grieve less, she will always be with you. There is no need to feel completely bereft. And, also, when the person who proffered the words was of a faith where I knew heaven was in the cards for them, and the life everlasting, I felt as if the words tried to offer a kind of promise that I did not believe in. Yet, in the quiet darkness of my home, when the driveway was once again empty, and the lights dimly illuminated our few mementos of our lost daugher, I did hold onto the fact that I knew she would always be with me. Comforting in my mind, but not when offered by someone else.
Thank goodness you are young, and you can have more children. No kidding! Thank god. This is something truly to be grateful for, absolutely, the possibility that I could, and would, go on to have more children. But from the mouth of somebody else? It read, no worries, we will be able to return you to the bliss you thought you would be surrounded by, we can erase this tragedy. Another child will turn this around for you, will bring you joy.
It will be good for you to go back to work. I will be the first to admit: it was good for me to go back to work. My brain needed a break from the awful eternity that lay before me, this never-ending stretch of vacant life that mocked me every minute of the day while I grieved. But when somebody else offered this advice to me, it felt like it somehow demeaned the quality of my good grief. Their words said, you shouldn't dwell on this tragedy forever, you must take your mind off of it. It couldn't possibly be healthy to think about your loss all day long, it will really be much better for you to be distracted, and to not think about "it" so much. The truth? Yes, the truth, in a way. But I felt my grief was being denied, that the people around me were trying to snatch my right to feel the sadness that was so natural, I wanted them to instead grant me the permission to grieve as I wished.
Then there is another phrase that almost makes me laugh, because it is so well-intentioned, and so absolutely true, but it still stings every time even though I try so hard not to feel the smart. In this situation, I am telling someone new about Charlotte, about how my firstborn died, and around me are my two living, smiling, laughing little children who have come since. And this often comes, is often offered as a response to my tale of Charlotte's death
But look, now you have these two little ones and so much happiness. How wonderful for you that you have them. If this is not the truth, what is? But somehow preceded by the word but, or the often and easily replaced "at least", somehow from a stranger, a person unsure of how to respond to my sad tale, the words say, I will try not to worry so much about the one you lost, because here you have them, two beautiful replacements, and you are happy.
Please don't read this the wrong way. I do not question the intention of any of these statements, and even recognize the truth of them, particularly this one. But I cannot shake my need to simply be acknowledged for the simple, stark truth of my loss: it is sad. It is sad, and will always be a loss in my life, regardless of who is to follow, and regardless of how I choose to travel in my grief journey. I only want to be allowed to, depending on context, be sad, or to recognize the sadness that this has brought to my life.
Yet when I spoke these words to myself, they did offer comfort, they were words that promised me hope in the future. Hearing them did not discourage me or make me sadder, but I simply could not help but feel the sting of a slap. But thinking them helped me (and still helps me) to realize that while much has indeed been lost, all is not lost. There will be reprieve from the sadness, and there will be rebuilding. Life will bring you promise some day.