How deep is your love? (the grief edition)

I continue to mentally rewind the powerful essay by Elizabeth McCracken in O magazine. And it has me thinking about quantifying grief. 

She went through birth of a stillborn son. Now she has another son. I am struggling to deal with infertility (somewhat now wrestled to the ground), two miscarriages and a horrible feeling that I may never have a baby. Losing a child at full term sounds like an unbearable tragedy. Does mine compare? Do I have a right to hold as much grief and sorrow as I do? It’s not about a grief pissing match; who loved or suffered more? No, I think I continue to look for permission to feel as strongly and deeply as I do. 

Society tells you can grieve about the loss of a child, a sibling and parent. Of course many are wrecked and torn with grief. No one expects they will put on a happy face or turn up at all social events. It’s acceptable to spend time at home, curled up with your memories.

I have never lost a parent or sibling. My life until this point has been fairly blessed, long lasting grief and its sister sorrow are new emotions for me. I can not compare one experience with another; I don’t have that emotional barometer. 

What is the appropriate response to losing your baby — an embryo really– before the first trimester ends? He or she never took a breath, kicked or grew much beyond a collection of forming cells. And yet I do grieve and sometimes it feels endless.

Am I over- reacting? Should I just be grateful that a loved one in the here and now has not left my life instead of a someone who never got to be? Does the formula for grief say pain is magnified if you have two miscarriages instead of one? Does it rise expotenially when infertility is thrown in the mix? And then how does a decay in baby hopes tie in? 

Recently I was at a close friend’s bridal shower. We each took turns telling stories about this bride-to-be and how she made our lives better. Some were funny, many were bittersweet. My friend knows grief, sorrow, depression. She lost a brother and father in the last 10 years. 

Another friend who lost her mother just two years ago, talked about what a comfort this bride had been. She spoke her language of grief. They talked often. She recalled asking the bride once achingly: will it get better?

I ask the same question. Do I have a right to?