Losing Hazel was terrible; the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. She was active, already stubborn, she kicked all the time, sometimes so hard that it surprised me. But we didn’t know her; even the most essential things about her. We had chosen not to find out if she was a boy or a girl. When she died, I didn’t even know she was a she. Oh, how I regretted that choice we made 7 months earlier. I wished, during those hours I tried to deliver my sweet, dead baby, that I knew what gender she was, what her name was. Walter? Hazel? Who was dead inside of me?
I know you are not supposed to compare grief. All grief is hard, certainly. But the grief for a run-over dog does not touch mine. On the other side, there is no way my grief is like that of a mother who has lost her 5 year old. But the pain I feel—the temptation to hopelessness—gives me a glimpse into that grief. How much more pain could one handle? I have an almost 5 year old daughter. If I try to imagine what it would be like to lose her, I feel sick. I cannot imagine it.
What is hard right now? Realizing that bad things really do happen. If this one bad thing could happen to me, to us, to our community, what’s to stop it from happening again? How do I hold on to hope in spite of that fear?
My God is not a cheap God; not an easy God, not a “safe” God. I know he suffers with me. I believe he is both mother and father and I believe he knows grief--knows my grief. Why, then, does he allow things like this to happen? I have no idea. None. Not one.
Just for the record, I do not believe he did this to me, to us. Allowance is not the same as cause. And also, I believe that God can bring good out of bad. Does that mean he will fix it? Take away my hurt? Bring Hazel back? Of course not. I will always, always miss my sweet little girl. Will I know what good he brings from this bad? Perhaps not. Perhaps not.