Sometime during the day, after Ava died, a purple ribbon was placed on the outside of my door which would serve as a signal to anyone who passed by my room that my baby had died. I had been marked. I think that ribbon scared a lot of people. I think I scared a lot of people.  

Once I was out of bed and stable, my nurses came in much less frequently. Medically I didn’t need much care, just round the clock ibuprofen and vital signs once every 6 hours or so. I figured the nurses were just trying to give us some space but sometimes it felt like they were avoiding me. One nurse seemed to always enter my room directly behind a visitor or another provider before awkwardly saying, “oh, you have visitors. I’ll come back later,” and scurrying out of the room. Travis and I joked that she was doing this on purpose just to avoid having to face us but deep down I felt like maybe it was true. I started to feel like we made people too uncomfortable, or more specifically I made them uncomfortable so I tried to put on a happy face to make it easier for them and I didn’t cry in front of very many people. I didn’t cry in front of my nurses. I didn’t cry in front of the doctors. I didn’t cry when my friends came to visit. I didn’t cry on the phone when I talked to my family. Day after day people would look at me with their sad eyes, head tilted to the side, and stare at me in silence as if they were waiting for me to cry or say something profound to break the silence. I did neither. I kept my eyes down and my tears at bay. I just didn’t want to make anyone else uncomfortable. I wanted to protect them from my pain but in doing so I stigmatized my own grief and brought shame to my tears. Don’t get me wrong, I cried a lot, but it was too hard for me to cry in front of anyone other than Travis. I was scared that if I allowed myself to openly share my grief that people would be too uncomfortable around me and stop talking to me altogether, and the last thing I wanted was to be left alone. In the end, it didn’t really matter, a lot of people avoided me anyway.

I have been absolutely blown away by the incredible outpouring of love and support I have received since Ava’s death, but I’m still shocked by the absence of some of those closest to me and Travis. I’ve heard from some people that they wanted to give me space, or they didn’t want to upset me, or even simply that they just didn’t know what to say. I smile and nod when people tell me their reasons for not reaching out but I want to tell you what I’m really thinking when I hear why people have kept their distance.

As humans, so much of our lives is about the shared experience, but grief is different. I can’t share my grief with anyone. The only person that comes close to understanding and sharing my grief is my husband and sometimes we are still worlds away from one another. Grief is a dark, lonely place that often times lends no path to escape. I have just been thrown into the depths of hell. I am completely devastated, and scared, and sad. Please don’t leave me alone. When you try to give me space you might think you are helping me but it makes me feel so much more alone. It makes me feel like you don’t care about me or Travis or Logan, or Ava. It makes me feel like I don’t matter to you. Sometimes it feels like I am alone and lost in deep, dark forest and sometimes all I need is a friend to keep me company, not run away and leave me to find my own way out. But sometimes you’re right. Sometimes I do want to be left alone. Sometimes I don’t want you to try to cheer me up. Sometimes I need my space to be sad, but when that happens, I promise I won’t answer my phone. I will never be upset because you reached out to me. If I need my space, I will take it.

Some people don’t bring up the subject of Ava because they are scared of saying the wrong thing or are afraid of upsetting me. Let me assure you, I am already upset. I am grieving the loss of my daughter and nothing you say is going to make that worse. Speaking her name, or talking about her isn’t going to make her any more dead than she already is. You will not cause me grief. Talking about Ava does not bring me pain. Talking about Ava brings her to life. When you ask me questions about my pregnancy or the days leading up to her birth, or even the birth itself, it may be hard for me to talk about. I might get tears in my eyes or a little choked up at times but talking about Ava brings me a great deal of peace and almost a small piece of happiness. She was my daughter and when you acknowledge her existence it makes me happy, similar to the way it brings me joy to talk about Logan or the joy you experience when you talk about your own children. Ava’s story doesn’t have a happy ending but hers is still a story I would like to tell. When you don’t talk about her it makes me feel like you forgot about her, or worse, like you’ve swept her under the rug. When you avoid talking about her it makes me feel like you are not acknowledging her existence or her brief life. She was my daughter. She was real and she mattered to me. She is not Voldemort, please speak her name.

Ava was real. My grief is real. The purple ribbon was placed on my door and imprinted on my heart. Please do not avoid it because it makes you feel too uncomfortable. Please do not force me to hide my pain or my tears. Please do not leave me to suffer in silence. I know it can be scary, I’m terrified too, but maybe if we’re here together the grief won’t be so scary and the loneliness will start to fade.