Lost – it’s a word I have been thinking a lot about lately.

Honestly, I’ve thought a lot about it the past seven years; since we “lost” our baby.

I’ve never liked to use that phrase.

Did I misplace him like I would my car keys? Did I set him down and forget where he was left?

Did I toss him aside and hope he’d still be there when I returned?

No. I cared for him and loved him his entire life. He was safely tucked next to my heart the whole time.

But still he was lost.

I read a phrase this week in a novel by Kristin Hannah. That’s what has turned my thoughts to once again thinking about “losing someone.”  The first page of “The Nightingale” reads


It makes it sound as if I misplaced my loved ones; perhaps I left them where they don’t belong and then turned away, too confused to retrace my steps.

They are not lost. Nor are they in a better place. They are gone. As I approach the end of my years, I know that grief, like regret, settles into our DNA and remains forever a part of us.”


My grief keeps settling. It will forever be a part of me.

Yet I still keep living. Living with the grief I have absorbed into my psyche.

Quite frankly if anyone has been lost through his whole losing-a-baby thing, it’s me.

There have been times when I have felt out of place and forgotten. There have been times when I have felt like I could not be recovered. Like I was unable to be found.

Like I was … lost.

I am the one lost. Not him. Not my beautiful angel baby. He wasn’t lost. Just gone. Ripped from my arms before he could even settle. Before he could even sigh.

So I continue drifting. Lost sometimes. Lost for words. Lost for comfort. Lost for clarity and understanding.

They say that when someone you love dies, they are “lost.” I say that sometimes it is those who remain alive that are lost.

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