The Empty Silence of Child Loss

As a busy mom of two active girls, there was never silence in our house. No silence, no downtime and little reprieve during the day. When I was pregnant with Vail, Aspen was a growing two year old. So while I only had the one child, there were not many quiet moments. I was worried about being able to manage both girls, balance all of my responsibilities and still be a good wife and mom. A common worry among mothers expecting their second child. I realized after Vail was born that I never should have worried. Yes, it was more work and a big adjustment. But it just happened. You adjust and adapt because there is no alternative. Moments of peace and quiet slip further and further away though. If I was lucky to get both girls down for a nap at the same time it was a miracle. It is amazing how accustomed to the noise you become. How all the sounds of little ones invade your life so much that you no longer notice them. Like your ears don’t hear them….because of the constant auditory stimulation. I bet if I spent some time researching this, which I am not going to do, there would be study after study showing how we adapt to ‘not hearing’ the sounds we are constantly stimulated by.

I know this to be true, because once those sounds are gone, the emptiness they leave behind is deafening. Only people who know loss can understand this. It’s not just the physical emptiness their absence leaves behind, but the empty waves of sound too. I’m so keenly aware of this silence, pretty much all the time, despite the fact that Aspen is a very intelligent 4 year old that never (and I do mean never) shuts up. Oddly, in the constant barrage of sounds put out by her, there is still the void of the sounds made by Vail. Even after 8 months, it’s there. It every moment. No squeaky cabinet doors and drawers being constantly opened and closed. No emptying and refilling of those same drawers and cabinets. No heavy footed walking up and down the hall. No pointing and saying ‘mommy.’ No demands for baby snacks. No squabbling between sisters. No calling for Luna the dog. I could go on all day. The sound of her voice; all the little noises she made throughout the day, I miss them all. It goes way beyond that really. I’m not a psychologist or a neurologist and I would never claim to know anything beyond what I learned in my undergrad science education and years as a paramedic. But what I do know is that…