The Sadim Touch

Someone just pointed out this Slate article about a new website called Modern Loss. The article says:

"Americans love to talk about people who overcome the odds to survive serious injury or illness, but we don't cope with death very well. Enter Modern Loss, a new website dedicated to helping us stop treating death and grief like embarrassments to be hidden away, and instead have an honest conversation about what it means to mourn. 

The site was started by two women, Rebecca Soffer and Gabrielle Birkner, who lost parents at an early age and who are clearly opposed to the toxic forced optimism [emphasis mine, because I LOVE this phrase] of American culture that can make grief all the more difficult. They promise a website that will be free of people adjudicating how sad you're allowed to feel and a complete ban on the phrase, 'everything happens for a reason.'" 

Did you hear me cheering at that last line? Please, oh please, can we get rid of that platitude?

There, now it's fixed!

So I had to check out Modern Loss, and right away I found a lot to like, especially one post: The Reverse Midas Touch.

While my recent string of losses hasn't been as drastic as what author Abby Sher describes, it has made me wonder if I'm—if not cursed—maybe attracting bad stuff into my life in some subconscious way. Short answer: NO, I don't believe in hocus-pocus. But still, honestly, there are times when I have kind of felt like a freak. There are times when I've been ashamed of my own apparent Sadim (the reverse of Midas) Touch.

Right after my miscarriage, I happened to see this video about stillbirth. The parts that resonated most were the parents who talked about feeling like a bad-luck charm, and those who said that the worst thing was when people refused to talk about their child at all. That is "toxic forced optimism" at work.

I do understand the impulse; I've been guilty of it, too. But I've come to see another way: simple, loving presence. Abby Sher offers it to a sick friend at the end of her post. Others have offered it to me.

One particular time stands out: after the baby’s heartbeat stopped and before the bleeding started, a friend put his hand on my belly and just held it there, silently, head bowed. That simple act of acknowledging that he/she was real and still mattered, even after death ... of coming closer instead of running away ... it was one of the most healing things anyone has ever done for me.