I Will Be OK

I wrote this post yesterday. Often I will write a post and sit on it for a day or two, so I don't publish something during a big emotional meltdown and regret it later. Most, including this one, are very minimally edited, though, because I'm trying to be as authentic as possible. So, here it is.

Maybe this post title is overly optimistic, but those in the bereaved parents club who have gone before me have informed me that I will get through this. Notice I said get THROUGH, not get OVER. I will never get over losing Weston. I'm posting about this "topic" because a couple of people have told me they are worried about me this week after reading my recent posts.

First, thank you for caring. I really mean that. One of the people who voiced worry has seen me in the flesh and is now assured that I will survive. But I don't see many of you on a regular basis, so I figured this post needs to be written, both for those who are concerned about me and as a semi-hopeful look to the future for myself.

My feelings change from minute to minute. The truth is, right now I am NOT doing OK in the aggregate. I have moments where I seem, and maybe even feel, fine, but they are quite fleeting. I think about Weston every second of every day. The pain is very, very difficult to bear, and I often wonder if I will ever feel better. Then I don't want to feel better, because it might mean that I have forgotten Weston.

I went to another support group meeting tonight. Let me tell you, that place is heaven-sent. There were people with losses about as recent as mine and others who lost children many years ago. Words cannot adequately express how helpful it is to hear from others who have walked this road. The parents who are a few years out from their losses are doing OK. They are beautiful and strong. They offer me hope. Their stories are the reason I believe I will survive.

This has been a hard week. I went to the hospital today for the first time in quite a while. It had been even longer since I went to the NICU. Today was my hardest trip to the hospital since Weston died. I got knots in my stomach driving down 7th Avenue, and I started crying as soon as I pulled into the parking garage. Then there is the long walk over the pedestrian bridge and through the hospital maze. It's hard to not run into things when you are walking while blinded with tears. I got on the wrong elevator and ended up in the antenatal unit, where I spent a month as a patient until Weston was born. It is right next to the NICU. I wasn't up for a literal walk down memory lane today. But there I was.

As I walked past my old room, the door was open, so I peeked in and saw E, one of my favorite nurses. There was not a patient in there, so I decided to say hi. And there went the floodgates, again. She is a wonderful person and said things I needed to hear. It was SO good to see her.

Then I went to the NICU to pick up Weston's memory book. I have mentioned previously that Weston's nurse on the day he died took a lot of pictures of him and made a beautiful book. I left it at the hospital for several weeks because I wanted everyone who took such good care of Weston to sign it. So today I picked it up. I saw a couple of people there who had taken care of Weston. They weren't his nurses who spent their entire shift with him, but they knew him well, and I talked to them a lot about Weston's care while he was alive. I know they saw me today, but I don't think they recognized me. It made me sad, like Weston is fading from memories already. It hasn't even been two months.

I gave myself a pep talk and convinced myself that they didn't recognize me because I dyed my hair. (Side note about that: it turns out that the darker hair brings out my eyes a bit more, which means that swollen and teary eyes are that much more conspicuous.) I didn't want to say anything to them because I was BARELY holding it together.

So, I somehow made it out of the NICU without falling apart and headed down to the lobby. It is full of natural light, a piano, and Starbucks. It is where I spent all of my wheelchair privilege time when I was a patient there; I feel drawn to that area of the hospital in addition to the NICU. Both places make me feel closer to Weston. So I got a pumpkin spice latte (yay fall!) and sat down to read the memory book.

I knew that reading the book would make me cry. But this crying was obvious to anyone within a mile of me. This is where the story improves: a man came over and asked if I was OK and if I needed to talk. I choked out that my son died and that I was reading his memory book. But he didn't run away: he got me some tissues and proceeded to sit and talk with me for about 20 minutes. He asked me what happened, he looked at pictures of Weston, and he LISTENED. It turned out that he was in that corner of the hospital because it has decent phone reception, and he was catching up on phone calls and email. He said he normally doesn't approach crying women (who can blame him?!), but he said that he thought God placed him there today. Then he prayed for me.

Openly crying in public breaks the unspoken rules of decorum in American society. But I can't always control myself right now, and staying locked in the house would be very unhealthy for me. And more importantly, it makes the grief just a little less isolating. For all the people in that hospital who will never know about Weston, there is one who will stop, listen, and care. These kinds of encounters keep me going.

So, as hard as these days have been, I am stepping out in faith, taking the veteran bereaved parents at their word, and believing that I will get better. It might not be much, but it is enough right now.

I should keep telling myself this:

I can be changed by what happens to me, but I refuse to be reduced by it.
~Maya Angelou