Quiet

We have been in Connecticut for about two weeks, and we go home tomorrow. In a previous blog post, I mentioned that the beach here is a slice of Americana. I suppose it still is, but now it's a very quiet slice of Americana.

Today is also September 11, which is (or should be) a day of remembrance and reflection for all Americans. Since Weston died, every day is a day of remembrance and reflection. My mom has flown her flag here at half staff for weeks. Grief is quite selfish: I kept forgetting 9/11 today. In fact, when I took Caroline to the park and noticed the playground flag at half staff, I wondered why for a moment.

Labor Day weekend was the last hurrah here. The beach and the town were as packed as I have ever seen them in the five years we have been coming to this place. It was a painful time: there seemed to be many more little boys than girls. The beach was so full of life and noise. The weather was perfect. The lively weekend was a conspicuous reminder that Weston will never come here, that he will never feel the sand between his toes or build a sandcastle with his big sister. He will never eat a lobster roll or walk along the boardwalk.

By the Tuesday after Labor Day, everyone was GONE. It happened so quickly. Literally overnight, we were one of the very few families left on the beach. The weather cooled down very quickly. The setting became positively and maddeningly idyllic. Even the pattern of the waves on the beach changed: my mom says the angle of the waves changes in the winter, and this was the winter pattern we were seeing the Tuesday after Labor Day.

But it was no less difficult when all the children disappeared. Suddenly, it was painfully quiet. On my daily morning jogs, I went from dodging people on the boardwalk to seeing one or two people for the entire run. My route goes along the water, and I listen to Weston's playlist. The lack of people combined with the vastness of the ocean and my music is quite the metaphor for my grief: I'm alone and isolated, and my grief is as big, unpredictable, and mysterious as the ocean.

There were many days here when I was not feeling much. I managed to keep busy, despite the fact that these two weeks have been quite relaxing, which resulted in stuffing my emotions, I guess. As time went on, though, a lot of anger surfaced. I lashed out at those who love me most.

We went to New York City for the weekend to visit my sister and her family. Caroline had so much fun playing with her cousin. But there are reminders of what I have lost everywhere. One evening, we decided to take the kids to the park and have a picnic dinner there. Having been a parent for over three years now, I should remember that playground = lots of kids. But I was unprepared for the sheer number of kids at this particular playground (it's a GREAT playground/park, by the way). It was the sound of children's laughter, of innocence, of unadulterated happiness that hurt so much.

I should be 33 weeks pregnant now. My sister is 30 weeks pregnant. We were so excited to learn that we would be pregnant together. I went to visit her in New York when we were 9 and 6 weeks along: obviously not showing, but we enjoyed the solidarity of being exhausted and nauseous together. And I was so excited to take belly pictures together when we were both farther along. We never got to do that. I was barely showing by the time I had Weston, and she was not showing at all yet.

Most of all, we were excited to raise our second children simultaneously and together. The loss of Weston has gone far beyond Shannon and me: others have lost a cousin, brother, nephew, grandson, great-grandson, playmate, etc. My sister and I have lost our shared pregnancy experience. Overhearing people ask her when her baby is coming was another reminder of our loss. What fun it would have been to have similar pregnant bellies and hear reactions from people finding out we are sisters, pregnant together, etc.

I mentioned previously that there is a Weston Road close by. I run by it every day. The other day, as I ran past, I heard a noise. I turned around and saw a little boy running down a driveway with his parents in hot pursuit. He ran out into the road: Weston Road. I was closer to him than his parents were, so I sprinted over to lead him out of the road and back to them. Seeing a little boy on the road that bears my son's name was just too much. Everything is.

Tomorrow, we have an hourlong drive, followed by two plane rides totaling six hours. It will be a long, exhausting, and chaotic day. Caroline probably will not nap. But after tomorrow: quiet. Shannon goes back to work on Thursday. Time marches on, kids are in school, and people have gone on with their lives, as they should. But life will never "go on" for us. Life has changed forever. I had anticipated and embraced the idea of a louder, more hectic life with two children. I never had both of my children at home: it was only Caroline there before and will only be Caroline now. But the house will be deathly quiet as it never has been before. What do I do with this quietness?

Grief is a lonely, solitary state of being. I have read about it in books, and I sure am feeling it now. Although I have a lot of support, no one can take this journey with me. I read a novel on this trip that says, "We are all deaf. The way of emptiness teaches us to hear." I sure hope so; I am really tired of the relentless quiet.

"Wisdom is often purchased at great price, and much of it fades into disremembering because of silence or modest restraint, or because of shame and grief. Yet without the telling, we would soon cease to understand who we are...When you're alone, that's when you see what you are."
~Michael D. O'Brien, Strangers and Sojourners