For Recording Purposes Only

Many bereaved parents I have met since losing Weston have stated that they do not remember the first several months to year (or longer) after losing their child. Specifically, many do not remember their first holidays without their child. This is probably the brain's protective mechanism, at least in part. I would certainly prefer to forget yesterday (Thanksgiving), not to mention every feeling I have felt since Weston died. Maybe my mind and heart will forget. But, masochist that I am, I'm going to record it here anyway.

Somehow, maybe I'll look back on this entry and marvel at how far I've come since it happened. Or maybe someone else will feel a little less alone when facing their first holiday after their child died.

It has often been said that the anticipation, in general, is worse than the actual event. I used to believe that to be true. But ever since Weston died, it has not been the case for me. I certainly have not had high expectations about anything, but actual events that I have dreaded since Weston died have usually been worse than expected. (Except my due date. That day turned out better than expected.)

As any regular reader of this blog knows, I have been dreading the holidays. The Thanksgiving black hole actually started Wednesday. I mentioned here that I made cards for the NICU babies and their families at the hospital where Weston lived and died. For a long time after Weston died, I found every excuse to go to the NICU; it brought me a lot of comfort. So Wednesday was no different: I was going to take the cards to the NICU and be relatively fine.

Well, it was a disaster. I could barely walk through the doors, and I had to collect myself multiple times before I went in. Once I got to the NICU reception desk, I was a complete mess, but I couldn't leave yet; I had to do what I went there to do. So I dropped off the cards to the shell-shocked nurse at the reception desk, who looked very uncomfortable and just handed me a box of tissues, and explained what they were as best I could. Then I got the hell out of there. Thankfully, I was alone on the elevator. I did stop at the hospital chapel on the way back to my car. I hadn't been there since Rolland's memorial service a few days after Weston's. It was peaceful, but silent from a spiritual perspective.

So, no more trips to the NICU, at least for a while. I still find comfort in driving by the hospital and visiting the lobby, but the NICU sends me over the edge. It's not surprising, really; it is more surprising that I actually wanted to go for so long.

And, Thanksgiving Day. I went for an 8-mile run that morning, which was very therapeutic for me, as usual. And longer run = better therapy. Then Shannon and I took Caroline on a little hike. She did really well, climbing the entire big hill up to the ridge where we were hiking. It was a beautiful day.

Thanksgiving dinner was with Shannon's family. He took Caroline over to his parents' house mid-day, and she napped over there, and I planned to meet them over there later. So I was home alone for a couple of hours. I watched the slide show from Weston's memorial service, which I had not watched in quite a while. In retrospect, I should have watched it before I put on makeup. I found an open Starbucks and sat there for a while, and finally it was time to head over to my in-laws'.

I had not seen most of my in-laws since Weston's memorial service on August 1; for some it had been even longer. I also had not been in a group setting at all. There were thirteen adults (including me) and six children, so this was a GROUP.

As I was driving over, I was struck by the ease of the trip and the quietness of the car: because I had no newborn with me. Shit. This was going to be a nightmare. I thought I would just keep my head down and sunglasses on, and play with Caroline. Shannon has been incredibly supportive about my dread of Thanksgiving and would have understood if I had chosen to bail. And, if it weren't for Caroline, I would have turned the car around before I even got there.

Somehow I made it in the door and greeted a few people. I had been there, oh, about seven minutes when I had a complete, hysterical, can't-catch-my-breath meltdown. At least I found a semi-private corner of the yard. I just could not believe that I was at a holiday, with my husband's entire family, with empty arms. I still can't believe that is my reality.

Shannon found me a few minutes into the meltdown, and we both agreed that I could not stay at the house in this condition. Caroline was having way too much fun with her cousins to hang out with her mom and barely knew I was there, but Shannon wisely told me he didn't want Caroline to look back on this Thanksgiving and remember that her mom was not there. Thankfully, the last person arrived around then, so we could eat.

I stayed. For one hour and forty-five minutes, to be exact. No one said a word about Weston or mentioned his name the entire time I was there. That sucked. But I was such an obvious wreck that I'm sure no one knew how to handle the situation. This is one reason why I avoid groups.

I did not want to talk to anyone. Caroline finally pried herself from her cousins, and we talked for a few minutes. Then she ran off, and I was left alone for a minute. A fellow in-law, the newest in-law, came over when I was visibly upset, asked how I was doing, basically watched me melt down, and then talked to me. Not about Weston, but about other stuff: music, jobs, etc. It was so thoughtful and just what I needed at the moment. I will never forget his kindness (not to mention courage!) in coming to chat.

Now, I realize I am presenting a paradox. I'm hurt when no one mentions Weston, I don't want to talk to anyone, I welcome conversation, and I like talking about topics besides Weston. It's so confusing, and I don't even know what I want sometimes. All I know is that the loss of Weston is the elephant in the room. Avoiding the elephant in the room is generally awkward, and yesterday was no exception.

This is not anyone's fault. Most of my family is not necessarily eager to talk about Weston either. However, I can communicate my needs to my family, and they will do their best to accommodate them.  And, I obviously feel much more comfortable with my emotions in front of my own family. With Shannon's family, Shannon's feelings and desires on how to handle "Weston in the room" are priority. I have learned that many men can compartmentalize their feelings more effectively and, in effect, set their grief aside for a time (sometimes I envy that). I don't ever want to speak for Shannon on this blog, or anywhere, but my observations and conversations tell me this is true about him (or at least it was true yesterday). He just wanted to be with his family. What I wanted and needed was secondary.

There were some sweet moments. We celebrated a birthday, so there was a cake with candles. I thought Caroline was going to explode with excitement at the candles. The birthday boy (or man) let the little kids help him blow out the candles. It was a picture-perfect moment, and I wish I'd had my phone out to capture it. And she had so much fun playing with her 2-year-old cousin. Shannon said they played together all evening and had so much fun that little R cried when Caroline had to go home.

This is about the extent of the "smile" I could muster up:

After I left my in-laws', I went over to my grandparents' house. My two brothers were there too. Every year, our family does one holiday together (Christmas this year), so the other holiday is pretty low-key for the family members without in-laws. I got there too late to eat any lobster pie, which apparently was decadent and delicious. Oh well. Things were infinitely better for me over there. My grandparents, as you may recall, lost their son as well. They know my struggle and my pain. We talked about everything under the sun, from Weston to the eccentric neighbors to childhood memories to autopsy mishaps (one of my brothers used to do autopsies).

Shannon and I had a good long talk when I got home about our respective struggles. They are hard to talk about, so it's not a conversation we have every day.

So, I survived. It was heinous and depressing and dark and awful to "celebrate" the first major holiday without Weston. I won't say that I did it, because I didn't; I can't give myself that much credit. I was just swept along for the ride.

We haven't put up any Christmas decorations yet; the house was too dirty for that today, so we cleaned. We'll get a Christmas tree tomorrow. I have always been very sentimental, so decorating the house during a normal year usually has me in a puddle of tears anyway. Decorating tomorrow could be another train wreck waiting to happen.

But, something happened tonight: I laughed. Hysterically. The last time I laughed that hard was when Shannon and I watched "Bridesmaids" from my hospital bed. I was actually scared it was going to do something to my placenta then. Anyway, this is what made me laugh so hard tonight:

It's a blurry picture, but it was downright hilarious. We went out to dinner, and it was the only time I left the house all day. (Yes, I spent money on Black Friday, but it was at a restaurant. Don't judge.) This little girl was in rare form, as you can see.

Sigh...I am SO glad Thanksgiving is over. If it weren't for this blog post and the leftovers in my refrigerator, I might forget it ever happened. As painful as it was, it is part of the life I now lead. Life needs to be lived, experienced, and remembered. While I am just being swept along right now, I am still living. A life worth living is a life worth recording.

The worst days now are holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Pentecost, birthdays, weddings, [ ] - days meant as festivals of happiness and joy now are days of tears. The gap is too great between day and heart. Days of routine I can manage; no song are expected. But how am I to sing in this desolate land, when there's always one too few?
~Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son at 61 (emphasis added)