Now, as it was back then, my appetite is gone. I am in a constant state of anxiety. I am staying awake later and later; my average bedtime now is between 12:30 and 12:45 a.m. I had ONE regular beer on a full stomach the other night and was almost drunk. My scar burns often. I even feel a milk letdown sometimes, although I obviously am not producing anything.
In the several weeks following Weston's death, I found an excuse to go to the NICU almost every day. It was comforting. More recently, I couldn't handle going to the NICU, but I still found comfort in sitting in the hospital lobby, where I spent so many hours in my wheelchair last summer before Weston was born. But the other night, as I drove past the hospital on my way to support group, my entire body tensed up. I can't do it anymore; my body won't let me. My place of refuge, Weston's HOME as a source of comfort has now been taken from me.
For some reason, I went back through my blog the other day and read this post that I wrote about Weston's death a couple of days after it happened. I am struck by the straight narrative of the post, almost devoid of emotion. Clearly, I was in a state of extreme shock. But I discovered that, although the last four months have been a complete blur, I still remember everything about that day. That is as it should be; Weston's death was the worst thing that has ever happened to me, the worst thing that could happen to any parent. I cannot and will not let myself forget. My brain will preserve it forever. It is mind-boggling, what the body does (no pun intended).
I went to the dentist the other day. They knew I was pregnant, because they wanted to take x-rays at my last visit, and they knew Weston died (and really, what else is there to know?), but they didn't know anything else. I was nervous about going, as I am nervous about doing almost everything now.
H, the hygienist, gave me a big hug, and I immediately started crying. As she started cleaning my teeth, I noticed that my gums were extremely tender. The teeth cleaning, while never comfortable, was very painful this time. I mentioned this to H, and she said she was not surprised at all, given the horror and stress I have experienced since my last visit. I was grateful that she acknowledged the interconnectedness between the heart and soul and body.
Then the dentist came in. Pleasantly, as always, he asked if I had experienced any medical changes in the last six months. The question surprised me. I fumbled for words and finally said, "Well....yes. Everything with my son." I was confused: my dentist knew that Weston died. Grief affects the body profoundly; H had just acknowledged that. Why would he even bother asking IF there were medical changes? (I know, I know. He is a medical professional; he has to ask.) He said, "I meant with YOU." Then I just felt like an idiot. He went on to list heart, lung, liver, hospitalizations--YES! Now I was no longer the "crazy" person claiming to be physically affected by an "external event." So I piped in, "Yes, I was in the hospital for a month, and I had a c-section." (I keep forgetting that I was in a very serious medical situation myself.) He just said, "Oh. Uh, that's a long time to be in the hospital." Yes, it was. And my son wasn't in the hospital as long as I was, but 100% of his life was spent in the hospital. How's that for a long time?
The whole conversation was awkward. Of course. They always are. My entire being, physical body included, has been through hell. Actually, it's still there. Medical professionals recognize this to the point that they often try to subscribe pills to someone who has just lost a loved one (a subject for another post...and there WILL be one). So, the question should have been, "How has the loss of your son affected you physically?"
If you have not lost a child, you probably think I am completely unreasonable. But that's fine, and expected, I suppose. The truth is, I AM unreasonable. Who would not be unreasonable with grief upon losing a child? I talk a lot on this blog about hurtful conversations and other exchanges I experience. No one is trying to be hurtful, and it might seem that everything is just a matter of semantics.
But we bereaved parents are so lonely. Although we don't want you to truly understand what we are going through, we want the enormity of our loss to be acknowledged and respected. That is a big reason why I blog. Words and actions have so much power to heal and hurt. While I wish that no one ever comes to know what I know, EVERYONE will be touched by loss at some point, whether directly or indirectly. No one is immune. So it is very important to know how to be there for your loved ones, colleagues, clients, etc. who are hurting. As for me, when in doubt, assume that I am a train wreck. If I'm not, everyone can be pleasantly surprised.
Because the loss of my son has affected EVERYTHING about me, even down to my gums.
UPDATE: Since publishing this post, I have learned that my dentist, in fact, did NOT know that Weston died. Shannon had his teeth cleaned a few days later, they had a conversation, and now everybody knows. And now we know WHEN everyone knew what they know. Confused yet?
So I feel better. But these conversations still happen all the time, even among people who know of the loss.
UPDATE: Since publishing this post, I have learned that my dentist, in fact, did NOT know that Weston died. Shannon had his teeth cleaned a few days later, they had a conversation, and now everybody knows. And now we know WHEN everyone knew what they know. Confused yet?
So I feel better. But these conversations still happen all the time, even among people who know of the loss.
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