It's been a weird few days. First, it rained all weekend. That just does not happen here. Caroline watched movies all day Sunday: probably more than she had watched in her entire life. She was sick, and Shannon was out of town all weekend.
Today is the six-month "anniversary" of Weston's death. I don't know what word to use. "Anniversary" doesn't seem appropriate, because the word implies, to me anyway, a celebration and observation of something happy. Some folks in my world say "angelversary." I don't like that word either. I'm not sure why. Maybe because the word "angel" reminds me of certain trite comments, like, "God just needed another angel" or "He was just too beautiful for earth, so God gave him his wings." Both are untrue statements, and neither are helpful.
I was excused from jury duty, so I didn't have that distraction today. I ran eight miles on the treadmill instead.
Anyway. People never cease to amaze me. I heard from someone that I never would have expected to reach out to me regarding Weston. What this person said was not perfect, but comforting nonetheless. The fact that he cared enough to contact me and the encouragement that some of his words provided are what I will remember. I am humbled and realize I have a long way to go toward seeing the best in people. It doesn't matter what people say, as long as they do not try to minimize our loss or otherwise try to rationalize it somehow. There is nothing rational about parents outliving their children, and there never will be.
But, the doozy: my neighbor died over the weekend. We were not close, but I knew she had been sick. I hadn't seen her in almost a year, and she lived right across the street. Granted, I spent a third of last year either in bed or at Weston's bedside and have since become the neighborhood recluse, but I am still ashamed of not knowing she got sicker. The timing is interesting, coming on the heels of a post where I went on and on about community and how important it is and how I have such a wonderful community, blah, blah, blah. That's all still true, but I need to BE that community as well.
Maybe I'm being unfair with myself here, but I'm calling myself out for being oblivious. Let's face it, I've been willfully oblivious to the struggles others are facing, unless they involve babies.
Last time I saw this neighbor, I was barely pregnant with Weston. Of course, I didn't say anything because it was still too early. And I felt guilty: here she was fighting cancer, and I had a brand new life growing inside of me. But then she told me she was cancer-free. I was so relieved and happy for her. We chatted about home improvement projects, and then I left to lie down due to first trimester fatigue.
Soon after, my world fell apart. It sounds like her and her family's might have fallen apart around the same time.
Somehow, life goes on. Even though Weston died, cancer returns, people struggle, and people die. I have so little to give because my grief is all-consuming. But how much trouble would it have been to just take a meal across the street? I've been cooking up a storm lately. Or leave flowers on their doorstep? And I could have done these things in honor of Weston. It would have been a beautiful way to help a neighbor and honor Weston in the process.
So now, the conundrum: do I go to the funeral? I haven't been to a funeral since Baby Rolland's, three days after Weston's. Rolland's was difficult, of course, but I was still in shock. Weston had only died a week earlier. And his mother and I forged a lifelong bond with our shared tragedies.
This funeral will be different. I will be a raging mess from missing Weston, and I would have to explain my emotion to others (other neighbors will be there). Otherwise, people would wonder why the hell this person is sobbing hysterically over someone she hardly knew. And I don't want to make someone else's funeral about Weston; that's not fair.
Of course, if we had had a public service for Weston, I would have been honored to see anyone and everyone there, including neighbors. After all, hardly anyone met Weston, but that didn't stop them from caring about him and the rest of our family.
And, really, who cares what other people think? I want to support my neighbors. The neighborhood can be a lonely place after a tragedy: we see the faces of our neighbors every day, but we don't necessarily know much, if anything, about their lives. If nothing else, going to the funeral might be a relief for the surviving family: if they see neighbors there, they know they won't have to explain anything to anyone in the coming months and years.
Can I handle it? Can I put aside my fears, acknowledge the waterfall of emotion that will probably accompany me, and do the right thing for my neighbors? And can I find a babysitter for Caroline?
At a support group a while back, the facilitator (who also happens to be the founder of the MISS Foundation) gave us the long view. In the early days after losing a child, we gravitate toward people with identical stories. This is so true: I felt an immediate connection to the other parents of 24-weekers. I seek out other parents of babies who were premature and died in the NICU. I have since built connections with parents whose babies died shortly before or during childbirth.
As time goes on, she said, our eyes and hearts will open to losses less similar. For me that will evolve to miscarriages, SIDS babies, toddlers, young children, older children, teenagers, adults, etc. Then it will move from child loss to sibling loss, parent loss, loss of a spouse, divorce, etc. And on and on, until, finally, we will be open and empathetic to all suffering: homelessness, illness, poverty, war, addiction, etc.
These were encouraging words to hear. Not the fact that there is so much pain in the world, but that someday I will be able to look beyond myself. I will be able to truly empathize, because I know and experience suffering and debilitating grief. And I will be able to just sit quietly with that person, if that's what they want. And all of it will be borne out of my love for Weston.
I don't ever want to forget that everyone suffers at one point or another. Maybe I'm doing all right so far: I have these moments where I feel compelled (and have the energy) to help or, in the instant case, just to acknowledge and honor the profound pain, like mine, that my neighbors are experiencing.
My life needs to move toward loving others, despite (or maybe because of) my overwhelming grief. And maybe the movement in that direction needs to start this week. After all, we are about to hang this picture over our fireplace. It's time to practice what I preach.
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