Felicity

Hello, virtual world. In case you haven't noticed, I haven't been blogging as often lately. I don't know why, really. Nothing has changed. Weston is still dead. I am still sad all the time. Blogging is still therapeutic for me.

But I have been very numb lately. I had a few very difficult moments last week. To counteract them, I just put my pain (and Weston, to an extent) out of my mind. Although I may seem fine on the outside, living without Weston has not gotten any easier. In some ways, it has gotten harder; thinking about the milestones he would be meeting right now is especially painful.

I only lasted two weeks at church, although I am contemplating God more than ever. At church, a video that was supposed to be funny was played, but it was deeply painful to both Shannon and myself. I just can't do it. Anything unexpected hurts too much. Right now, I am more than content to experience God by myself, with my books. Which brings me to...

Felicity. Felicity of Rome is the patron saint of mothers who have lost children. A Catholic friend told me about her. I am not Catholic, but I am finding comfort in many aspects of Catholicism these days. Which is a topic for another post (that I may or may not write; I've been feeling pretty guarded lately, on top of everything else).

For all you non-Catholics, a patron saint is a holy and virtuous man or woman who is considered to be a defender and intercessor for a specific group of people. Each saint has his or her own feast, or celebration, day.  For example, millions of people will celebrate Saint Patrick next weekend. There's also Saint Valentine, Saint Nicholas...and Saint Felicity. She warrants a three-day weekend in my book.

Thanks to Wikipedia, I can tell you all about her. Felicity, a widow, lived during the second century and had seven sons. She was quite charitable and was instrumental in many conversions to Christianity. The conversions angered the "pagan priests" who demanded that she and her sons worship pagan gods. They refused and were, consequently, condemned to death.

As if dying for her beliefs was not admirable enough, there's more. Felicity "implored God only that she not to be killed before her sons, so that she might be able to encourage them during their torture and death in order that they would not deny Christ." God answered her prayers. Each son was killed, one by one, and she was with each one. According to legend, one was scourged to death, two were beaten with clubs, one was thrown over a cliff, and three were beheaded. Awful.

After each death, Felicity was given the opportunity to renounce her faith. She refused, thus becoming a martyr. She was killed four months after her last son. It is said that she died eight times: once with each of her sons, followed by her own death. I can relate.

So, this nightmare I have been living for the past seven months, the worst imaginable to me: Felicity actually asked God for it.

Could I have done the same? Of course I would rather have died than Weston. Ditto with Caroline. But, could I knowingly let them go first, knowing the agony of living without them? Weston died in my arms. If he had died somewhere else, I don't know if I could bear it. So, yes, I would stay alive to ease the transition from this world to the next. (My children are/were too young to renounce God. So I can't speak to that scenario.) That is what mothers do.

Do not even think about calling Mental Health Services right now. 

See, I am no saint.

But wait, there's MORE. Felicity's celebration day is July 10. Weston was born on July 7. He was ALIVE on July 10 (I even have a picture of his white board from July 10). July 7-27 will always be glorious, because those are the days Weston lived. They are the days that our family was together and complete.

Not being Catholic, I would never have thought to seek out a saint that would apply to my situation. My being informed of Saint Felicity's existence was no coincidence. I hope she is keeping Weston good company and perhaps providing a welcoming lap until I can hold him again.