Crowded Cemetery

Today is Mother's Day. Throughout the years, this day has become increasingly:

Celebratory, as the number of mothers in my life has grown

Busy, for the reason stated above

Meaningful, as I became a mother myself

Now, I can add:

Heartbreaking, as one of my children is absent from this world

Complicated, because it is still celebratory, busy, and meaningful, as I remain a mother to a living child, a daughter, granddaughter, aunt, friend, etc.

This year (today), it has been all of the above, except busy. My own mother is currently on the other side of the world without a phone (and I am SO glad that she is experiencing a long-held dream). The other reason today has not been busy is because it is heartbreaking. For that reason, I knew seeing happy families with their cute kids would not be a good thing for me, so we opted to stay home most of the day.

Throughout the day, I have received thoughtful messages from friends and family, and even flowers on my doorstep. I am so grateful that my loved ones acknowledge the fact that Mother's Day is, and will remain, incredibly complicated for me.

Mother's Day among the living was delightful, with parts of it pretty typical: breakfast and dinner on our back patio, the first swim of the season in our pool (not including swimming lessons), a few hours to myself, homemade caramel popcorn, a homemade card from my daughter, a thoughtful gift from Shannon, etc.

The atypical-for-me-until-now part of the day was my visit to the cemetery. We had Weston cremated, but a local cemetery has an Angel of Hope, which is a place for people who have been affected by the loss of a child. There are hundreds of plaques with the names and birth/death dates of children (and adults) gone too soon, before their parents.

On the way to the cemetery, I called my grandma to wish her a Happy Mother's Day. She is observing her fortieth Mother's Day without one of her children on earth, and she was the perfect person to talk and cry to. She told me a story I had never heard before, about a woman she met in the cemetery years ago who had also lost a son about the same age and at the same time. They crossed paths years later, and their respective emotional health was vastly different. The story was both cautionary and inspirational. I am so grateful to have my grandparents in my life.

The cemetery was packed. I don't know why I was surprised (after all, I knew today would bring me, a bereaved mother, a lot of pain). I am incredibly fortunate that my mother is in good health, but many families were visiting their mothers, wives, grandmothers, etc. at the cemetery.

The Angel of Hope tradition is to leave a white flower in memory of your child. I added my white flower to the largest pile of flowers I have ever seen at a cemetery and took a seat. There was one other mom there. We sat in opposite corners of the Angel of Hope area: she, I learned later, near her son's plaque, and I in the only other shaded part. I'm sure it was a sad and interesting sight: two women, curled up and sobbing in opposite corners.

This was my time with Weston today. And boy, did I let it out. It was much more therapeutic than my trip to the park the other night. It is so much easier to cry when you don't have to worry about thugs!

As I sat, I saw many groups of people walking by: a man with four school-aged children, a couple with one child, a man with a school-aged daughter. I heard him tell her as they climbed into their car to leave, "I know she would be proud of you. She IS proud of you." More heartbreak.

THIS IS MOTHER'S DAY REALITY for so many people. Until now, all the Hallmark holidays have been perfectly comfortable for me. I have been married for almost a decade, so it's been easy to forget the Valentines' Days spent alone. My mother is alive, and we have always had a good relationship, so Mother's Day has been fun and uncomplicated. Et cetera.

As I was leaving the cemetery, I went to tell the other woman I was sorry she had to be there today. We ended up talking for a while and have similar stories: she has a premature son, born at 28 weeks, who lived nine days. He died in March, and her due date is this week. As they say in our circle, friends become strangers and strangers become friends.

So I made it through my first Mother's Day without Weston. My grandma has walked this road far longer than I (and has lost far more loved ones than I). She always mentions the many blessings we have in our lives and how fortunate we are to have each other as family. I know she believes this with all her heart. I don't feel so fortunate right now, but I hope I turn out like her.

On Mother's Day I can think of no mother more deserving than a mother that had to give one back.
~Erma Bombeck

THE PARK

Today's events turned out to be unexpected, and mostly in a good way. I found out late this afternoon that today was International Bereaved Mothers' Day. I'm so glad there is a day set aside for us, but I am also glad I didn't know about it until it was almost over. Otherwise, I would have felt pressure to make the day memorable somehow.

But, memorable it was. So much so that I'm going to blog about it so I remember it later. Trust me, memorable does not mean I will actually remember down the road. Thanks, grief brain.

In an interesting twist of fate, today was also Cinco de Mayo. Bereaved mothers can drown their sorrows in margaritas. Genius! (I did not, however; it's been a while since I've "coped" in that way. Yay me.)

I spent the morning with another bereaved mother: someone who has become a dear friend through our nearly identical pregnancy, NICU, and baby loss experiences but whom I hadn't seen in a few months. How appropriate to spend time with one of the few people who understands me on a day meant to acknowledge us both (and our husbands).

The afternoon and early evening was just one of those perfect family days: the weather was beautiful, and we put the finishing touches on our backyard patio. Our backyard has been under some sort of construction since January, so it is wonderful to finally enjoy the fruits of our (and many others') labor. A quick trip to the home improvement store included a lovely sidetrack of a carousel ride (I narrowly avoided a brokenhearted meltdown (Caroline's, not mine) when I was able to scrounge up enough change. Whew!):

She is just the cutest, isn't she?

We made a yummy, all-American dinner, part of which Shannon grilled. It was right before dinner prep that I discovered today's designation as Bereaved Mothers' Day. So, Weston's urn had dinner with us outside. Caroline loved dinner so much that she couldn't even stop to pose for a picture:

After dinner, I decided: it was time to visit THE PARK tonight, where this happened. I haven't been back since that horrible day. Caroline stopped asking me to take her months ago. But she still associates THE PARK with Mommy getting hurt and all the blood. Lovely.

Visiting THE PARK had been in the back of my mind for a while. I wanted to go before April 18, the one-year anniversary of that day. However, this April ended up being hotter than Hades. I figured my window to take Caroline to THE PARK was closed until fall. But today's weather forecast showed temps in the 80s all week: perfect park weather.

Months ago, my mom suggested that I visit THE PARK alone before taking Caroline. Genius suggestion. Now you know where I get it. Anyway, I also concluded that I should visit THE PARK completely alone, which can realistically only occur after dark.

The other reason I decided to suck it up and go THE PARK was the revelation of Bereaved Mothers' Day; I figured it would be a meaningful way to mark the day and be alone with Weston for a while.

So, I told Shannon of my plans. He, the voice-of-reason half of the post-Weston marriage, was supportive but also a little nervous. It's a big, dark park. We live in a nice neighborhood, but it's still in the middle of the city, so things happen sometimes. And, since statistics don't seem to favor me, it wouldn't have surprised me in the least to happen upon the first drug deal in decades there.

I took my red sweater I wore when holding Weston for the last time and his little dolphin that kept him company in his isolette in the NICU. Of course, I started crying before I even got to THE PARK. But then I arrived at THE PARK. And I got nervous.

It was DARK. The parking lot was poorly lit. There are trees that bad people can hide behind.

I got out of my car anyway (which I parked right next to the spot where the Good Samaritan who took us home that day had parked) and made my way to the swing where I last pushed Caroline before I lost my innocence. (It is right next to the swing where Caroline took her first swing ride ever.) It faced the tree that I stood under while I screamed hysterically on the phone to my midwife as I continued to see more blood than I had ever seen in my life.

This was my internal dialogue:

I am sitting on the swing--
What's that noise?
I miss Weston. Why--
What's behind that tree?
This park looks different, just like me--
Where's that car going?

Yeah, it didn't really work. I went back to the car and sat for a few minutes. Then another car turned into the parking lot. I didn't want to be mistaken for the other half of the statistical anomaly drug deal that was inevitably going to go down, so I left.

I am glad I went to THE PARK, but I am still quite apprehensive about going again. I didn't have the opportunity to work through anything, which was the whole point of going alone. I'm afraid that if I take Caroline this week, I will have a meltdown there, in front of her and the rest of the world, especially when I inevitably see the giant pregnant bellies or cute baby boys.

But Shannon has graciously offered to accompany me and (his words) walk the perimeter. That might work; I'm sure we'll have a lot of takers to, "Hey, can you watch Caroline for half an hour or so after she's in bed while we go cry about our dead baby at the park where I bled so much our daughter is forever traumatized? I'll be TOTALLY FINE by the time we get home."

Nevertheless, it was a milestone. So many everyday things cause me pain, so I do my best to avoid them. It has turned me into a recluse. For once, I tried to face the pain of the everyday, even though I was distracted by my own hyper-vigilance.

And I'll do it again. I will make it back. Maybe someday, THE PARK can lose its capitalization and just become the park again.

So, it was a perfect way to spend Bereaved Mothers' Day. Unless, of course, I didn't have to observe the day at all because I was looking forward to Mothers' Day with my two living children. Then, today truly would have been perfect.