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.
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