Earlier this week I was asked a very specific question about my role as a mother. I am not close to the asker, who, incidentally, also showed up at our front door two or three days after Weston died to offer condolences. I would not recommend doing that EVER, unless you are very close to the bereaved person, yet I acknowledge that this person meant well.
With that being said, IF you showed up on my doorstep right after my child died and later you specifically ask how my day-to-day life as a mother is going, I'm going to assume you want a real answer. I would also imagine you would understand that I am still very sad thirteen months after his death.
So I gave a very brief version of the truth: my daughter is amazing, she just turned four, things are going OK, but my LIFE AS A MOTHER is hard because I miss my son.
The response: "Oh, I wasn't referring to THAT."
THAT. That thing, that nuisance, that uncomfortable elephant in the room that should simply be a footnote in my life. Not a person, not a child. Well, I've been feeling a little feisty lately, so I very very politely responded that MY SON is always on my mind and that he, like my daughter, is an enormous part of my life and how I'm doing.
How are you? When asked that question by the grocery store cashier, the neighbor driving by, or the check-in people at the gym, I'll simply say, "I'm fine." The question is filler, nothing more than a common courtesy, and I know the person really doesn't care how I, or anyone else, is doing.
But, silly me for assuming that if someone takes the time to walk up to me, ask me how things are going as specifically applied to my role as a MOTHER, that they want an honest answer.
Sometimes I really am fine. Rarely, I have moments where I can honestly answer, "I'm doing well." But, in general, I am having a very hard time. Why is that so uncomfortable to hear? There wouldn't be anything wrong with my answer if, say, Weston had moved away to college.
It would never be appropriate to single out a member of someone's family as not being worthy of discussion. "How are your kids doing?" "Oh, Oldest Child just started third grade, Middle Child is in first grade, and Youngest--". "Oh, I wasn't referring to Youngest Child. I don't give a damn about her." So why is appropriate to pretend the deceased member of the family does not exist?
This person just should have ignored me. He could have easily pretended he didn't see me. It hurts when people avoid me, but at least they are being honest with themselves that they are not up to the task of witnessing my pain. Ignoring me is so much better than blatantly dismissing my son as unworthy of discussion in a conversation about my family.
In case you can't tell, this conversation really, really got to me, which is ridiculous because this person is not really a part of my life. But, if Weston were alive, people would ask about him all the time, and I can't dismiss the unfairness of his death erasing him from conversation and consideration.
Weston's death doesn't change the fact that he is my son.
His death doesn't change the fact that I am his mother.
His death doesn't change the fact that he is loved, cherished, and just as worthy of conversation as Caroline.
I can talk about Weston without crying sometimes. I wouldn't have answered the question in the way that I did if I had been on the verge of tears. I'm really, really not trying to make people feel uncomfortable. But parents think about their kids all the time. They talk about their kids. Especially if they are asked about them. I am no exception.
If you don't really want to know how someone is doing, or even if you just don't have time to talk, don't ask. I, for one, won't be offended. Or, you could ask something really specific, like, "What are you doing today?" I'm way past the point of answering, "Picking up my son's ashes," or "Ordering my son's death certificate," so the answer to that question would likely be completely benign.
These encounters will continue, I'm sure. And they will continue to deflate me. But, at least I have a flip side.
We had some friends over for Caroline's birthday. It was happily chaotic: kids running around, lots of noise, too much sugar, a piñata, etc. And I sat there with my friends and talked about Weston completely casually, like I would have if he were crawling around at the party. Granted, the conversation was geared more toward bed rest and perinatologists, because my friend needed some information for her pregnant friend. But, after the dust settled, I thought about how blessed I am to have friends just nonchalantly talk about Weston at my daughter's birthday party. Like I'm a normal mom with two kids. I love it when BOTH of my children are treated normally.
So, for every boneheaded encounter, there is another one (or ten) that warms my heart. There are insensitive people who have to be in my life for one reason or another, so I have to hear insensitive comments. But I'll continue to respond as I did the other day; I will always have Weston's back. He will always matter.
(As an aside, I know I sound angry. I AM angry. But even though I speak the truth to people who say stupid things, I speak it nicely. I explode later: to my family, friends, or in a blog post.)
And thankfully, Weston will always matter to the people who matter to me.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Silence
We didn't talk often. He was a premature baby, weighing barely over a pound and with a tube shoved down his throat, so he was not expected to say much. But parents are supposed to talk to their babies from the moment of conception, practically. Mom, baby will hear your voice constantly and come to recognize it. Dad, you are not physically attached, so talk to Mom's belly. Play classical music at your uterus to gain some bonus IQ points. Read to your baby in utero so he will be an early reader.
If your baby, still within you or having arrived in the outside world, is sick, talk to him. Tell her to fight and hang on. It will help.
I am an extrovert, and I used to talk for a living. This is advice I could have followed in my sleep. But I didn't.
Two months of bed rest at home provided plenty of quiet, down time to talk to my baby, defying the odds and growing normally despite my continually disintegrating placenta. A third month of bed rest in the hospital provided more time: often panicked, but time, just the same. But it just didn't occur to me to speak audibly to my baby.
For one thing, I didn't know his name yet, because I didn't know his gender until he was born (even though I "knew" from the very beginning). I would have felt terrible calling him by the wrong name.
But I never felt the urge or the need to speak out loud. I would sit there and stare at my tiny belly and wonder if it was growing, and I would whisper in my head, "Come on, baby. What's going on in there?" There were thoughts I couldn't (and still can't) put into words-thoughts of love, hopeful pleadings, and fear-but I would transfer them to him anyway.
I was alone so often that he did not hear my voice constantly. But he had plenty to listen to. There was the fetal heart rate monitor that I am convinced sounded like a freight train to him. He hated that thing; he would move away every time. It made me smile: he was my feisty one!
And there was my heartbeat. It has been said that our babies are the only ones who know the sound of our hearts from the inside. Given the figurative and literal chaos my body was stirring up, my heartbeat was the only physical steadiness he ever had from me. I didn't have to say a word. And what could I have possibly said, anyway? What words could transcend the comfort of my heartbeat? It was his lullaby, his metronome indicating that the rhythm of his world was still steady. It was an audible reminder to him that he was part of me.
Until it wasn't. The sound of my heartbeat was replaced with the sound of beeping monitors and constant medical-speak. We were hopeful.
We spent many hours at his side, of course, but our faces were mostly separated by a wall of plexi-glass. There were holes for our arms, so we could touch him.
Mostly, I would stand or sit there, just staring. Maybe I subconsciously knew he was hearing way too much noise already; after all, he should still be listening to my heartbeat. So I kept quiet. The blanket over his bed, when folded a certain way, provided perfect padding for my forehead, so I could relax a bit when becoming stiff after hours of cocking my arm at a weird angle in order to put my hand around him.
And I would talk to him, silently: tell him how perfect and beautiful he is, how tiny, how tenacious, how much I wished his lungs would strengthen, how many people love him, and how much I love him. He "heard" me every time: his vital signs would improve almost immediately upon my touch.
One author, writing about her premature baby in the NICU, would walk away from her baby's bedside whenever the doctors wanted to talk to her. She wanted to be strong for her baby, not cry in front of him. Not me. My son became an old soul quickly: I didn't spare him any emotions. When medical staff gave me bad news from time to time, I stayed at his bedside. Then, I would put my forehead back on that blanket, vision blurred by tears, and plead to him, silently again, to please defy the odds.
Before he died, I had never really seen death, unless you include what I had seen in the movies or read about in books. When people die on the screen or on the pages of a book, their parents or other loved ones inevitably let out a scream, a noise, or some other indescribable sound upon the discovery that their loved one is dead. And the loved ones, if they are there, talk to them, comforting them as they leave this world.
When I walked into the NICU that hot July morning to see my son, my flesh and blood, non-responsive to full resuscitation efforts, I knew what it meant immediately. Yet I did not scream. I did not cry. When they handed him to me for only the second time ever, knowing it would be last time I would hold my living baby, even then I stayed quiet.
There was activity around us. Medical staff wanted to make sure the three of us were physically comfortable, and then they moved us to a private room. People continued to filter in and out: the physician to check his heartbeat periodically to determine the time of death, the nurses, some family members. I have a vague memory of the activity, but mostly I remember my son's weight in my arms, his smell, his peaceful face, finally unencumbered by tubes and wires, as he took his last breaths. And still, I was silent.
For the first and only time, I rocked my baby. They happened to seat me in a rocking chair, and I rocked him for hours in that chair, long after he had passed. Silently.
And I held him close to my chest. Maybe he heard that reassuring thump-thump-thump of my heartbeat then: the audible reminder of my steadfast, perpetual love for him. It was, perhaps, the first and last sound he heard on this earth.
Later, I would learn that hearing is one of the last bodily functions to cease. For a while, I cursed myself for not talking to him as he was leaving this earth.
But he and I should have had a lifetime to communicate. I should have had daily opportunities to live my love for him. How could I possibly sum up all we would miss in the forty-five minutes from when he was placed in my arms until he breathed his last?
And what could I have said to an extension of myself? What words would I speak, for example, to my heart or my brain? They ARE me, they embody me; what words of explanation or affection would enlighten them further?
No, I have never talked to myself, at least not out loud. My monologues take place internally. So it stands to reason that my son, an extension of me, needs no audible sound to hear me. He is loved beyond description, and he knows it.
He was physically wrenched from me long before he should have been. My body felt, and still feels, the wrenching, and his body felt it so profoundly that it ceased to function.
But a mother's love, it transcends the body. Which means that it transcends the five senses. And a mother's love transcends language. Ever silent, my love is with him even now. Of this I am certain.
~
I don't want to talk right now
I just want your arms wrapped around
Me in this moment
Before it runs out
Oh don't say that it's over
Oh no say it ain't so
Let's let the stars watch
Let them stare
Let the wind eavesdrop
I don't care
For all that we've got, don't let go
Just hold me
The Civil Wars, Eavesdrop
If your baby, still within you or having arrived in the outside world, is sick, talk to him. Tell her to fight and hang on. It will help.
I am an extrovert, and I used to talk for a living. This is advice I could have followed in my sleep. But I didn't.
Two months of bed rest at home provided plenty of quiet, down time to talk to my baby, defying the odds and growing normally despite my continually disintegrating placenta. A third month of bed rest in the hospital provided more time: often panicked, but time, just the same. But it just didn't occur to me to speak audibly to my baby.
For one thing, I didn't know his name yet, because I didn't know his gender until he was born (even though I "knew" from the very beginning). I would have felt terrible calling him by the wrong name.
But I never felt the urge or the need to speak out loud. I would sit there and stare at my tiny belly and wonder if it was growing, and I would whisper in my head, "Come on, baby. What's going on in there?" There were thoughts I couldn't (and still can't) put into words-thoughts of love, hopeful pleadings, and fear-but I would transfer them to him anyway.
I was alone so often that he did not hear my voice constantly. But he had plenty to listen to. There was the fetal heart rate monitor that I am convinced sounded like a freight train to him. He hated that thing; he would move away every time. It made me smile: he was my feisty one!
And there was my heartbeat. It has been said that our babies are the only ones who know the sound of our hearts from the inside. Given the figurative and literal chaos my body was stirring up, my heartbeat was the only physical steadiness he ever had from me. I didn't have to say a word. And what could I have possibly said, anyway? What words could transcend the comfort of my heartbeat? It was his lullaby, his metronome indicating that the rhythm of his world was still steady. It was an audible reminder to him that he was part of me.
Until it wasn't. The sound of my heartbeat was replaced with the sound of beeping monitors and constant medical-speak. We were hopeful.
We spent many hours at his side, of course, but our faces were mostly separated by a wall of plexi-glass. There were holes for our arms, so we could touch him.
Mostly, I would stand or sit there, just staring. Maybe I subconsciously knew he was hearing way too much noise already; after all, he should still be listening to my heartbeat. So I kept quiet. The blanket over his bed, when folded a certain way, provided perfect padding for my forehead, so I could relax a bit when becoming stiff after hours of cocking my arm at a weird angle in order to put my hand around him.
And I would talk to him, silently: tell him how perfect and beautiful he is, how tiny, how tenacious, how much I wished his lungs would strengthen, how many people love him, and how much I love him. He "heard" me every time: his vital signs would improve almost immediately upon my touch.
One author, writing about her premature baby in the NICU, would walk away from her baby's bedside whenever the doctors wanted to talk to her. She wanted to be strong for her baby, not cry in front of him. Not me. My son became an old soul quickly: I didn't spare him any emotions. When medical staff gave me bad news from time to time, I stayed at his bedside. Then, I would put my forehead back on that blanket, vision blurred by tears, and plead to him, silently again, to please defy the odds.
Before he died, I had never really seen death, unless you include what I had seen in the movies or read about in books. When people die on the screen or on the pages of a book, their parents or other loved ones inevitably let out a scream, a noise, or some other indescribable sound upon the discovery that their loved one is dead. And the loved ones, if they are there, talk to them, comforting them as they leave this world.
When I walked into the NICU that hot July morning to see my son, my flesh and blood, non-responsive to full resuscitation efforts, I knew what it meant immediately. Yet I did not scream. I did not cry. When they handed him to me for only the second time ever, knowing it would be last time I would hold my living baby, even then I stayed quiet.
There was activity around us. Medical staff wanted to make sure the three of us were physically comfortable, and then they moved us to a private room. People continued to filter in and out: the physician to check his heartbeat periodically to determine the time of death, the nurses, some family members. I have a vague memory of the activity, but mostly I remember my son's weight in my arms, his smell, his peaceful face, finally unencumbered by tubes and wires, as he took his last breaths. And still, I was silent.
For the first and only time, I rocked my baby. They happened to seat me in a rocking chair, and I rocked him for hours in that chair, long after he had passed. Silently.
And I held him close to my chest. Maybe he heard that reassuring thump-thump-thump of my heartbeat then: the audible reminder of my steadfast, perpetual love for him. It was, perhaps, the first and last sound he heard on this earth.
Later, I would learn that hearing is one of the last bodily functions to cease. For a while, I cursed myself for not talking to him as he was leaving this earth.
But he and I should have had a lifetime to communicate. I should have had daily opportunities to live my love for him. How could I possibly sum up all we would miss in the forty-five minutes from when he was placed in my arms until he breathed his last?
And what could I have said to an extension of myself? What words would I speak, for example, to my heart or my brain? They ARE me, they embody me; what words of explanation or affection would enlighten them further?
No, I have never talked to myself, at least not out loud. My monologues take place internally. So it stands to reason that my son, an extension of me, needs no audible sound to hear me. He is loved beyond description, and he knows it.
He was physically wrenched from me long before he should have been. My body felt, and still feels, the wrenching, and his body felt it so profoundly that it ceased to function.
But a mother's love, it transcends the body. Which means that it transcends the five senses. And a mother's love transcends language. Ever silent, my love is with him even now. Of this I am certain.
~
I don't want to talk right now
I just want your arms wrapped around
Me in this moment
Before it runs out
Oh don't say that it's over
Oh no say it ain't so
Let's let the stars watch
Let them stare
Let the wind eavesdrop
I don't care
For all that we've got, don't let go
Just hold me
The Civil Wars, Eavesdrop
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Year Two: Emergence
Here we are, a couple of weeks into Year Two.
Year One was the black hole. Oddly, it was also a year of anticipation: how are we going to handle Caroline's birthday/my birthday/my due date/Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's/Valentine's Day/April 18/Shannon's birthday/Easter/Mother's Day/Father's Day/other celebrations/Independence Day/Weston's birthday/the entire month of July/Weston's death anniversary/other days I can't remember right now/every single day without Weston?
Year One was about survival. We did it, somehow. We now have answers to the above questions, because we have lived through those days. Now I know what to expect. It's a relief.
However, I am not dreading Christmas 2013 any less than I dreaded Christmas 2012. Weston's second, fifth, and tenth birthdays will not be any easier than his first. There is no more anticipation. From here on out, we simply experience every single holiday, every single celebration, every single DAY without Weston. For a very, very long time. Life goes on, in the worst way.
Year One was a fog. It was desperate. It was unknown. It was oh so lonely.
But fog doesn't seem real because it hides everything. To walk through fog is to experience suspended reality. The fog-walker can remain oblivious to what's outside the fog.
I'm emerging from the fog. That's the good news, I suppose. But emergence is always painful. Weston is not out here, in the sunlight that hurts my eyes, either.
The first Year Two milestone is coming up: Caroline's birthday. Honestly, if Weston had lived, I don't know if we would have thrown her a party last year when she turned three, beyond something very small with immediate family. He would have still been in the NICU and still very tiny. But he died less than a month before her birthday. We were desperate to give her a good memory in the wake of such disaster, so we pulled a birthday party together (with a lot of help).
If Weston had lived, he would not have been at Caroline's party last year: he would have either been in the NICU or still in my belly. We threw her a party in the middle of the fog, and somehow it went off without a hitch. She still talks about her "ladybug party." I'm so glad we did it.
Now, our little lady is turning four. We are throwing her a party again, and I am so excited to celebrate her. For the last couple of weeks, I have been picking up party supplies here and there, and now I'm stressing about pulling everything together.
How I wish that cake-baking, house-cleaning, and pinata-stuffing were my biggest stressors about my daughter's birthday party. But the harsh reality of Weston not being there with his big sister finally confronted me last night. In either if-he-had-lived scenario, whether premature or on-time birth, he would be at the party, probably crawling, maybe clawing at the cake that I wouldn't be letting him eat yet.
And I realized: this is never going to stop. Weston won't get to meet my extended family at my cousin's wedding next month. He won't be toddling around the Christmas tree. He won't give me a wet Mother's Day kiss next May. He won't run around at his second birthday party next summer. This is what Year Two, Year Three, Year Fifty will look like. THAT is a harsh reality. In a way, I think I prefer the fog.
Paradoxically, Year One ended beautifully. I'm trying to hold onto that beauty in the ashes. But the beginning of Year Two has brought fresh difficulty. And I just desperately miss my boy, more than ever. Time does not heal; it simply brings a different perspective. So I'll designate Year Two as the Year of Emergence, and time will determine where it takes me.
Year One was the black hole. Oddly, it was also a year of anticipation: how are we going to handle Caroline's birthday/my birthday/my due date/Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's/Valentine's Day/April 18/Shannon's birthday/Easter/Mother's Day/Father's Day/other celebrations/Independence Day/Weston's birthday/the entire month of July/Weston's death anniversary/other days I can't remember right now/every single day without Weston?
Year One was about survival. We did it, somehow. We now have answers to the above questions, because we have lived through those days. Now I know what to expect. It's a relief.
However, I am not dreading Christmas 2013 any less than I dreaded Christmas 2012. Weston's second, fifth, and tenth birthdays will not be any easier than his first. There is no more anticipation. From here on out, we simply experience every single holiday, every single celebration, every single DAY without Weston. For a very, very long time. Life goes on, in the worst way.
Year One was a fog. It was desperate. It was unknown. It was oh so lonely.
But fog doesn't seem real because it hides everything. To walk through fog is to experience suspended reality. The fog-walker can remain oblivious to what's outside the fog.
I'm emerging from the fog. That's the good news, I suppose. But emergence is always painful. Weston is not out here, in the sunlight that hurts my eyes, either.
The first Year Two milestone is coming up: Caroline's birthday. Honestly, if Weston had lived, I don't know if we would have thrown her a party last year when she turned three, beyond something very small with immediate family. He would have still been in the NICU and still very tiny. But he died less than a month before her birthday. We were desperate to give her a good memory in the wake of such disaster, so we pulled a birthday party together (with a lot of help).
If Weston had lived, he would not have been at Caroline's party last year: he would have either been in the NICU or still in my belly. We threw her a party in the middle of the fog, and somehow it went off without a hitch. She still talks about her "ladybug party." I'm so glad we did it.
Now, our little lady is turning four. We are throwing her a party again, and I am so excited to celebrate her. For the last couple of weeks, I have been picking up party supplies here and there, and now I'm stressing about pulling everything together.
How I wish that cake-baking, house-cleaning, and pinata-stuffing were my biggest stressors about my daughter's birthday party. But the harsh reality of Weston not being there with his big sister finally confronted me last night. In either if-he-had-lived scenario, whether premature or on-time birth, he would be at the party, probably crawling, maybe clawing at the cake that I wouldn't be letting him eat yet.
And I realized: this is never going to stop. Weston won't get to meet my extended family at my cousin's wedding next month. He won't be toddling around the Christmas tree. He won't give me a wet Mother's Day kiss next May. He won't run around at his second birthday party next summer. This is what Year Two, Year Three, Year Fifty will look like. THAT is a harsh reality. In a way, I think I prefer the fog.
Paradoxically, Year One ended beautifully. I'm trying to hold onto that beauty in the ashes. But the beginning of Year Two has brought fresh difficulty. And I just desperately miss my boy, more than ever. Time does not heal; it simply brings a different perspective. So I'll designate Year Two as the Year of Emergence, and time will determine where it takes me.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Elsewhere
And, just like that, we have hit another rough patch. Although our current struggle is independent from losing Weston, life is not compartmentalized. Everything is inextricably intertwined. Losing Weston makes this struggle worse, and vice versa.
Surprisingly, though, my mind has been elsewhere this week. It's been a big week, medically speaking.
On Tuesday, a friend who lost a child had surgery to enable her to have another child.
Also on Tuesday, someone I know only slightly had fetal surgery in another state to improve her unborn child's genetic condition. She has other children and will spend the rest of her pregnancy on bed rest. And the complicated pregnancy is only the beginning.
And on Wednesday, a dear friend's baby girl underwent a major, major 10-hour surgery.
In one way or another, I can relate to parts of each of these women's stories. I too have lost a child. I too have spent a pregnancy in bed, petrified for the baby growing inside of me. And I too have feared for my child in intensive care. I spent the week on edge, praying for these women and their babies.
None of these surgeries occurred in Arizona. I couldn't visit bedsides or hold anyone's hand. (And it would have been really weird to show up at the bedside of the woman I hardly know!) As various times this week, my heart stopped for these people.
One at a time, I learned that each surgery was successful. Sometimes I cried with relief.
(These surgeries are not the end of the road for these families. They are at or near the beginning of long journeys, each of them, and could use your prayers and positive thoughts.)
I have never stopped caring about the struggles that others are facing. Well, I don't care about anyone's "struggles" anymore; my priorities are forever changed. But anyway, for the first time in post-Weston memory, my current torment was pushed aside by my thoughts and prayers for these women and children. Of course, these surgeries took me back to last year. I couldn't think of them without thinking of Weston and missing him even more acutely. But I forgot about my other problems.
There is unlimited potential for grieving parents: the potential to one day integrate the loss of our children beautifully into our lives and the lives of those around us. The ability to see beyond our own loss and sit with other hurting people, no matter the source of that hurt. The ability to rejoice with others' happiness, instead of begrudging them. The ability to see beauty in everything and everyone. The ability to abandon all judgment of others. The ability to be present for someone else without feeling the need to trumpet our own loss.
I am inching very slowly along this path. I was surprised myself to realize how little I thought of our current problem over the past couple of days. Not only does obsessing do nothing to change or improve my current state, not obsessing helps me be a better friend. I couldn't have done this a year ago. (But that's OK. One year ago, my son had just died. I was doing well to just get out of bed and eat something.)
It's far from perfect, though. Now that the surgeries are over and the immediate dangers have passed, I am back to my own current struggle. And that's OK too. It's legitimate. It's unfair. It's something I cannot share on the blog right now. I am only a year out from losing my child and now in the middle of another terrible thing (it's less terrible, but it still really sucks). I still need to take care of myself (and I still need help with this endeavor!).
So, I guess my heart is able to go elsewhere sometimes, but it always comes back. Someday, I hope that my heart can be in both places simultaneously. Regardless, Weston goes with me, wherever I go.
P.S. Please don't think you can't share your troubles with me. The truth is, I will always struggle. Losing a child does that to people. But I can still be a good friend, and I can still listen. If I'm normally someone you'd call in a crisis, please keep calling (not that I'm wishing a crisis on you. You know what I mean.). And, please share your good news too. I mean it with all my heart.
Surprisingly, though, my mind has been elsewhere this week. It's been a big week, medically speaking.
On Tuesday, a friend who lost a child had surgery to enable her to have another child.
Also on Tuesday, someone I know only slightly had fetal surgery in another state to improve her unborn child's genetic condition. She has other children and will spend the rest of her pregnancy on bed rest. And the complicated pregnancy is only the beginning.
And on Wednesday, a dear friend's baby girl underwent a major, major 10-hour surgery.
In one way or another, I can relate to parts of each of these women's stories. I too have lost a child. I too have spent a pregnancy in bed, petrified for the baby growing inside of me. And I too have feared for my child in intensive care. I spent the week on edge, praying for these women and their babies.
None of these surgeries occurred in Arizona. I couldn't visit bedsides or hold anyone's hand. (And it would have been really weird to show up at the bedside of the woman I hardly know!) As various times this week, my heart stopped for these people.
One at a time, I learned that each surgery was successful. Sometimes I cried with relief.
(These surgeries are not the end of the road for these families. They are at or near the beginning of long journeys, each of them, and could use your prayers and positive thoughts.)
I have never stopped caring about the struggles that others are facing. Well, I don't care about anyone's "struggles" anymore; my priorities are forever changed. But anyway, for the first time in post-Weston memory, my current torment was pushed aside by my thoughts and prayers for these women and children. Of course, these surgeries took me back to last year. I couldn't think of them without thinking of Weston and missing him even more acutely. But I forgot about my other problems.
There is unlimited potential for grieving parents: the potential to one day integrate the loss of our children beautifully into our lives and the lives of those around us. The ability to see beyond our own loss and sit with other hurting people, no matter the source of that hurt. The ability to rejoice with others' happiness, instead of begrudging them. The ability to see beauty in everything and everyone. The ability to abandon all judgment of others. The ability to be present for someone else without feeling the need to trumpet our own loss.
I am inching very slowly along this path. I was surprised myself to realize how little I thought of our current problem over the past couple of days. Not only does obsessing do nothing to change or improve my current state, not obsessing helps me be a better friend. I couldn't have done this a year ago. (But that's OK. One year ago, my son had just died. I was doing well to just get out of bed and eat something.)
It's far from perfect, though. Now that the surgeries are over and the immediate dangers have passed, I am back to my own current struggle. And that's OK too. It's legitimate. It's unfair. It's something I cannot share on the blog right now. I am only a year out from losing my child and now in the middle of another terrible thing (it's less terrible, but it still really sucks). I still need to take care of myself (and I still need help with this endeavor!).
So, I guess my heart is able to go elsewhere sometimes, but it always comes back. Someday, I hope that my heart can be in both places simultaneously. Regardless, Weston goes with me, wherever I go.
P.S. Please don't think you can't share your troubles with me. The truth is, I will always struggle. Losing a child does that to people. But I can still be a good friend, and I can still listen. If I'm normally someone you'd call in a crisis, please keep calling (not that I'm wishing a crisis on you. You know what I mean.). And, please share your good news too. I mean it with all my heart.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
End of the Tantrum?
Now I am going to continue in my attempt to describe the impossible. Our Colorado pilgrimage began with spreading some of Weston's ashes in Telluride and continued with a trip back across the state to the Rocky Mountain National Park area for a family reunion for Shannon's side of the family.
Admittedly, I was not looking forward to this portion of the trip. I warned Shannon and my in-laws about my dread months ago. I just knew that, with the reunion taking place in July, I would be a complete mess, and I was not looking forward to being a mess around people I don't know. (This was my second time attending this reunion, the first time being six years ago. I met everyone then, but I still didn't really "know" anyone.)
Shannon ended up being in charge of most of the activities, so I planned to just hide out for the weekend. As a side note, the reunion was at a beautiful family camp in the mountains with NO Internet connection. I wouldn't even be able to hide behind my iPhone!
We arrived relatively early. For some reason, I felt comfortable with the crowd almost immediately. I had to be introduced or re-introduced to almost everyone, but it was fine. It also didn't hurt that we had the world's sweetest and most charming three-year-old girl with us.
And thus began a weekend with almost no time spent hiding out in our room. It became clear almost immediately that hardly anyone knew about Weston. I had to hear, and answer, the dreaded question, "How many kids do you have?" over and over.
Sometimes the line of questioning would end with "I'm really sorry," which was fine. More often, though, people asked follow-up questions. This was a pleasant surprise. My answers were almost always accompanied by tears, which, surprisingly, was also fine.
At one point, a man walked up to me, somewhat hesitatingly, and opened the conversation with, "I didn't know you lost a child." Well, he just about had to pick me up off the floor! This was a man who has been through a scary and painful health struggle over the past several years. He wanted to know all about Weston and wanted me to know how sorry he was. I know it was scary for him to walk up to me and start such a conversation and watch me cry, but I will never forget his kindness. He cared enough to step WAY outside his comfort zone and ask a virtual stranger about her dead child.
The weekend went on and on like this. I have complained in the past about how people tend to hide behind God when others experience traumatic events by saying such hurtful and unhelpful things such as, "God has a plan," "This was God's will," "He's in a better place," "God works everything together for good," etc. In case I've been unclear in the past, these platitudes are THE WORST thing to tell a grieving parent. (And I try not to speak for other grieving parents, but I have never met one, Christian or not, who is comforted by the above. C.S. Lewis, as a grieving widower, felt the same way: "Talk to me about the truth of religion and I'll listen gladly...But don't come talking to me about the consolations of religion or I shall suspect that you don't understand.")
Shannon comes from a conservative Christian family, which was the make-up of the reunion attendees. I must have repeated Weston's story ten times, and NOT ONCE did I hear any of the above platitudes. This blew me away. People listened, said they were sorry for what we are going through, cried, and promised their prayers.
On Sunday morning, the family put a church service together. I was dreading this too, because I knew I would cry all the way through it. And I did.
Caroline was not interested in sitting still, so Shannon or I would periodically leave to check on her. She was playing with her cousins in the hallway. Toward the end of the service, Shannon was in the hall with her, and I felt very strongly that he needed to come back in. I didn't know why. I went out in the hallway to get him, and as we were returning, we were invited to stand in the front of the room.
My words will not be able to truly describe what happened next. Most of the folks in the room got up and stood around us. Then they took turns praying for us. It became clear pretty quickly that people knew a lot of details about Weston, details that I don't necessarily remember sharing with any of them. And I don't really know what happened, but God planted himself firmly in the midst of that big group, where Shannon and I were in the middle. I have no idea how long it lasted. I don't even remember what people said/prayed (I was trying, trying; I didn't want to forget anything about those sacred moments). All I know is that, as Shannon said later, God met us there, in that retreat center in the mountains.
I haven't cried that hard in a really long time. And it didn't matter at all.
I felt loved by all these people I hardly knew. And I felt seen by them. As I have said, grief is isolating. It makes me feel invisible and trapped inside my own torment. That weekend, the walls of torment were removed and absorbed by God through the loving presence and prayers of these wonderful people.
More importantly, I felt loved and seen by God. I have always "known" that God loves me and that I matter to him, but that knowledge vanished this past year. Except for a few things here and there, my life has been a spiritual desert.
I have thrown a yearlong tantrum at God's feet. I have yelled the typical questions: Why did my baby suffer so much, only to die? Why weren't my prayers answered? How could you do this to me? Do you even care about my family? Why, why, WHY?
That sacred experience in Colorado didn't answer any of those questions. But that's OK now. Throwing tantrums is exhausting. And that morning, I guess the fight left me. It was like God telling me, "I know this is so hard, and things are so unfair, but I love you, and you're always safe with me. And I don't love you any less because you're sad or mad."
Things are different now. I don't know how to explain it. I miss Weston as much as I always have, and I am no less sad about his death. But I feel some peace and hope in my soul. Perhaps I'm experiencing what the Bible calls the peace that transcends all understanding.
I've been a little scared these past couple of weeks. I don't want this to just be a "phase" of feeling relatively good. If there's anything I've learned about grief this past year, it's that feelings can change minute by minute. But this peace has remained.
No one likes tantrums. I'm hoping that mine is over. My anger still flares up from time to time; maybe it always will. But this sense of peace envelops all of it. I still feel sad most of time, and I know that periods of deep sadness and despair will continue. But, it's different. (Told you I'd have trouble putting this into words.) Maybe the difference is the hope-expectation, even-that the misery will end. And relief that, despite the fact that my baby died and that I have spent the last year in a perpetual tantrum, God still loves me.
~
You can't, in most things, get what you want if you want it too desperately...'I must get a good sleep tonight' ushers in hours of wakefulness...And so, perhaps, with God. I have gradually been coming to feel that the door is no longer shut and bolted. Was it my own frantic need that slammed it in my face? The time when there is nothing at all in your soul except a cry for help may be just the time when God can't give it: you are like the drowning man who can't be helped because he clutches and grabs. Perhaps your own reiterated cries deafen you to the voice you hoped to hear.
C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
Admittedly, I was not looking forward to this portion of the trip. I warned Shannon and my in-laws about my dread months ago. I just knew that, with the reunion taking place in July, I would be a complete mess, and I was not looking forward to being a mess around people I don't know. (This was my second time attending this reunion, the first time being six years ago. I met everyone then, but I still didn't really "know" anyone.)
Shannon ended up being in charge of most of the activities, so I planned to just hide out for the weekend. As a side note, the reunion was at a beautiful family camp in the mountains with NO Internet connection. I wouldn't even be able to hide behind my iPhone!
We arrived relatively early. For some reason, I felt comfortable with the crowd almost immediately. I had to be introduced or re-introduced to almost everyone, but it was fine. It also didn't hurt that we had the world's sweetest and most charming three-year-old girl with us.
And thus began a weekend with almost no time spent hiding out in our room. It became clear almost immediately that hardly anyone knew about Weston. I had to hear, and answer, the dreaded question, "How many kids do you have?" over and over.
Sometimes the line of questioning would end with "I'm really sorry," which was fine. More often, though, people asked follow-up questions. This was a pleasant surprise. My answers were almost always accompanied by tears, which, surprisingly, was also fine.
At one point, a man walked up to me, somewhat hesitatingly, and opened the conversation with, "I didn't know you lost a child." Well, he just about had to pick me up off the floor! This was a man who has been through a scary and painful health struggle over the past several years. He wanted to know all about Weston and wanted me to know how sorry he was. I know it was scary for him to walk up to me and start such a conversation and watch me cry, but I will never forget his kindness. He cared enough to step WAY outside his comfort zone and ask a virtual stranger about her dead child.
The weekend went on and on like this. I have complained in the past about how people tend to hide behind God when others experience traumatic events by saying such hurtful and unhelpful things such as, "God has a plan," "This was God's will," "He's in a better place," "God works everything together for good," etc. In case I've been unclear in the past, these platitudes are THE WORST thing to tell a grieving parent. (And I try not to speak for other grieving parents, but I have never met one, Christian or not, who is comforted by the above. C.S. Lewis, as a grieving widower, felt the same way: "Talk to me about the truth of religion and I'll listen gladly...But don't come talking to me about the consolations of religion or I shall suspect that you don't understand.")
Shannon comes from a conservative Christian family, which was the make-up of the reunion attendees. I must have repeated Weston's story ten times, and NOT ONCE did I hear any of the above platitudes. This blew me away. People listened, said they were sorry for what we are going through, cried, and promised their prayers.
On Sunday morning, the family put a church service together. I was dreading this too, because I knew I would cry all the way through it. And I did.
Caroline was not interested in sitting still, so Shannon or I would periodically leave to check on her. She was playing with her cousins in the hallway. Toward the end of the service, Shannon was in the hall with her, and I felt very strongly that he needed to come back in. I didn't know why. I went out in the hallway to get him, and as we were returning, we were invited to stand in the front of the room.
My words will not be able to truly describe what happened next. Most of the folks in the room got up and stood around us. Then they took turns praying for us. It became clear pretty quickly that people knew a lot of details about Weston, details that I don't necessarily remember sharing with any of them. And I don't really know what happened, but God planted himself firmly in the midst of that big group, where Shannon and I were in the middle. I have no idea how long it lasted. I don't even remember what people said/prayed (I was trying, trying; I didn't want to forget anything about those sacred moments). All I know is that, as Shannon said later, God met us there, in that retreat center in the mountains.
I haven't cried that hard in a really long time. And it didn't matter at all.
I felt loved by all these people I hardly knew. And I felt seen by them. As I have said, grief is isolating. It makes me feel invisible and trapped inside my own torment. That weekend, the walls of torment were removed and absorbed by God through the loving presence and prayers of these wonderful people.
More importantly, I felt loved and seen by God. I have always "known" that God loves me and that I matter to him, but that knowledge vanished this past year. Except for a few things here and there, my life has been a spiritual desert.
I have thrown a yearlong tantrum at God's feet. I have yelled the typical questions: Why did my baby suffer so much, only to die? Why weren't my prayers answered? How could you do this to me? Do you even care about my family? Why, why, WHY?
That sacred experience in Colorado didn't answer any of those questions. But that's OK now. Throwing tantrums is exhausting. And that morning, I guess the fight left me. It was like God telling me, "I know this is so hard, and things are so unfair, but I love you, and you're always safe with me. And I don't love you any less because you're sad or mad."
Things are different now. I don't know how to explain it. I miss Weston as much as I always have, and I am no less sad about his death. But I feel some peace and hope in my soul. Perhaps I'm experiencing what the Bible calls the peace that transcends all understanding.
I've been a little scared these past couple of weeks. I don't want this to just be a "phase" of feeling relatively good. If there's anything I've learned about grief this past year, it's that feelings can change minute by minute. But this peace has remained.
No one likes tantrums. I'm hoping that mine is over. My anger still flares up from time to time; maybe it always will. But this sense of peace envelops all of it. I still feel sad most of time, and I know that periods of deep sadness and despair will continue. But, it's different. (Told you I'd have trouble putting this into words.) Maybe the difference is the hope-expectation, even-that the misery will end. And relief that, despite the fact that my baby died and that I have spent the last year in a perpetual tantrum, God still loves me.
~
You can't, in most things, get what you want if you want it too desperately...'I must get a good sleep tonight' ushers in hours of wakefulness...And so, perhaps, with God. I have gradually been coming to feel that the door is no longer shut and bolted. Was it my own frantic need that slammed it in my face? The time when there is nothing at all in your soul except a cry for help may be just the time when God can't give it: you are like the drowning man who can't be helped because he clutches and grabs. Perhaps your own reiterated cries deafen you to the voice you hoped to hear.
C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
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