The Park, Part 2

We've been going to the park, where this happened, as a family lately. I tried to go once, as discussed in this post, to cry alone before I took Caroline, but it didn't really work out.

After feeling my stomach knot up just by driving around the park for over a year, one day I finally decided to go a few weeks ago. It was pretty uneventful, actually: Shannon took Caroline, and I met them over there. Caroline was pleasantly surprised: "Mommy's here!" And then she proceeded to do all kinds of tricks that she's probably been doing for a while. It has truly been a lost year.

Of course, she asked me to push her on the swings: the exact location where my heavy bleeding started last year. I gritted my teeth and did it, and I survived.

I will never have a carefree afternoon in that park again. Last week, I learned that Caroline won't either.

Caroline was 2 years 8 months on that horrible day when I thought I was going to have a very public miscarriage. I figured a child that young wouldn't remember things. I was mistaken.

Last week, we went to the park again, and Caroline rode her bike (big girl!). We were having fun, just chatting and moving along, when she said, "Mommy, you're not going to get hurt at the park again, are you?" Cue the stomach tightening. Knowing the fragility of life now, I can never assure her of that, so I simply told her that getting hurt at the park again was very unlikely.

Then she said, "You had to put your pants and your shoes in the shower." Oh Lord. That carnage is imprinted in her mind.

If you haven't read the first link above, what happened was this: I bled so much that the blood ran down my legs and soaked my shoes, so I just got in the shower with my clothes on. In retrospect, I wonder why I even bothered to shower when I didn't even know if my baby was alive at that moment. I guess it was the only thing I could control at the time. Oh yeah, and Caroline was screaming, "Mommy, clean it up!"

So she had that mental picture of her panicked, bloody mom as we walked to the park. How sad that such an innocent, childlike experience is so marred for my child.

We got to the park and happened to run into a good friend. Her daughter is one of Caroline's favorite playmates. I'm always glad to see them, and I'm grateful that I was able to focus on something other than Caroline's and my anxiety that day.

There was another man there with his granddaughter. They seemed familiar. I heard him call her name, and then I remembered: they were there that day. The little girl is, of course, much bigger now. But they were on the swings right next to us when my nightmare started.

My panicked call to my midwife that day occurred just yards away from these two. Somehow, I remember thinking at that moment that he sure got more than he expected during a routine park trip. Didn't we all? And, of all people, I remember them. I don't even know if I'd recognize the angel who drove Caroline and me home that day.

Wouldn't it be so great if I could take Weston to that park? It would be cathartic: here is the miracle baby in the very place where I thought I was losing him.

I wonder if that man remembers. Not necessarily my or Caroline's appearance, but the fact that he once witnessed a woman bleed and scream into the phone about her unborn baby while her toddler looked on, also screaming. I wonder if one remembers when such a thing happens to a stranger. Or if they would just think, that woman is crazy. I don't know why it matters, anyway; he was not in a position to help me that day.

Lately I've been thinking about how depressing this blog is. We're supposed to make something beautiful out of tragedy. We're supposed to have confidence that God is doing something wonderful. Isn't that what they say? Well, there's just not a whole lot of beauty that comes from losing a child. Every time I stop and think, this is a beautiful moment/I must remember this forever/this is what life is really about, it is immediately followed by sadness: Weston will never experience this/Caroline will never be able to share this experience with her brother/we will not see our son grow up.

Another bereaved mother, 4-5 years out from losing her child, recently wrote that it doesn't get better. We don't get better. We simply learn how to better deal with the pain and get better at hiding it. It's true: six months ago, I was missing my eight-month-old son. Now I miss my fourteen-month-old son. Nothing has changed except his age. The difference with me is that I know what to expect. Now I know what feelings are coming with Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc., and I know what I need to do to survive those days.

I've discovered that trips to the park don't get easier either. Now I just know what to expect when I go.

On Fear

It probably is not surprising to hear that parents whose children die often become fearful for their surviving children. Some parents don't let their surviving children out of their sight. Some drag them to the doctor constantly.

Caroline and I spend our days together, and I purposely don't schedule many activities for several reasons. I don't want us to be too busy. I want us to have time and energy to enjoy each other and be spontaneous. On a typical weekday, she and I are together constantly, with the exception of my hour-long workout. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I'm not afraid to leave Caroline; we simply enjoy each other's company. I'm surprised that I generally haven't felt this paralyzing fear for her health and safety since Weston died like so many other parents do. I let her climb WAY high up the climbing wall at the playground when I'm not standing there to catch her. We keep dairy in the house, even though she's highly allergic. She uses public restrooms. We drive her partway up really steep mountain roads. We don't call the pediatrician every time she gets sick.

But, now I'm afraid. She is going to see her pediatrician next week for her annual checkup. Besides one visit to her allergist and one to the dentist, it's been a full year. So, next week I'll learn everything that's been going on with her medically. She has had some minor symptoms lately that might point to a food sensitivity, and I'm a little concerned about that.

To make matters worse, then someone posted their daughter's height/weight stats on Facebook. And here is the monologue that went through my head: "Whoa. That kid is a full year younger than Caroline, and they weigh the same!...Yeah, she's always hiking up those shorts, and I don't think she used to. She's been essentially the same weight for almost a year. And she eats ALL THE TIME. She doesn't drink or pee much. She always says she wants to go to bed because she's tired. She totally has cancer."

This is ridiculous, I know. Kids have weird poop all the time. (Sorry for that mental picture.) They forget to eat or drink. Maybe those shorts just seem saggy because there used to be a diaper under them. She says she's tired but then sings and talks in bed for half an hour.

But I can't shake this. I have spent the last two days crying. That's more than usual these days. No rationalizing will take the fear away. I watched my son suffer. I saw him grimace when he was turned over. I saw him cry out in pain at yet another heel prick. I saw him tug at his breathing tube. I saw him toss and turn and resist the oscillator so vigorously that the neonatal team had to sedate him. And I just had to stand there. Who could ever rationalize the act, or non-act, of standing by helplessly watching your child suffer? My experience with Weston bleeds over into everything else.

With Caroline, I can, at least, explain my fear. I have this daughter I love indescribably, and I'm afraid she could die. That makes a little bit of sense.

But, on top of all that, I'm becoming agoraphobic or something. Tonight was the first night of a pretty big weekly church activity for Caroline. I just had to register her, find her room, and drop her off. No big deal.

I was mistaken. There were SO MANY PEOPLE. It's a big church, and this is a very big activity, so I shouldn't have been surprised to see all the people who have ever existed on this earth there. There were registration lines, forms to fill out, rooms to find, teachers to meet, etc.

I was fine until I got to the registration room. As an aside, never underestimate the power of a warm smile and a big hug. But I grew increasingly panicky. By the time we found the correct room, all I could do was walk up to the teacher and babble, "That's Caroline. She's allergic to dairy. Etc., etc." She was very nice and then introduced herself. Yeah, that would have been a much better way to start the conversation with the woman who is going to supervise my child every Wednesday night for the next nine months.

She told us there was a 15-minute meeting for parents at the end of the evening. Holy crap, will it ever END? I ran out of there with my head down and didn't quite make it to the car before the tears started. Thankfully, Shannon was with me, so he could field the friendly questions asked of us as we were leaving.

So then we did what all good non-volunteering Christians do after they drop off their kid at church: we went to our favorite neighborhood bar. Then Shannon took me home before he went to pick up Caroline, who then burst into the house yelling, "MOMMY! I'M GOING TO LEARN ABOUT CUBBIES! Sit down! I am the teacher!" I think, maybe, she had fun.

I have to suck it up and do these horrible scary things for her.

Why is drop-off in a big group so horrible and scary? Who knows? I can't begin to explain it. It's very hard seeing other babies and pregnant bellies, but it goes deeper than that. Tonight, the anxiety started long before I saw the first baby. Apparently, it's not uncommon to experience agoraphobia after the death of a loved one. This was not agoraphobia, but it was extremely upsetting.

Year One was about learning what I can and can't handle. Apparently, I have much to learn in Year Two, and there is still a whole lot I can't handle. Yay for self-awareness.

These all-consuming fears defy reason, which drives my analytical self crazy. On the other hand, there is nothing reasonable or rational about babies dying, about parents outliving their children. I can't explain Weston's death, so maybe I shouldn't bother trying to explain away these irrational fears. Like living without my son, I just have to get used to them.

Echo Chamber

This is not exactly a genius discovery, but I am preaching to the choir here. Chances are, if you're reading, you care about:

a) Weston

b) me or another member of my immediate family

c) infant loss

d) grief/bereavement

e) how to help someone living without his/her child

e) all of the above

The people who should really read this or a similar blog, like this guy, probably aren't reading. It's obvious as soon as they open their mouths. And it's obvious on a much wider scale too, as I've learned in the past year. Of course, there are people who hear what I and other bereaved parents have to say but, for some reason, think we don't know what we're talking about and proceed to "educate" us on how we should feel and act.

Weston died over a year ago. According to Blogger, I have written 170 posts. Any post after July 28, 2012 addresses infant or child death. There is plenty of material on how to help a grieving mother. We perpetually need a lot of love and help, even if we look like we have it together. We carry permanent burdens of unimaginable pain.

But, my goodness, people's actions continue to move me. I'm not going to pretend that merely reading my blog leads to such tenderhearted acts toward my family. My words are not that powerful. I know that God gives some people special gifts of empathy and desires to serve others. Some have also lost a child and know what we need. Others are family members and lifelong friends who know me very well and, therefore, know what I need. And, these are some of the people who read my blog.

Every once in a while, I have an encounter that leaves me scratching my head. This person knows me; my pain is visible, I think to myself (except to those who literally avert their eyes; that really happened). I have talked about this very issue incessantly on my blog, and this person is doing the opposite. And then it hits me: this person has no idea what I need because this person does not read my blog.

As an aside, reading my blog is figurative. I don't really think that people will only "get it" or act appropriately in the face of traumatic grief if they read my blog. Doing or saying hurtful things goes way beyond not reading a piddly blog.

It is perfectly acceptable to not read my blog. My blog contains a lot of angst and is not exactly uplifting reading material. It is selfish; I talk about myself a whole lot. It really is a depressing, black-hole-ish corner of the Internet. (How's that for marketing?!)

My posts are real. I might edit them for grammar and style, but I don't sugarcoat anything. Maybe that makes some people uncomfortable. Frankly, it should. Infant death is uncomfortable. The pain I feel every day, living without Weston, is damn uncomfortable. The dear people in my life have to inevitably accept that things will be uncomfortable at times.

And, wow. People do accept the discomfort. That's how it should be, but it surprises me and moves me every time. Even though we have "made it" through our first year without Weston, we are still experiencing "firsts." I hardly made any social appearances in the first year; the few attempts I made were borderline disastrous. Now I'm tentatively stepping back in, and it is really scary. I visualize Weston coming along to these events, as he should be, and I just want to curl up in a ball on the floor. But these "firsts" are going better than expected because people are comfortable with being uncomfortable.

Experiencing anything worthwhile is difficult. I should know: I had to watch my son suffer and die, followed by fumbling through utter darkness for a year before feeling God's all-consuming love for me, which was really there all along. And I'm still in the middle of the "valley of the shadow of death," but at least I know I am not alone (and I mean really KNOW, in my heart, not just my head). God continues to show himself, sometimes through rainbows, sometimes through a particularly meaningful quote, verse, or book, and sometimes through the unexpected and thoughtful words or attention of friends. Jesus never said anything about a worthwhile life being synonymous with ease, comfort, or even happiness.

For me, this has meant losing my son. For others, it has meant leaving the comfort of conversation about the weather and current events to simply whisper my son's name.

In a perfect world, I would be able to tear down the walls of this echo chamber so awareness reaches the people who don't think or don't know that they need it. The irony is, you readers don't really need me to tell you what to do. Your interest in Weston's story shows that you care, and you demonstrate that every day.

Speaking of a perfect world, that would mean that Weston would be here. So would all of the other millions of children gone too soon, and the information I share would be unnecessary.

But, within the echo chamber, I am humbled. Thanks for reading, and thanks for being with me in my discomfort.

Another Year

My birthday weekend is coming to a close. I have made it through another year. For our family, the years will also be measured by Weston's life and death. So, although I am now thirty-six years old, I am also two: because it's my second birthday without Weston.

EVERYTHING is colored with his absence. The hole in my heart will never shrink or heal. But, for this birthday, I am trying to let gratitude coexist with the pain.

Bereaved parents say it all the time: the deaths of our children can bring beautiful gifts. They are gifts we would trade in a heartbeat to have our children back, but they are still gifts. The thing is, I CAN'T trade these gifts to have Weston back, and these most precious gifts are from him, which increases the importance of embracing and enjoying them.

I finally saw, with my own two eyes, a rainbow at dinner the other night. Before Weston, seeing a rainbow through the window would not have interrupted our dinner, but we excitedly rushed outside to look at this DOUBLE rainbow. That was a gift from Weston.

Speaking of rainbows, I lost count long ago of the pictures of rainbows my family and friends have sent me over the past year. I thought I had good friends before Weston. It turns out that I have many more good friends than I knew. And my pre-Weston friends have surprised me over and over with their kindnesses. Unfortunately, many bereaved parents have to mourn the loss of important relationships in addition to the loss of their children. While some relationships have been dramatically altered, I have not lost any important relationships. In fact, they have deepened and strengthened. My friends are gifts and have taught me how to be a better friend as well.

My immediate and extended family has held me up. They always have, when I have needed it, and always will. Their unconditional love and acceptance, thankfully, was not a surprise, at it has always been there, but I appreciate and cherish it beyond description.

Shannon took me on a date for my birthday. Our relationship is one that has changed. Date night is a time to connect without distraction. So we talk about our son. We cry. In fact, at one point I knew a little birthday treat was coming out, so we had to change the subject so I wouldn't be crying when my sparkling dessert came out.

But, my husband doesn't mind when I cry. He doesn't mind when I talk about Weston. I know other bereaved parents are not so lucky. Over one year out, we are still married, and we still love each other. Spending time together is a gift, and Shannon is a gift. And that free pumpkin bread pudding was a gift too.

And, this little one:

Her cuteness is distracting, I know, but please keep reading. I thought I knew love when she was born, and it is absolutely true that the depths of my heart changed irrevocably then. But, for me, it does not compare to the love that comes after losing one of my children. I am now able to experience love I never thought possible from the worst experience imaginable for a parent. That, too, is a gift.

We adults complicate things. Caroline reminds me to keep it simple, like she did tonight when she asked me why I'm sad sometimes. Why was I sad at the French toast place? Because, there at her birthday breakfast, she remarked that there should be a fourth person at the table to fill the empty chair. Did Weston die at the hospital? In his crib? Did they hang him up and then he died? (Huh???) No, he started to die in his crib, but then Mommy got to hold him when he died. Is there is a ladder to heaven where we can all go back and forth?

No, there is no ladder. The visual image is easy enough for my mind to grasp, but not so much for my heart. For some reason, the ladder question prompted me to remind Caroline that she and Weston are equally loved.

I've mentioned that my grandparents lost their son, my uncle, at 18. We visited them today for an impromptu Labor Day/birthday dinner. We were looking through a photo album when my grandma casually asked me how old Weston would be now. Almost 14 months, ten months adjusted. She knows how my heart aches on birthdays now. Her understanding is a gift.

Here are representations of my biggest gifts:

Caroline made me the red card, all by herself. Shannon gave me "chalkboard art" of my favorite hymn (from To Such as These Designs on Etsy). And there is Weston on the right.

When I was a teenager, I told my mom that "It is Well with My Soul" was my favorite hymn. She remarked that it is a popular funeral hymn. I still remember playing it on the piano at church camp. A few months ago I learned that the author, a lawyer, lost all four of his children when their boat sank in the Atlantic in the 1870s. Then he and his wife had three more children, one of whom died at four.

God has been preparing me for losing Weston all my life. Just two months ago, I would have been too angry to care. But now I see God's preparation for the "sea billows" of losing Weston for what it is: another gift, and the best gift.

~

When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well with my soul.
...
Thou will whisper Thy peace to my soul.

~Horatio Spafford