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.