It's an ugly, unwinnable game. Moms play it. Lawyers play it. Wives and runners play it. Strangers play it. Even bereaved mothers play it.
I recently learned that someone I know casually lost a son to stillbirth just last year. She lost another child too, but I don't know any details. What was remarkable was that she mentioned her losses casually and then continued with the original topic.
Yet, as soon as she mentioned her son's death, my stomach tightened. For her and for me. She kept talking, and I had to interrupt her to tell her how sorry I am for her losses. While interrupting is rude, I believe it is unacceptable not to acknowledge losses.
Our attentions were turned elsewhere. Later, I wanted to tell her about Weston and find out about her other child, but we didn't have a chance to talk again.
I walked away from that conversation being astounded at how pulled together she seemed. There is no way that I could just casually mention that I have a son who died. Telling Weston's story, even very briefly, to someone who doesn't know about him makes me cry every single time.
Also, I was envious. I can't talk about my son in this group because I will cry. There's nothing wrong with crying, but I don't always feel comfortable doing it. And now this group knows about her two babies, but not mine.
So, I'm comparing. How does she keep it together when I can't? And, inevitably, the next question becomes: what is wrong with me? Even after fifteen months of this, I am so deeply embedded in our numb-to-grief culture that I have the audacity to wonder what is wrong with ME.
I don't mean to imply that something is wrong with her for not getting emotional, either. Maybe she's not much of a crier. I, on the other hand, have always been a crier.
Maybe it's the fact that, in fifteen months, the ONLY strangers/casual acquaintances (besides other bereaved parents, of course) who asked a follow-up "What happened?" when learning that my son died were (1) the chaplain at the hospital and (2) a man who saw me sobbing in the hospital lobby once. Seriously, doesn't everyone wonder what happened? I do (and always have), when hearing that someone died. And we call that "morbid curiosity."
It is so much easier to recite the facts of Weston's premature birth and death than it is to talk about how I'm doing. Telling the medical story does not truly address the heart of the matter, but it does help; a simple "What happened?" in response to "Caroline is my only living child" or "Yes, I have a son, but he died" means that a stranger believes that Weston is just as deserving of attention and conversation as Caroline.
Even if it's just morbid curiosity, I'll take it.
Maybe I'll always play the comparison game anyway. Everyone does it, because we're focused on things that don't matter. How I long for a world where everyone knows that tears are sacred and cause for running toward, not away, from those who shed them.
I don't mean to imply that something is wrong with her for not getting emotional, either. Maybe she's not much of a crier. I, on the other hand, have always been a crier.
Maybe it's the fact that, in fifteen months, the ONLY strangers/casual acquaintances (besides other bereaved parents, of course) who asked a follow-up "What happened?" when learning that my son died were (1) the chaplain at the hospital and (2) a man who saw me sobbing in the hospital lobby once. Seriously, doesn't everyone wonder what happened? I do (and always have), when hearing that someone died. And we call that "morbid curiosity."
It is so much easier to recite the facts of Weston's premature birth and death than it is to talk about how I'm doing. Telling the medical story does not truly address the heart of the matter, but it does help; a simple "What happened?" in response to "Caroline is my only living child" or "Yes, I have a son, but he died" means that a stranger believes that Weston is just as deserving of attention and conversation as Caroline.
Even if it's just morbid curiosity, I'll take it.
Maybe I'll always play the comparison game anyway. Everyone does it, because we're focused on things that don't matter. How I long for a world where everyone knows that tears are sacred and cause for running toward, not away, from those who shed them.
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