Grief Week

With seven years of grieving experience, I have come to know what to expect during my grief season and what I need. This week is A’s seventh birthday. I planned ahead by taking the entire week off of work so that I can fall apart and get in touch with all of the emotions I so often quell throughout the year. I also stocked my freezer with ice cream and my pantry with Oreos*.

This morning, E and I drop the girls off at their schools and he continued on to work. I returned home and set up (grief) shop. A thick blanket on the recliner, water bottle and coffee within arm’s reach, a box of tissues, A’s tiny urn. I settle in and delve into books that get me in touch with my grief and that validate my feelings and my experiences (like They Were Still Born and Bearing the Unbearable and Love You Forever – all of which were written by bereaved parents).

This week, for me, is an opportunity to inhabit my grief. I wade into the thick stew of emotions and, without judgment, embrace whicheverfeelings come. I give myself permission this week to fall apart; to abandon my usual responsibilities (ie regular showering, laundry and making meals for my family – we’ll subsist this week on pizza, frozen chicken tenders and mac-n-cheese) and to do whatever feels right in the moment. Could be sleeping. Could be exercising. Could be gardening. Could be journaling.

I will go through A’s pictures; all of the ultrasounds and also the photos of our one day together. I will watch the short video my husband took, unbeknownst to me at the time, while I cradled that long, limp boy and delicately caressed his perfect body while quietly uttering, “I don’t understand.” over and over again.

I will listen to songs that trigger tears. I will bawl, howl and sob. I will re-read the condolence cards we received seven autumns ago (only those with heartfelt, genuine notes). I will mound the used tissues up, wet with tears and snot, until they topple onto the floor.

I will honor my love for my boy by honoring my grief over his absence.

*I am in no way compensated for promoting Oreos. I doubt Oreos need any promotion.

Fives Year Out

Five years old feels like such a milestone. Kindergarten, big boy interests, growth spurts. And yet, there is so little to say because I’ve said it all before. I wonder who he’d be. I wonder what he’d look like. I want him here in the midst of our hectic, messy life. I want him here with his little sisters. I want very much to know him.

-------------------------------------------------------

A’s death has undoubtedly affected my parenting. In many ways, I am a much better parent because of A and because of his death. But there is also a level of fear that I don’t think non-babyloss parents feel. I fear that my living children will die or my husband. Because this terrible tragedy befell us with no warning sign, no explanation and not due to anything that we did, it often feels like bad things will continue to happen to us.

This paranoia was clear over the winter. Baby Sheep was still a smooshy infant and we had gotten her accustomed to sleeping in her crib in the room right beside ours. If she got cold during the night, she’d wake up, which sucked for everyone. But if I overbundled her, I was sure I’d kill her. (Overheating has been linked to an increased risk of SIDS). So there I was every bedtime stressing out, standing at the changer hemming and hawing over what to dress her in. I’d finally decide. Zip her into her sleepsack and put her to bed. Later on, while laying in bed myself, trying to fall asleep, my anxiety would rev up wondering if she’s quiet because she’s sleeping soundly or because she’s dead.

She did not die last winter and at 15-months of age now, I’m (a little) less concerned about SIDS. But every night for months I was sure the pajamas I chose were going to be her demise.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

A’s birthday falls on a Monday. E and I are both taking off of work but still sending the girls to preschool and the sitter respectively. We don’t have definite plans but I expect we will go through A’s photos, finger the soft tuft of his hair and cry…a lot. I’d like to spend some time outside. There is something soothing about being in the quiet of nature.

We’ll pick up the girls a little earlier than usual and head to the local toy store to pick out something 5-year-old A would like. Maybe we’ll do something fun like last year or maybe we’ll stop for a special treat at the ice cream parlor. And every year we do an act of kindness in A’s honor. Though we haven’t decided what that will be yet.

All of these things are good and I want to do them. But there is still part me that is angry and resentful. Makes me want to knock all of the toys off the shelf at the store; throw my ice cream cone against the wall and scream at the happy “complete” families walking down the street. Because photos, snippets of hair and “would be” fantasies are not enough. Nothing will ever be enough to right the wrong of his absence.

Overcompensation

When Dragon was born we were flooded with presents. The deluge continued for months and months. It was an overwhelming outpouring of generosity – toys, books, baby gear and clothes, so many clothes! But that jaded bereaved part of me always felt that some of the gift giving was compensation for A’s death. Like people felt so bad and pitied us so much that when the opportunity arose to shower us and our newest, living baby with presents, they went above and beyond, overcompensating for their own sorrow and discomfort and for our pain as well.

This shouldn’t bother me. I feel like a jerk even thinking it. I wish I could just shut that part of me up and be grateful that so many people in our lives care about us and adore our daughter.

The same occurs when we run into folks for the first time after Dragon’s birth. To my wary ears when someone emphasizes their joy over the birth our daughter it feels more like relief regarding our son’s death and the subsequent fallout. “I’m so happy for you two!” Why because you think we’re fixed? Because you think we’re moving on and healed? Truth is we are healing and moving forward with our life but I don’t want that misinterpreted as we are “okay” or “over” A’s death. We are still absolutely broken and anguish over our missing boy each and every day. 

Related to the overcompensation is, I think, a sense of relief for family, friends and acquaintances. Relief that Dragon arrived safely. But more so, relief that this must mean E and I are doing better and that judgment alone makes my guard fly up.

When we became pregnant with Dragon six months after A was stillborn, I immediately knew I didn’t want to discuss my pregnancy or feelings with anyone other than E and some close babyloss moms who knew where I was coming from. To that end, I sent an email to all of our family, friends and even my coworkers asking them to please not ask anything and to not expect me to share much about the pregnancy. For the most part, they respected our wishes. Perhaps that restriction fed into the overcompensation when Dragon finally arrived alive and well. That I held our loved ones at arm’s length for a time that when the floodgates finally came down the gifts rushed in.

I really do wish I didn’t feel this cynical. But I can’t help but think about what the response would have been to A’s birth and homecoming had he lived. Sure our there would have been fanfare surrounding our firstborn child, but would it have been as over-the-top? 

Bittersweet

After A was stillborn, we were fortunate enough to receive outreach from several local support groups and babylost organizations. Through one such organization I befriended a woman whose firstborn child was born still thirteen years ago at 38 weeks from a supposed cord accident, though cause of death was never conclusively decided. She got pregnant soon after her son’s birth and just four days after the first anniversary of his death she gave birth to a living son. She went on to have one more subsequent living son a couple years later.

We really seem to get each other and I have leaned on her a few times so far during this subsequent pregnancy. Her insight is that her son’s birthday is bittersweet. Each year she is sad that her eldest is not here but then a few days later she celebrates her “miracle” baby who wouldn’t exist if his older brother had not died.

I’m not quite to bittersweet yet, although I do feel grateful for Dragon and this new pregnancy even in the midst of my continued angst of missing A. But for me they are two distinct emotional experiences – I feel angry, sorrowful and severe pain because I yearn for my son, and I feel distinctly excited and thankful for this new life kicking me in the ribs. Perhaps with time, like my friend, I too will know how to hold two contrary truths together in my heart simultaneously, to find holidays and special occasions bittersweet.

She tells me that life is wonderful since her second son arrived and that she thinks it will be wonderful for me too one day. 

Freak Out

I think I mentioned it earlier this year, a coworker of mine had a healthy son in March; born just 5 months after A. Any baby born near A’s birthday stings, but when they’re little boys it hurts even more. Ever since I returned to work 6-weeks postpartum, this particular male coworker has been saccharinely nice to me. Still I avoid him in the office because just the sight of him roils jealously and anger within. Not anger directed at him, just anger over the fact that my child is not here as he should be – you know that little thing that never ceases to piss me off.

Anyway, Tuesday afternoon a half-hour before quitting time, I bid farewell to two clients in the waiting area then turn to head back to my desk and there, in the hallway, smack dab in front of me is that coworker, his wife and their blonde spiky-haired infant son with a gaggle of middle-aged female colleagues swarmed around. I smile and quickly walk past to my desk.

I sit down and can feel my cheeks flush. I’m feeling hot all over like I need to strip off my sweater. I can hear the ladies oohing and ahhing over the baby. I frantically untangle my headphones and turn up the volume. My heart is POUNDING inside my chest. It’s difficult to breath.

I try to distract myself by continuing with work tasks. I am blinking back tears, fighting the inevitable. Check the clock, 15-minutes to go. God, can I hold it together that long? I feel like the need to flee. I just want to get out of here! Perhaps I can talk a walk around the block. But the wife and baby are probably leaving soon too and I could not handle being stuck on the elevator with them. Shit.

I could call my good friend. But where to make that call? I am surely going to burst into tears any second now. The conference room? The floor below? The stairwell? Except the happy family is making their rounds through the office visiting and proudly showing off son. I can’t bear to bump into them again. I am fighting back tears now.

I tug off the headphones and make a beeline for the ladies’ room. My office neighbor is talking with another colleague about how she can’t believe he’s 6-months old. He’s so small!

I muffle my sobs while sitting in the stall. Luckily no one comes in. I grab my cell phone and plan to call my friend from the floor below thinking it will be a bit more private. As soon as I open the bathroom door I can hear coworker’s and wife’s voice in the reception area – they are blocking the stairwell and elevators!

I am legitimately sweating now; heart still pounding; eyes red from crying in the bathroom. Naturally I head in the opposite direction and pop into a deserted office. I crumble to the ground and cry as quietly as I can. I call my friend. She doesn’t answer and I don’t leave a voicemail. I text E and ask if he can pick me up, I can’t face public transportation or a prolonged commute.

I feel trapped. I wish one of my sympathetic colleagues would come tell me when the coast is clear. Kneeling on the floor I continue to cry by myself. Why didn’t I grab more tissues?

Finally the clock strikes five and the suffocating need to escape trumps the possibility of seeing them again so I mop up the best I can the makeup dripping down my face and cautiously head back to my desk.

I see a couple people on the way but avert my still-stinging eyes. Swiftly, I shut down my computer, snatch my stuff and speed walk out of the building to my awaiting knight in shining armor dusty station wagon. I don’t think I’ve ever had a panic attack before and I’m not self-diagnosing, but whatever that shit was, it sucked.

Not one person came to check on me or see how I was doing with the baby visit. Maybe I didn’t really want anyone stopping by because surely I would have devolved into tears but even an email? Some form of acknowledgement? Nothing. Perhaps they were all too enamored with that spiky-haired kid. Maybe it is that I intentionally keep work friends at an arm’s length. Regardless I was a little hurt that not one single person connected two and two – his living son and my dead son; his life busy with growth and development and my life fantasizing about A’s milestones; him parading his adorable son around and me with A's photos tucked away in an envelope at my desk, desperate for someone to ask to see them again, too considerate to frame one.

That right there might be the gist of it. I don't necessarily want outright support from my colleagues (or any non-babylost folks) but I need acknowledgement. Don't try to say the right thing, don't try to make me feel better, don't tell me everything is going to work out. Just acknowledge that my son was here, that his sudden death is god awful and that my life is wrecked. That's all I'm asking.

So Wrong

My friend and fellow baby lost mother experienced her fourth consecutive loss this week. Her gorgeous daughter, Anja, was stillborn January 2012. Prior to conceiving Anja, she suffered two back-to-back miscarriages.

Just weeks ago she discovered she was pregnant again; the fifth time (she is blessed with a precocious 3-year-old).  And then, again, the symptoms started and she miscarried.

I am not a religious person. I don’t believe in a God or gods. But I do plead with the universe on occasion. This is most certainly one of those occasions. I am so sad, so mournful, so very angry that this family has lost their 4^th baby in a row. It’s so wrong that one woman and one family could suffer such loss.

So I have been praying. Praying that they survive. Praying that they heal. Praying because I want so badly to be able to do something and I am powerless.

It’s just so effing wrong.

Anger

It’s been dark, gray and stormy in Griefland lately. A few weeks ago the massage therapist noted some anger build up in my body. She sensed I had been coping with the sadness and longing well enough but not so much with the anger. She sensed it up in my shoulders and moving all the way down to my hands, ready to be released. Perhaps scribbling; screaming; breaking glass.

I think I’m fairly demonstrative but I have always had difficulty expressing anger. I’m not a yeller or a stomper or a door slammer. I don’t know what to do with anger so I usually stuff it down inside until one day it explodes – usually in the form of tears.

Trusting the massage therapist, I brainstormed where I could break glass. In the backyard? Too public. In the basement? Too messy.

I don’t mind cleaning up after myself but glass shards can fly really far. Pragmatic, analytical me was still pondering the logistics of how and where to break glass weeks later when intense waves of anger starting rolling through me. Naturally I tried to put a lid on it. When that didn’t work I cried. Still the anger did not dissipate. It was so overwhelming I had to leave work early for fear of doing or saying something I would regret.

Arriving home I was held together by a mere thread having used up all of my patience and energy already. I grabbed a wooden folding chair, a plastic file box, a metal pole and safety goggles (I said I was pragmatic). Down to the basement before my husband or the lower tenant arrived home and smash went the file box. I was crying before I even landed the first blow. Through the tears and gasps for breath I screamed. Screamed a blood-curdling howl that would have sent the neighbors running to dial 911. I’ve never heard myself make such a noise. I picked up the folding chair WWF-style and hurled it toward the ground. I kept screaming and swinging and crying and bellowing. She was right, I did need to get this gunk out.

Except I was smashing it on the ground, not another person.

I didn’t feel better instantly. I think there’s a lot more anger that needs to be expelled. But it was somewhat refreshing to access that crap; to tap into the primordial wounded animal inside. That loud, wailing that came hurtling out from the deepest depths of my soul.

I’m not sure if this is the “Anger” phase of Kubler-Ross’s grief theory but I do know I will remember to utilize this tactic in the future regarding anger that derives from any source. Just another lesson from my beautiful son. Thank you A for teaching me a healthy way to deal with anger; it is something I never knew how to do my whole life until you prodded me.