A Word on Counseling

Years ago I saw a counselor who helped me through a tough transition (or two).  After A died, I went to a grief counselor – someone specifically trained in bereavement and grief. It wasn’t what I needed.

What I need from a counselor is someone who listens well but then offers feedback, not just validation. Someone who gives me suggestions to change my own behaviors. Someone who offers tips on coping or altering outcomes. Counseling isn’t just a place to vent, I am looking to make actual changes – otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting on the couch in the first place!

So after the second visit with the grief counselor, I decided we should break up. I called up my old counselor and have been seeing her ever since. It seems that many people who are considering individual counseling, not just for baby loss but for any reason, give up if they don’t click right away during the first visit, with the first counselor. I’ve been to several counselors over the years before I found my current counselor who I like very much. I try to encourage others who’ve never done it to go two or three times before deciding if it’s no good for them. And then try a different counselor or two or three. Find someone whose personality and approach is compatible with you and your needs. Admittedly, this takes a lot of effort and if you’re seeking the assistance of a counselor, you’re struggling with some aspect of life and may not have extra energy to devote to test-driving various counselors. But it’s definitely worth it. Once you find that person, you’re set for a very long time.

My counselor is not a psychologist. She is a social worker. Titles don’t matter. Compatibility matters. I’m not trying to preach that everyone enroll in counseling. I’m saying from personal experience, I know that counseling can provide guidance that only an unbiased, third party can offer.

Plus, after A died I felt so helpless to make myself feel better that I was willing to try any avenue available: individual counseling, support groups, literature, websites, blogs. I had to do something! I don’t feel the need to attend counseling as often these days, or support group for that matter. But early on those appointments couldn’t come soon enough.

Dichotomies Abound

An extra hour of daylight. The return of the songbirds. Buds on the trees. Unseasonably warm temperatures. Springtime is here with aplomb. At once I feel refreshed, upbeat and optimistic. Then I notice the families out walking, pushing their infant in a stroller. A toddler exploring at the park. A father and his 8-year-old son playing tennis. And all of a sudden the feeble mend on my heart rips open again. I long for A. I want to show him his world, the excitement of Spring. Share irreplaceable experiences and make memories together. I want to be that family at the park, doing nothing extraordinary, just enjoying the day, loving life, getting to know their baby. From reenergized and optimistic to sullen in milliseconds.

Experiencing such a polarity of emotions at the same time – hope, rejuvenation, despair, agony – is confusing, but becoming a defining characteristic of life in Griefland. Right from the very beginning of this god-forbidden journey I’ve been floored by powerful emotions from opposite ends of the spectrum. When A was born I was elated; so thrilled to finally meet our child who we’d been waiting so long for. I was very proud. Simultaneously I felt deep sadness, disbelief and anguish.

After attending support group for the first time, I was encouraged to hear that these families had survived such unthinkable tragedy and had gone on to live fulfilling lives, but in the same breath I was discouraged because their stories, their very existence, attest that this would be with me forever; this unimaginable reality was never going away. In the same vein, after hearing some bereaved mothers speak of the few hours they spent with their infants I felt jealous. I never got to see A alive aside from ultrasounds. Moments later that jealously was countered as I empathized with women who are unable to get pregnant and/or carry to term. On the tail of envy came gratitude, I am thankful for the time I had with A, for the remarkable experience of being pregnant and for the fact that E and I are able to conceive easily.

Four days after the due date is when we found out A had died (see earlier post for details of A's Story). We’ve spoken to various medical professionals - perinatologists, pathologist, midwives – and no one can tell us what happened. No one can explain why A died. The pregnancy was healthy. His autopsy was completely normal. I didn’t have any condition or infection. The cord and placenta were healthy and normal. Concurrently I am outraged and relieved. Outraged that A didn’t have to die. He didn’t have any anomaly or genetic defect that was incompatible with life. He was 100% perfectly healthy. So why the heck did he die? Relieved because I know E and I can produce healthy children.

All of these dichotomies are really trying. Typically, I am a black and white thinker. How can such disparate emotions exist at the same exact time? It’s difficult to get my head around. But I am trying to accept it. Accept the feelings as they come; don’t judge them, don’t over think it. Just accept and go with the flow. Another powerful lesson from A. (Although I’d prefer to stay ignorant if it meant he would be here with us).

Glimmers

The sun finally broke through in Griefland. It's yet to be seen if this is a brief crack in the clouds or if brighter days are truly in store. Recently, I have felt glimmers of acceptance. Accepting that this happened to us; accepting that this was somehow destined to be and there was nothing I or anyone else could have done to prevent it; accepting that much good will come from A's life and tragic death. These moments are fleeting but god do they raise me up.

They say everything happens for a reason. And while I cannot come up with any justifiable reason that my son died, I have a sense of some greater purpose. That this horrendous tragedy had to occur in order for some bigger good to come about. 

You know, it's like how some of the bereaved mother's who lost their babies years and years ago say things like "I wouldn't have it any other way." This horrified me when I first heard it. But maybe there's a deeper wisdom to it.

I don't know. But hopefully I'll figure it out more down the road. Meanwhile, I apprehensively await the other shoe to drop and depression to descend again. That's the thing with this grief rollercoaster, even when I have a streak of "ok" days and feel a little like my old self, I'm anxious; expecting the storm to come barreling through at any second.

Homecoming

My mother-in-law, bless her soul, took care of all the arrangements with the funeral home and cremation. She graciously kept A’s urn at her house, safely and lovingly watching over him until we were ready to bring home. It’s been over 4 months since A died and was born. Just this past week we brought his ashes home.

Cupping the tiny urn in the palm of my hand I gave A a tour of his home. The home we joyfully prepared for him.

This is your front porch. Remember how we used to sit in the summer sunshine out here? This is your living room. You surely would have loved snuggling up on our huge couch. This is a spider plant – it doesn’t have any spiders in it; it just looks like a spider. This is a basil plant – can you smell it? This is your dining room. You’ll recall all the delicious memories we had in here! This is Mommy & Daddy’s room. You can come in anytime. We’re always here for you. This is the bathroom where we were going to have such fun at bath time. This is your room. Mommy & Daddy picked out everything here special for you. These are your books and your toys. Whenever you want a story, just ask, we’ll always read to you. This is the kitchen, Daddy’s making dinner right now. Do you smell that? Those are onions! And this is your backyard. In the spring, Mommy will teach you all the names of the different flowers. Daddy will grill up snacks during the summer. And we can all run and play in the yard.

After the tour, we returned to the nursery and I rocked my little boy’s ashes as if it were really him. “You know Love, this is the same chair that your grandma rocked me and your Uncle in when we were babies. And before that, your Papa sat in it when he visited his grandmother’s house. This rocker belonged to your great-great-grandmother. And your dresser is special too. That was Daddy’s dresser when he was a baby. Before that it was your great-aunt’s when she was little. It belonged to your great-grandparents. And now it’s yours my son.”

Finally, as we prepared for bed, E said, “Should we put him in his bassinet tonight?” I replied, “Of course. That’s where he belongs. Snuggled in, right next to our bed.” So I tucked A’s little urn in, wrapped in a flannel sheet and fluffy Sherpa blanket. Bending down to kiss him goodnight.

It was an intensely emotional day. I am so very happy to have A at home with us. We still haven’t decided if we’ll keep his ashes forever or if we’ll spread them somewhere special. But as I’ve learned during my tenure in Griefland, do not rush decisions. With time, we’ll know what the best choice is for us. Until then I am looking forward to more rocking, chatting and storybooks with my little guy. Welcome sweet boy.

In Your Face

Two months after A was born, my cousins who live out-of-state gave birth to a son. They also have a toddler daughter at home. My aunt recently spent a few weeks with them; meeting her grandson for the first time. She returned home this past week, just in time for my grandmother’s 81^st birthday dinner. I happened to sit next to this particular aunt. She brought out an envelope of snapshots from their recent visit and asked if we’d like to see them. Rather than taking them to the other side of the table, or beginning with someone else, she handed them directly to me. *sigh*

I love my cousins and hold nothing against them personally, but I was already worn down by the big gathering. After flipping through them, I passed ‘em along, took a deep breath and regrouped…until I noticed a large foam board sitting next to Grandma’s chair at the head of the table. On the board were two huge, blown-up photos of the out-of-town 2-year-old and newborn boy. My gut wretched, my eyes burned, I felt dizzy. Because her grandchildren could not physically be here for the celebration, my aunt brought this poster of their images. What about A?! He can’t be here. He’s missing! Why doesn’t anyone acknowledge that he’s not here and should be? How strange would they look at me if I brought a giant, blown-up photo of A to all the family gatherings?

One of my fears when this newborn baby was coming so soon after A died was that this baby too would be a boy. You see, on this side of the family we have 4 great-granddaughters…until A. He was the first great-grandson and I was immensely proud of that. I was afraid that if out-of-town baby was also a boy, he would eclipse A and A’s place in the family.

On top of all this, another set of cousins just announced they’re expecting (gender unknown as of yet). They were also at Grandma’s dinner. These cousins live locally and I won’t be able to avoid them or their children as easily as I can the out-of-towners. Plus I know they feel guilty and uncomfortable around E and I, which only feeds my anxiety and insecurity. How effing cruel that this wonderfully huge extended family that I’ve always found supportive is suddenly such horrible company to be in.

I held it together until we hit the door of the restaurant, then the tears flowed. I didn’t want to damper the celebration, I didn’t want attention on Grandma’s day and I didn’t want to make anyone feel bad.

My entire extended family has been supportive since the day A was born. I know my aunt did not do these things maliciously. She just didn’t think about how they’d affect me. How I can expect everyone to stop and put me first before making any decisions or saying anything out loud? I can’t. I don’t like resenting my loved ones or their children. It’s a dreadful feeling.  

It’s days later and I’m still upset by it. Surely this won’t be the last insensitive thing someone does or says to me. I just didn’t expect it from my own family.

Photos

I finally worked up the courage and energy to bring some of A’s photos into work. The small company I work for was enthusiastic and supportive throughout my pregnancy and continues to be so in this unthinkable aftermath. But I was still hesitant to share his photos. I felt protective not only of my son, but of E and my family. Some of the pictures are very intimate. Also, I was concerned about how others would react; as evidenced by the public “controversy” of the Duggar’s recent loss and Rick Santorum acknowledging details of his son’s death after living only 2-hours.

As a solution, I selected only 6 photos to bring to work. This way folks didn’t feel obligated to thumb through the entire album and I could still feel like I was protecting the privacy of my family.

There’s a group of friends at work who had been asking to see A’s photos they were a given, but I didn’t want everyone to feel pressured to look at them if they weren’t comfortable. So I went around to those who had requested but did not approach coworkers I was unsure about. What I quickly learned was that many people were waiting for me to reach out. They were trying to be respectful toward me and here I was avoiding them in trying to prevent them from feeling uncomfortable! I had to be the one to initiate it; many colleagues were not going to come seeking me out, asking to see A's pictures.

After that realization sunk in, I ran around nearly the entire office and spread the sunshine of my effing adorable son. Many people cried, some smiled the entire time; I received lots of hugs. Only one person was befuddled when I mentioned I had photos of A and would he like to see them. He didn’t realize we would have pictures; but he looked them over just the same and even asked questions!

I feel as though the experience of sharing A’s photos has really opened up the minds of some of my coworkers. My big-boss, the guy whose name is on the business, hasn’t come over to view them yet, but he did share the story of his first child who died around 4 ½ months gestation. Hopefully, he’ll stop by my desk in the near future.

Overall it was a positive experience. I was quite happy and definitely proud to show off my little guy. Given the reactions I received, I'm more apt to consider sharing his photos with others again. 

On a side note, the last couple weeks have been really dark for me. Prior to then, I had been feeling relatively well; having many okay days. But lately it’s like I’ve regressed back to those early days. Just yesterday I sobbed into E’s shoulder that I don’t want to do this anymore. This was a common refrain for me in the immediate weeks following A’s death. I don’t want this life without A, I don’t want to struggle each day, I don’t want to have unpredictable mood swings, I don’t want to be broken, I don’t want to be a bereaved parent, I don’t want any of this!

I wish I could hit the ESC button and end this alternate reality in Griefland like a computer game. Abort! Abandon ship! I quit! Or if some higher power could reach down into Griefland Dr. Suess-style-Horton-Hears-a-Who-style and pluck me up and out of here. *sigh*

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.