a suitcase full of hope

Chapter One

The suitcase is almost entirely filled with baby clothes. They were given to us for Tikva, before she was born.

After she died, I sat in the middle of the garage with Auntie Marty, and we went through the boxes and sorted them out. Marty was so patient with me – loving, calm and focused. She helped me decide what I wanted to keep and what I could let go of. She held the space while I touched each piece of small clothing and imagined what Tikva would have looked like sleeping in it as a baby in my arms, dancing in it as a toddler. I put everything in two big boxes and put them away in the garage.

Now, I go through the clothes again, almost a year later, and I put each piece into the suitcase.

My suitcase full of hope.

Hope that I will have another child, and that if she is a girl, she will wear these sweet things that were meant for her sister. I pick up a pale pink ruffled dress that Dave found in a thrift store a few months before Tikva was born and the tears come rushing. I just sit on the bed and cry, letting go a little more, letting go still all these months later. Then I put it in the suitcase, wondering what it will feel like when I do put that dress on my next child, my third child.

The next day I get on a plane with my suitcase and take it to Cincinnati, where the next chapter of our lives await us. In two short days, I find us a home to move into next month. I sign a lease. I make a video to show Dave and Dahlia what it looks like. I can start to see what is ahead now. I can imagine where we will put a crib when the time comes.

:::

Chapter Two

We are packing up the rest of the house. Gathering up our things to take with us.

Preparing other things to return to the generous souls who loaned us the makings of a home when we first returned from abroad – befuddled and overwhelmed – in order to give Tikva the best chance in the world at survival.

As I pack, I feel like I am undoing all that I put together before her birth. Moving backwards, as if the film projector is playing on rewind on the screen.

Tikva’s special things sit in their boxes and jars, soon to be put in a suitcase, destined for the wooden chest that awaits them in Ohio. The altar that has formed on our borrowed dresser awaits its turn to be put away in a box – found treasures from my walks in Golden Gate Park this past year. The toys people gave to Dahlia, and which she accumulated for the sole reason that she is five years old and that is what five year olds do, are sorted through and await their own suitcase. Maternity clothes are passed on, a few favorites packed to take with me (more hope). I have the vitamins and herbs I need to prepare for a healthy pregnancy in the near future (more hope).

The thing is that I really do believe there are good things ahead. Sometimes, when I am being especially Chicken Little about everything (aka catastrophic and completely overwhelmed), Dave reminds me that so much good awaits us. I know that, I really do. I feel it. I can close my eyes and feel myself pregnant again, holding a baby, nursing, holding a toddler’s hand.

I guess I just need to get there to really settle into the feeling. Get past this week of packing. Get past (and enjoy) the drive cross-country. Roll into the driveway of our new home. Get reacquainted with most of our belongings, which have been in storage for two years. Unpack. Settle into all that is new.

But first, this week of goodbye.

:::

Chapter Three

I go to my twentieth high school reunion. Anybody who asks me how old my children are gets to hear about Tikva. It feels good to talk about her. Right. Easy. People are at their best when I tell them, sweet. One old classmate says, Wow. I'm sober now. Another says, Can I buy you a drink?

A third tells me that I’m not the only one – a classmate I had barely known in high school also lost a child – her first, six years ago. I go over to her and tell her I'd like to talk to her about something we share. She knows right away what. We talk for a long time.

Uncharacteristic of me this past year, I feel social, friendly, chatty, and a bit tipsy. I am doozied up and look great. I talk to all kinds of people there, even those I had barely talked to during high school. I feel very much myself, no walls. Maybe that’s why it is so easy to talk about Tikva – my second child.

It feels like another layer of wrap-up. I want to say closure, but the closure isn’t about Tikva. It is more about wrapping up a chapter of my life that brings me here…

To this more true, more complete version of myself. The me I take into all that is ahead.

:::

Chapter Four

It feels like the last few pages of Goodnight Moon right now…

Goodnight clouds.

Goodnight air.

Goodnight noises everywhere…

Goodbye park.

Goodbye beach and ocean.

Goodbye hospital monolith on my way to everywhere.

Goodbye headstone marking the place where Tikva’s body lies.

Goodbye father and sister and family.

Goodbye friends who have held us (together).

Goodbye San Francisco.

Goodbye to this time, this chapter, this huge piece of the story…

:::

Chapter Five

Now it is all pretty much undone – at least on the surface, in the house. You can’t really undo two years of living… deeply.

I sit on the floor in an empty, echo-y living room. Dave sits on a bean bag chair next to me. It was empty when we arrived in the middle of March 2008 – my belly full of her – so early on this journey. Now this chapter wraps up.

Several times this week, I have wondered when the grown ups were going to show up to take care of all the dealing that needed to be dealt with. Packing, cleaning, organizing, administrating. Then one of those moments:

Oh! I am the grown up. Sigh... Shit! Nothing else to do right now but pack. It has felt endless, but it’s almost done, we’re almost on the road. Tomorrow we’ll take the mezuzah – the one from Jerusalem – off the doorpost to bring with us to Cincinnati.

:::

Chapter Six

We go to the cemetery one last time – for now – and I make two rubbings of Tikva’s headstone to take with me. One in color, one in black. On the way there, two baby hawks sit on two lampposts on Sunset Blvd. On the way back, one remains. On the way out a bit later, the same two are on the same posts, and a few blocks away, two adult hawks sit together on another post. A family of hawks – four.

Two and two. Two adults. Two children.

I sit before Tikva’s headstone by myself and cry.

I wish I could take you with me, Tikva. Literally… in a carseat next to your sister. Your big beautiful eyes looking around as you chew on your hands and babble.

I just sit and stare at her headstone – accepting.

And just a little bit amazed, still, that this is what we get.

This is how it is.

::: 

What transitions have you been through since losing your child(ren)? Have you felt able to take them with you? Left a piece of yourself, of them, behind? What has enabled you to stay connected, and grounded, during your transitions? What have you let go of?

I'm So Happy For You

Babies are appearing everywhere, and the afternoon light is such that I expect for us to be expecting, too. The late-setting sun blasts through the windshield as I turn off the exit to my house. The angle of those rays are filled with meaning.

This is the season of my almost-fatherhood. This is the time last year when all I could think about was everything that I thought was to come.

There were so many plans and hopes in the works. Spring and summer were full of boundless potential and imminent adventures. The full bellies and multi-strollers all around foretold our amazing future, and I was thrilled to be on the cusp of fatherhood.

Fulfillment, success, perfection, they were within my grasp and now all I hold is dust and desolation.

Since it is impossible to grasp dust, and because desolation rots the soul, I have stopped trying to hold anything.

This has become my summer of the willing suspension of disbelief. I'm working hard at accepting the World as it is, and dealing with whatever is exactly in front of me.

I learned that from my parents. My mother has had MS since before I was born, and over the years they have shown me how to handle the impossible trials of their everyday life. Do the next thing first and then deal with whatever comes after that.

Do it right, do it with humor, don't stop until it's done. Don't rely on anyone else. Don't be surprised when it doesn't go at all the way you think it will. Don't give up and don't stop loving the people around you. Those are the lessons they taught me, and I'm working hard at most of them.

I'm stuck at Don't Give Up, though. I know there are people around me ready and willing to support me with their love, if only I would return an email or make a call. The ball is definitely in my court at this point. For phone-tag I am IT a thousand times over.

It is beyond me right now, though.

Reading through the interview below I was struck by how clearly I identified with all of those Phases, but I was surprised in that I seemed to be experiencing them completely out of order.

I feel like I've been through Confrontation and even a little Accomodation, but that Avoidance is where I stew these days.

It is a nuanced Avoidance. I don't stop thinking about Silas all day. I don't pretend that my life is anything that it is not. I know to the core of my being the depth of our loss. Or at least, I know how deep it seems to go from here. I have few illusions left at this point. I'm not avoiding his name, or the pain of losing him.

I am always ready to talk about Silas but I attempt to avoid all external reminders of what we should have.

That list includes: newborns, babies, people that just had babies or are pregnant, talk of the trials of having kids, strollers, carseats, first birthdays, the Internet, driving, walking and being awake. As long as I keep all of that out of mind & sight, I should be just fine. Ha!

Another part of the problem is that I'm starting to feel bad about how bad I still feel. I don't want to talk to friends because it's the same goddam fucking sob story every fucking time. I'm sick of hearing myself sometimes. I'm sick of hearing my soul's lament, sick of my mind devising strategies to fix our broken lives, sick of my heart oozing despair and ichor whenever another scar is peeled back, or a new, surprising wound pierces my defenses.

July was brutal. Three of my closest friends had babies this month and essentially all I could do was ignore them. Didn't stay in bed moping. Didn't drive off to the wilderness and leave everyone behind. Didn't stop working or playing or living. But when it came to those three, they were mostly out of my life.

I kept in contact until the day of birth, but after they each went perfectly, I had to cut them off for the moment. I feel like an asshole of the highest order, but I had to do it in order to save myself.

The idea of even talking to them on the phone to congratulate them, knowing they were holding their perfect new child in their arms, it took the push out of my fingers for every digit of their phone number. These are people I love and care about and all I can do is nothing.

I'm active and alert and fully engaged in most of my life, but the new babies are impossible right now. Once I start thinking about my friends, I think about everything they are doing with their new child and those thoughts completely immobilize me.

I know babies. I love babies. I don't mind the cheesy puke or the weird, wide alien eyes or the tears of hunger or confusion. I used to love babies.

But there is a period of time between birth and 'baby' that I really don't know anything about. By the time I've met most children they were at least a few weeks old, if not months, and I've never had that true newborn experience. I thought it was going to be a special, beautiful time with my son and first-born, but that was not the way it happened. So now, when I hear about a new child in the World, it fills me with a mix of hope and dread and joy and fear that is impossible to parse.

I'm thrilled for the parents. I'm thrilled the child is alive and healthy. I'm jealous beyond words that they have that child to cherish and nuture. I'm terrified by how close they came to living in my World without ever considering how bad it can get, and I'm enraged at myself for my inablity to do anything but look away.

All I can do is say how HAPPY I AM FOR YOU and look away, look away. I look away and try to feel Silas and hate how much his name sounds like Silence.

~~~~~~~~

What is your collateral damage? Where do you feel stuck? Are there certain aspects or phases of grief that you find particularly daunting? What do you avoid? What do you seek out?

Regrets, I've had a few

I saw her literally the moment I found a seat, on the floor in the very back of the room-- I was late and the room was full. I hadn't expected to see her there. I hadn't really expected to see anyone I knew there. It was a talk on raising bilingual children, held at my old Alma Mater, where I also worked for several years, until the summer after A died. I'd forgotten her husband's first language wasn't English. But had I remembered, I'd still not have expected to run into her-- I would've assumed that she'd graduated already. Instead, there she was, having made it to the talk early, judging by the seat she had-- one of the best in the house. 

Casey was a TA in the class I ran the spring before A was conceived. About half way through the semester I began to suspect that Casey was pregnant. About two thirds through, her bump made all speculation mute. She was a good TA, even if not particularly an extra mile kind. But then again, in hindsight it's tough going an extra mile through the early pregnancy while you are TAing a big class and working your tail off in the lab too.

The moment I saw her was palpable, a mini lightning bolt; in my head, certainly, but what felt like inside my chest cavity too. Way beyond your standard issue butterflies, this was real anxiety-- throat grabbing, stomach tying, air rarefying split second of oh, crap, I'm so not ready for this. I wasn't sure if she knew, and thought that she likely didn't. I was pretty sure she knew I was pregnant, though-- I remember running into her that fall, right as she came back from maternity leave. By that time I myself was unmistakably round, and going to the bathroom so many times during a workday that I was sure that alone fulfilled my daily exercise requirement. So that's where I ran into Casey one day that fall, and that's where she filled me in on the somewhat complicated childcare arrangement they'd hobbled together for her son, who she was totally in love with, and that's where I told her I too was expecting a boy.

There are certainly people who saw me pregnant who didn't remember later. In their defense, those people were meeting me for the first time then. Casey, on the other hand, knew me before. I was pretty sure she remembered. I know, I know-- unless you are a celebrity, and TV takes care of announcing your comings and goings, chances are there will be people who won't be up on your news, fresh and not so much. And there will be new people you meet who won't know. And so from time to time you will be in a position to decide whether or how to tell someone that your child is (or your children are) dead.

Telling people is a staple of our early days as bereaved parents. It's a large part of why many of us would rather not leave the house. But somehow we do (tell)-- often we send emails, or ask friends to pass the news on,-- and at some point we do (leave). And eventually the telling, if it happens, is mostly to the people who didn't know us before. To them our babies become dead a split second after they first come into existence as mental images, right after everyone's favorite word-- but. "I had a baby, but..." "We had twins, but..." "I was due in December, but..."

These hurt, of course. They hurt a lot. But they hurt differently than the early tellings. A while ago, Natalie talked about the early ones, about how when you do that, you get to see someone else's joy and anticipation for you shatter, the might've been crumbling into is. Again.

When I saw Casey from my ground-level seat that day it occurred to me that she just might be the very last person to have seen me pregnant who still didn't know. Sadly, it didn't make me better at telling her. Worse, it didn't even make me more prepared.

After the initial shock, I forced myself to concentrate on the talk, even though I kept stealing glances at Casey. She was knitting. Obviously listening, but also knitting. Which, I understand, betrays a certain level of skill. During the Q&A session, I asked a question, guaranteeing that if Casey hadn't noticed me before, she obviously would now. (Yes, not one of my brighter moves, I know.) Meaning that after the talk was over, I had no choice but to say hi, especially since the speaker was enveloped in a small crowd, and I was waiting until that receded so I could buy her book.

I'm a kind of parent that generally speaking does not do guilt. I make decisions and live with them. But that doesn't mean I don't have regrets. And I definitely regret what happened next. Because? I screwed up.

We started talking. About grad school (she hoped to finally be done this year) and work (I filled her in on where I've been), about the whole bilingual kid thing (she asked how well Monkey was doing with the Old Country language, and then how we managed to hold on to it so well). I asked about her son, and she told me they are having trouble because her husband, the one who speaks the foreign language to the kid, gets home on the late side. She used her son's name when she was telling me this. Same as A's middle name. I knew that, of course-- she's mentioned it a bunch of times, most notably that one time in TA meeting when everyone was teasing her about the possible nicknames, and she drew the line at one that, I admit, would've bugged me too. So I knew it, but it wasn't at the forefront of my mind right then, and so it packed a bit of a punch for me.

Maybe that's why I screwed up, because I was still off balance when the next question came. "So how old is your younger one now?" Or maybe I screwed up because of how the question was phrased, quantitatively, especially since we'd just listed Monkey's age, and her son's, causing my numbers-oriented brain to want to account for the Cub's age too.

What I said was "He died." And after the properly horrified I am sorries from her and her husband, and the short version of stillborn, 34.5 weeks, "But we also have a three and a half months old now."

I regretted it almost immediately. But? But? What the hell was I thinking when those words left my mouth? Spotlight shifting, minimizing, covering up the dead baby with the live one. Am I not the very person who insists, sometimes very loudly, that my sons are separate and distinct individuals, not to be confused or conflated? What I should've said was "A would've been nearly two now. Sadly, he died. We miss him every day, and love him always. We also have a new baby, who is three and a half months old. He is a joy, and we love him madly. But we still miss A. At this point, we are pretty sure we always will." There. Would that have been so hard? She asked about A, about the baby she knew about. And my answer should've stayed focused on him.

I spent the drive home thinking about what I should've said. I obsessed about it almost nonstop for several days after. It wasn't just that I minimized my own son-- the very thing that drives me crazy when done by someone else,-- I worried that I left a wrong impression about babyloss in general. I worried, and still do, that the way I spoke left the impression that the cure for dead baby blues is a live baby. An all too common misconception I am afraid I might've reinforced. Really, Julia, "but"? Real nice. Real smooth.

I considered emailing Casey to tell her what I should've said in person, and to tell her why it was bothering me that I didn't. In the end I decided it would be too weird. I still think about it, though, seven months later.

How did you tell people early on? Have you had to tell since? How does it feel? If you are that far down the road, how do you decide which of the new acquaintances to tell? Have you had your own Casey-- a person who last saw you pregnant? How did you handle that?

social quotient

Reaching Out by jmtimages

If there is such a thing as social quotient, I score rather low on that. I am probably in the 5th percentile or something like that.

Back in school, on the last day of the final examinations, hordes of students would surge to town, pouring into theatres to watch a movie, or combing the malls for retail therapy after weeks of study (and performance) stress.

I went to the second-hand bookstore, lugged home a pile of novels, curled up and read. I have always been the rather (in)famous anti-social bird.

After Ferdinand died, my social quotient plunged. Crashed. Failed to register on the scale, because I totally dug a tunnel southwards and went into hiding.

The only way to know that I had not wiped my neck with a sharp blade was that I was writing, spewing all thoughts and emotions out into cyberspace, emptying my grief unbridled.

And, it took me a long time to crawl out of my little dark hole.

At one point, I felt I better be out. My girls need the sunlight, they need a social life, in some form of guise.

But being social was so hard. Talking to other people, I keep making mental footnotes like--

I can't believe I am standing here talking, my son died.

I can't believe I had a stillbirth.

But, you know, my son died.

How can babies die?!

I am not normal, even if I can stand and talk, do you understand?

::

I've never ever been the life of any party, even though for years my horoscope kept insisting that if you would just invite me to your party, I'm gonna kick it up a few notches at least.

Still, I do not consider myself a difficult person to be with. I am usually civil and pleasant, and don't bite too often. (Really!) I do enjoy being social, and (dare I say it) can be fun to be with.

I know for some, keeping with the social life they once had helps with the grieving/healing. It allows the support network to be available, it makes one feel alive and still be part of the fabric of society.

For me, I just want to rip the thread that is me right out of that fabric that is society and announce, with a wave of a black lacy handkerchief, "Forget I ever exist." I feel like I wanna turn my back upon society, upon life, and just be a vagabond, traveling to the farthest corners of the world, dragging my tattered heart in a quaint and worn leather bag. I no longer wished to participate in life.

But, how is that possible?!

It just is not, unless I check myself into some remote mental institute and spend the rest of my days forgetting my name, drooling strained spinach out of the corners of my mouth, rubbing dirt into my hair, and basically just waste away until my body decides it is time.

So, slowly, somehow I became "social" again. And I will admit, sometimes it helps. To just participate in life, be useful from time to time (when I first held a door for someone, I felt... alive), interact with strangers. Instead of just mumbling to the cashiers or pretending to be busy and not want to talk, I reached into the space that contains my heart and give it a squeeze and focus on being attentive to people I talk to. I mean, I really wanted to know about their day. And if they went beyond the usual "Great!" or "Wonderful!" and complain about a leaky toilet or having to be on their feet all day, I listened, I empathized and that made me feel more alive. Even though none of that had direct relation to my grief, it made me feel less disconnected and my heart became enlivened, even if only for a little bit.

I am curious about how others are doing and what excites and bothers them. I like to be able to interact and share my thoughts. But being a bereaved sometimes handicaps that. I still keep making mental foodnotes of My son died, I had a stillbirth and sometimes the mental footnote keeps ringing in my head as I proceed with my social life. There seems to be always this tension between wanting a sense of normalcy and desiring an acknowledgement that one is not exactly normal.

I know my social quotient will slowly go up, by virtue of the primal need to be social, by virtue of my children's needs, and I hope, that this scar in my heart that had made me raw in social situations will one day become a glowing light that shines compassion and deep empathy when I one day become a more normal social animal again.

In our deepest moments of struggle, frustration, fear, and confusion, we are being called upon to reach in and touch our hearts. Then, we will know what to do, what to say, how to be. What is right is always in our deepest heart of hearts. It is from the deepest part of our hearts that we are capable of reaching out and touching another human being. It is, after all, one heart touching another heart.
~ Roberta Sage Hamilton ~

And you? How do you do? What's your social quotent, were you a social maniac before, or were you more of a hermit? How did babylosthood affect your social life? What was hard about being social again? How did being social help? What was the first social event you chose to participate in, and why, and how did it go?

inside the daily crazy

I haven't held a baby since March 31st of last year. She was beautiful, and so cold. I held on for hours, telling her how much I loved her, my vision blurred with a lightning bolt migraine and an endless stream of tears. One of her doctors came in to offer his condolences; he stayed at the doorway with visibly shaking hands. He was young and I actually felt sorry for him in the moment before the first buds of hatred sprouted.

A nurse helped me dress her in a soft white onesie before we wrapped her in a blanket. Then we said goodbye, because I couldn't take the physical effects of death anymore. The walls were closing in on us and I just couldn't make her warm again. They put us in a cab and as it pulled away I saw the counsellor who had visited us through the week running out after us. Our eyes met briefly through the window but I couldn't ask the driver to stop. The look on her face had made me instantly nauseous.

.::.

We're at that age. I have friends who are pregnant, friends who are trying to get pregnant, friends with thriving, adorable infants whose photos it simultaneously kills and thrills me to look at on Facebook. Blessed with some wonderful women in my life, I constantly wonder what it will be like when the first one holds out a newborn for me to hold. Will I hold it together? Or will I crumble?

.::.

"She'd be tottering around back here by now, just learning to walk." I gesture over my shoulder from the patio table toward the green lawn in our backyard. Hold my arms out like an idiot lacking balance to demonstrate.

He smiles just slightly with acknowledgement, nodding.

"And there'd be shit everywhere."

"...."

"....shit?"

"Yeah. Toys and stuff. You know. Baby shit."

Ah.

Understood. The good kind of shit, not the dirtied diaper kind.

Eloquent.

.::.

There are a few advantages to working for the same company as your spouse. We travel together in the morning, reading the free daily on a swaying train. We get caught up, decide who's going to cook that evening. Occasionally we bicker and I tell him we shouldn't travel together anymore. We have our coffee guy. Our bagel guy. I only need one Christmas party outfit.

The downside is that he's been there for almost ten years. People have known him a long time. They knew him before, when his wife was expecting. They collected their heavy shrapnel-like coins and a few generous notes in an envelope until there was enough to buy us a congratulatory gift. They noticed his two month absence after she died.

Over the past year or so I have been able to tell every time I'm introduced to someone new whether or not they know. I recognize the moment it clicks. The hear the accent and the familar surname. There is a flash of recognition in their eyes, replaced just a second too late to be hidden by the forced and cheerful smile that follows.

There are a handful who just plain old avoid me altogether. Actually look to the floor when I walk past, and hell maybe I'm imagining it with my all sorts of crazy, but I'll bet it's not unlike the way they look at a person who's terminally ill, or whose spouse is cheating on them and they're the only one in the whole goddamn building who hasn't clued in yet.

They're the ones I want to get up real close to. So close that our noses touch and they are forced to look me in the eye when I tell them that I'm not contagious.

.::.

There are babies I do like being around. In line at the grocery store, gumming away on a soother, holding it out for my inspection when I catch their eye and smile. There are the ones on the train after work. Sat cozily in slings against their mother's chest, waving their arms and staring at everyone innocently.

I make it a point to sit next to them, getting a little anonymous fix in. One goofy look and the cutest ones pay back in spades, kicking the air and coo'ing at me with interest. Mostly their parents smile at me and laugh, proud and chatty to the blonde who they see as a harmless kid lover.

"Do you have any?"

I just shake my head no. Nothing further required. All they see is a friendly woman of childbearing age, engaging with their perfect kid. Maybe they believe I'm secretly pregnant, or hoping to be.  They don't know, and I don't have to explain the truth. In those ten minutes until my stop I can enjoy sweet baby bliss under the gaze of someone who will never know my story, and who will never be searching for the crazy reaction of the woman who lost her own. Sadly, it's appears to be all I can handle just yet.

.::.

What was your first experience with a baby after your loss? How did you handle it - was it easier or more difficult than you feared it would be?

Balancing act

"How the fuck do you think I am?"

How many times have you wanted to scream that? Alternatively, how many times have you wanted to meet their eyes, all calm, cool, and collected, and say that? Just say it-- no forced smile, no nothing. No other escape routes we seem to want to provide. How many times?

And how many times have you actually said it?

Why is that, you think?

We've had some incredible conversations here at Glow the last little while. It's not that we haven't had them before-- we nearly always do. But the last batch, the last month or so, they seem to intertwine. A funny thing-- even after the thesis of this post came to me, a couple of weeks ago now, its themes kept echoing in new posts and in comments. (Or maybe it's just that once you buy a red car you start noticing them everywhere. I don't know-- you tell me.)

A quick mental experiment for you. Ready? Ok. So you are at a small informal gathering. Beer and hot dogs, that kind of thing. Elitist that I am, I am having a Leffe Brune, slowly, since I am enjoying every little sip. (Hey, it's my mental experiment. Just because I haven't had a real one of these in years is no reason not to throw one into a hypothetical, right?) And what are you drinking? So anyway, it's now like an hour and a half into the party, and who should show up but NM, with her three months old sleeping peacefully in the stroller, of course. She's a very nice person, and you have nothing against her. She apologizes for being late and goes on to say that she just doesn't seem to get anywhere on time anymore. Or into the shower, for that matter, most days.

This is now the part of the exercise where I ask you a question. Here goes: what do you think NM hears in return? 

Personally, I am hearing encouragement and gentle teasing. War stories, of course. All driving at the same essential point-- oh, dear, a shower is a luxury, sleep is a dream, you are a blabbering mess starved for adult conversation but lacking mental capacity to carry one out. And it's all supposed to be like this. C'mon, taking care of a baby is hard work.

Sounds about right? Ok, so let me tweak the scenario a bit. The woman late to the party is BM, and her baby died three months ago. She apologizes for being late and goes on to say that she just doesn't seem to get anywhere on time anymore. Or into the shower, for that matter, most days.

Next question: how do you figure she's treated? And no fair making this a Glow reunion party-- this is just your regular old summer gathering.

I'm seeing a range of reactions. A couple of people look away, perhaps exchanging meaningful glances. Somebody, I am sure, attempts to engage her in conversation about the weather and local sports teams. If she's particularly unlucky, someone might want to sympathize by saying that her own three year old still wants so much mommy time that she has a hard time getting to the shower on weekend mornings. I wonder if someone actually tells her that she's lucky she can sleep in if she needs to. I wonder, also, whether the very concerned take her for a walk to tell her that she really needs to pull herself together, and that the people who just said those things that made her cringe? They meant well, and she's just being oversensitive. Or maybe they just whisper these things behind her back, shooting sideway glances at her, as she nurses her beer in the corner, looking a bit out of it to be honest, the poor dear.

Pity. I don't know about you, but what I'd really like to do it to tell the person pitying me just where and just how deep to shove it. Pity is one of the very few things about bereavement that make me certifiable angry. I don't want pity. I want empathy. I want it to be a genuine and universal response at that party to tell BM that it's all ok, that of course she's having a hard time, that grieving is hard work, and it's all so very new still. And yes, I also want world peace and a pony. Why do you ask?

I've known for a long time that I hate pity. But I've believed it to be all about me. I thought it devalued me, discounted me, separated me from the one doing the pitying. I still think that. But now I think there's more to it. I think it's also about how I want the worth of my child to be seen, how I want him to be valued.

I asked all of you here about self-care, and in the comments there ensued a conversation about putting on make up as some sort of war mask, a face to present to the world, to hide behind. Something to make yourself look presentable, functional. Sane?

Within days of that conversation, our very own Bon found herself at the center of a large and swirling shitstorm. See, Bon wrote a letter. A very reasonable and articulate letter to the hospital where Finn was born and where he died only hours later. She asked them to temper the looky at these incredible survivors here, don't you just admire their spunk, pluck, and tenaciousness tone of their fundraising literature when such literature is sent to bereaved families. (Can I get an Amen? And thank you.)

So what do you suppose happened when CBC picked up the story? If you said that the tone of the article (now toned well the hell down following pushback) made Bon out to be a fragile and possibly ranty woman on the lookout for perceived injustices to stomp her feet at, and that a bunch of readers piled on with comments to the same effect, suggesting, you know, grief counselling for the poor sad woman, clearly out of her mind with grief, ding-ding-ding you win. Grief counselling. To learn to, you know, manage your grief. To learn to contain it. To stop letting it pollute polite conversation. (To be clear-- I am not knocking grief counselling. I am knocking the people who believe that it graduates fixed people, happy people, completely over their grief, and ready to fully rejoin society, already in progress.)

A somewhat funny thing happened as the comments rolled on. A link to the original letter got posted. People came to stand up for Bon and to push back. And some of the knee-jerkers even clicked over to read the letter. And some even said something to the effect of "oh, well, the letter is reasonable." And aren't we all glad it met with their eventual approval?

And so here's my new hypothesis. I think we try to act like we have it together because we need to be seen as sane. Because in-sane people are easy to dismiss.

She's just insane with grief, can you imagine?

You can pity the insane and walk on by. It's totally allowed. You can even judge them. They are the other, not you, not one of the normals. You don't have to try her grief on in your mind. She's clearly lost it, and you would never let yourself fall apart like that. I mean, sad things happen all the time, but it's been months now. You'd think she'd be better by now, you know?

Sane people, on the other hand, need to be taken seriously. We interact with them. We're supposed to listen to what they say. Pay attention.

And so I think that some part of our need to be seen as sane is not about us. Not about our pride being hurt if we are pitied. Not about being infuriated because we are patronized with idiotic advice on how to make it all better. I think that some part of this is about the need to have our children, these little people we are grieving, be seen as profoundly cherished. Grieved by crazy people, they are invisible. Grieved by articulate sane people who are still hurting, they are suddenly important. Worthy.

I think we hold it together so that when we choose to talk about it, we are not dismissed. I think one of the things we most want others to understand is that our grief is not an overreaction, that our love for the person who died warrants the grief, that it's messy as all get out, but that the mess too is normal. Not an overreaction. Not an overreaction. NOT an overreaction.

Tash once found a sentence in her medical records: "the parents have been grieving appropriately." Yeah, I see your eyebrow. Mine did that too. So glad the white coats approve, right? But as much as it stings delivered like that, as a judgement, even if a positive judgement, I think I might want that on a t-shirt--  I am grieving appropriately. Now shut up, stop judging, and listen. 

What about you? How much of your grief do you let others see? And what happens when you do?