They are songs of grief and death and the intersection of life and loss that is my permanent residence. These are the melodies I frantically return to each time I feel I have lost her again, clinging to each syllable when the strum of grief reverberates throughout my hollow body. They are the exact same words that remind me that I will always be able to find her in the deepest parts of my soul, that she will forever be a part of me.
Guilt, the sharp-toothed animal, snakes in place of a tongue, hissing, biting, cursing, blaming. 'You should have, you must have, you did not…' The other face of imagination, uttering the same what if and if only over and over again. Ravaging my head, not letting me sleep, for fear of waking up to find her dead.
'Not your fault.' A mantra, a song, a pleading hymn for rationality. Pounding in a head dizzy from lack of air, dizzy from this new reality. 'Not your fault. Not your fault. Not your fault.' Months out, I am still free falling. The air is still thin. The pain is still there, a knife between the ribs, the sinking feeling of the stomach as I plummet thousands of feet through the air, without any promise of landing.
I’ll give you a minute, the doctor said. / A minute to sort through the daze / A minute to take in that the baby was gone / A minute to cry out in pain.
My body would want to clench every tooth, grip, joint, sinew, as though its own hanging-on to itself might combat the inevitable force of impact. But it can't. The inertia that would crumple a car is a thousand times stronger than me. If I go limp, there's a chance I might knock around inside disaster with a fraction more fluidity. Gone limp, I might break a little less.
They call it Pain Olympics. 'Don’t try to play it,' wise people say. 'There’s no point.' For a long time, I couldn’t help it. I kept it to myself, mostly, but Pain Olympics had become a reflex beyond my control. I didn’t want that gold medal. But I’d be damned if someone else would try and claim it.
I know they are just words. I know we have to share them. But it feels like we should get something more. Maybe it’s not the fault of the word. Maybe the words just simply don’t stretch as far as we are gone. Maybe there are no words to truly describe the pain of it all. Sometimes, in my angriest times, I wish there was something sacred, something more, something I could selfishly claim and reserve for those of us who have walked this path and nobody else. It just doesn't seem fair, to share.
As I walk to my car after work in the early evening darkness of winter, I realize that my shaky situational management has, what appears to me, a consequence. I cycle through the past moments of avoidance and self-preservation, replay the flashes of tense minutes forced upon me, of gritting my teeth through apathetic dismissals veiled in platitudes. I weigh them against the softer moments of kind words, timely gifts and acknowledgement, but find an imbalance.
We’re stuck in between. In between worlds and in between words. And while our friends live in their whole worlds and speak in their whole languages, and we take part and play along, our fragmented lives and fractured words cannot fit or reflect perfectly.
'How Not To Say The Wrong Thing' was originally published in the LA Times in 2013. There is a way, it purports, to show up in the company of people in the middle of crisis, trauma, and loss. People say there is no right or wrong way to grieve and that's true. The aggrieved grieve as they must, a hundred different ways, as is their emotional autonomy. But there sure as hell is a wrong way to be around grieving people. I've seen it. I've witnessed it. Have you?
A baby entered my home for the first time, but she wasn't mine. My son watched the baby tentatively, and finally went over to say hello. Uncertain of how to greet her, he waved. He was fascinated by her tiny fingers and toes, miniature in comparison to his own. All the while, I was fascinated by his bravery, strength, and resilience. He was thinking about his lost sister, the one he never met. The one he often longs for. He handled this other baby, his cousin, so well. So did I. If he could handle it, so could I.
When Grief comes again, you make tea. Or wish longingly that you had it in you to make the tea. You don’t try to chase it away (as if that would ever work). You make room.
I was a different kind of mother
and nothing about that is self-evident
We are strangers to one another. You arrived to me through a website in a series of zeroes and ones. But we are space travellers connected forever by shared astrophysics. I was once pulled apart into a drifting cloud of atoms and molecules. Like oil in a dish, my specks magnetically drew to one another over what felt like millennia until there were enough atoms and molecules for an arm, a kidney, an ear, until I was myself again.
Every day this month, I head into the cold and walk to the mailbox. For a moment I pause; preparing myself for what I’ll open and find. I tuck the small bundle of bright envelopes under my arm and run back inside, the tension within me building. The holiday cards have started arriving, and I feel emptier than usual.
Hiding in a dark was the final step of my poorly executed plan. Avoidance. Protection. Head down. It will be over soon. In an hour, we can all just move on and forget about it. But I couldn’t let it go. The notion that my absence would be noted, that the assumptions others made would be wrong. There are coworkers who have made no mention of my daughter, despite the pictures and stillbirth research fundraising flyers, her name written all over my office. Even from the ones that know of all three of my children, I lack the confidence in their ability to consider my past in the context of the present.
Tomorrow my Ma sets foot on the US soil again. She will come to us for a few weeks, in a new town, in a new house, and we will see her more than three years later. Three years since I have hugged and held my mother. Three years since we have wept on each other's shoulders.
Everyone grieves, and justifiably, for all kinds of reasons. The Buddhists sit accordingly. Our suffering unites us. Our longing for things to go the way we would like is the most human of all. We are the only animals to despair. Given that our extended community includes those who have experienced pregnancy loss—miscarriage being on a shared spectrum—how does it change our concept of community and healing to consider that a wider breadth of parenthood loss is the same kaleidoscope, given a twist?
I didn't need much from you. I simply needed you to walk beside me every now and then. I needed you to spare me a thought even if you didn't know what to say, even if you didn't entirely understand. All I needed was for you to simply acknowledge that my sadness is real, and that I have lost so very much. I never doubted that the sun would shine again. It’s always there beyond the greyness of the clouds. But until then, I would have liked a gentle thoughtfulness. A recognition that my grief mattered, a thought for the loved ones I have said goodbye to, too soon.
Election day is almost here, and I know I am not the only one whose anxiety levels are off the charts. It's not a new or unfamiliar feeling. It's just that usually when I walk around with a permanent pit in my stomach and a permanent knot in my throat I can't expect that most of the people I'd meet in a day might be feeling the exact same thing. There is community in this too—in sharing difficulty, perseverance, dark humor, but also determination and joy.
For the second year in a row, we move Joseph’s urn to the mantle, along with his birth announcement, and the photo of my pregnant belly days before he died (was dying even then?). But this, too, in its own way, feels empty. Why do I do this? I wonder. I do not believe that this night the veil between the worlds will open. I do not believe the dead will come back to visit us. I do not believe I will be reunited with my son.
"This isn't just sad," I said. "These are the best stories. The ones that take someone's suffering and shape it, form it, use it. As writers, we take this character—you, me, Chanie, even baby Liam—who might be feeling lost, and scared, and brave, and determined all at once—and we give them love by paying attention. We will almost always find understanding. Even a bit of magic. Even if it's fifty years too late, it counts. It matters to try, and this is art."
I pulled out this drawing not long ago, years after our third and last came to be, and subsequently die. I studied the faces I had been so oblivious to before. Suddenly, what was once was a charming picture of our future family now represented my son’s intuition of what was to come—for our faces were anything but happy.
We pause naturally and both stare at the ground, the serendipitous coincidence of our exchange catching up to us. She picks up the conversation by stating what I already know to be true, but is so often and easily disregarded as obvious: “Even after 30 years, it hurts as much as it did the day they died.” As it has done so many times over the last two years, my heart breaks all over again. For her, for me. For what should be.
During the five days of festivities, the city never sleeps, and millions of people throng the streets all night, decked in their newly-bought finery. Friends and family return from all over the world, and in many homes, the festival also occasions their own daughter’s homecoming, from a city or country thousands of miles away. The festival is about new unions, reunions, of the coming together and being one again, of dispersed loved ones. There is space for all in these festive five days—from the deeply religious to the merely fun-loving.
It doesn’t get said out loud very often anymore. I think that others think that enough time has passed. That maybe they don’t want to remind me of you, my great love, my great loss. I think they think your little brother keeps me occupied and that I’m not missing you always. They don’t understand that both of those things happen simultaneously. I am deliriously in love with your brother and constantly remembering and missing you: “Henry, Henry, Henry.”
A lot of who we were is what makes us who we are. It is often what we once shared as a couple, that provides that extra blanket during the coldness of grief. This book spoke to me of the excruciating pain of losing but also of love and romance and living, of everything that existed before and during the sadness.