two solitudes
In that last hour, our hello and goodbye, it was Dave who cried.
I'd never really seen tears well up for him, before. I haven't since. Watching him cradle our son as those few salt drops slid onto Finn's blanket was one of the tenderest things I've witnessed, a benediction of fatherhood more fitting, for us, than the baptism we'd rejected.
I didn't cry. I was too fresh from birth, too present, too amazed by this firstborn boy I hadn't known I'd always wanted, too busy trying to fit a lifetime into the minutes we had. I sang to him, raw-voiced, petted his dark hair, gazed in wonderment at his tidy, perfect ears, his finger gripping mine. I told him he was wanted and loved. I whispered and hushed and said, mama's here...it's okay, little one, don't be afraid. I knew exactly what was happening, but in that moment - small mercies of shock - it was not happening to me. It was happening to my child, and just to be present and with him was all the mothering I was ever going to get to do and all my mind could take in. And so, somehow, I did not cry, me who weeps at car commercials and bristles with indignant tears when the least of my feelings is trod upon.
But later I filled buckets...tears of sorrow and of rage and hopelessness. After his death was done happening to Finn, it happened to me a thousand times in replay, all the loss and brokenness that did not touch me in the moment crowding in tenfold. The bright yellow walls of our kitchen, painted in the first days after we returned home, have my tears in their butter hue. The backsplash of broken tile is a mosaic created of therapeutic sessions, me and a hammer and licensed destruction that kept me, I think, from the siren song of disappearance, of hurting myself.
Dave, though, did not cry again. He held me, weathered me, all that long summer...and all these years since, in the moments where my bitterness and hurt and grief have burbled up to the surface and unleashed tears and wounded cries. But this has not been how he has grieved. His sorrow seems to have no questions, no self-pity. He went back to work five days later, because he had to and I had already lost my job, and he came home lunchtimes in those early days...mostly, I think, to make sure I wasn't hanging from the rafters. And he answered a multitude of questions about how I was doing and he listened to a multitude of secret stories that came spilling out about others' losses long since unspoken and he came home at night and we sat on the deck and I tried desperately to think of something to say to him but came up silent because I had nothing to offer but lamentations...and sometimes he seemed like a stone that I could only break myself on.
I don't think anyone ever asked me how he was.
And yet even in the worst of it, I knew we were lucky...because there was trust between us, implicit and otherwise unscarred. Because I knew he tried hard not to judge me for how I grieved, no matter how ugly and exposed our differences made me feel. Because I knew and did not doubt that he, too, loved our son and missed him and thought of him...even if we weren't able to find ways of speaking that aloud to each other.
But we were still two solitudes, living separate lives for a very long time, hurting - and in ways hurting each other - even while trying to comfort and build.
There is a terrible intimacy in having to share grief with someone. Even if you both feel it deeply, you almost inevitably will not experience it all in the same ways and at the same time. And I wonder if there isn't something about grieving that makes some small part of all of us a little like a cat who crawls off to find a corner alone to die in. The urge for solitude, sanctuary to lick our wounds in in some form or other, seems to be almost a categorical imperative...no matter how we may share ourselves on the internet and even long for commiseration...the reality of mourning in tandem is almost always messy. Grief exposes too much of us, makes the intimacy of eyes searching ours overwhelming.
Dave and I have come out the other side, three years later. I can hold his gaze now and look back without flinching, without hiding, without seeing pain there or pain reflected. There are no other eyes in the world that have shared with me what his have, and we are both healed enough now, in our own separate ways, that the bond doesn't rub raw but honours, commemorates, cements us. I am grateful for his having been there all along, for not having had to find my way alone. And yet I know, if I am honest, that we were alone, in the core of ourselves, stumbling along harnessed together by good faith and nothing else for much of that time. And I catch my breath and think, damn, no wonder divorce rates are so high in the aftermath of loss like this. And I fear to look deeper than that, because I do not want to feast my eyes upon the scars any longer.
bon
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I've been thinking about this a lot lately--for me the heaviest burden of grief is its loneliness. Even though the loss is shared, even though it is not my loss alone, only I can experience my own grief. And it is isolating. When people ask me how my husband is doing (and surprisingly, many do ask), I usually answer with a few noncommittal phrases. I really want to tell them that I don't know, but then I'm afraid that will make people worry about the state of our marriage :)
But really, how can anyone give an answer about another person's grief? Even a mother about a father's pain? A wife about a husband's? We both lost our daughter, but I am not him. Sometimes I cannot fathom how he is grieving, or if he is, or when he is. What I do know is that our grief has not diminished our relationship. And so we continue to make our way through this, alone yet together, until, as you have, we come out on the other side.
In the days following William's death, someone told me that a large percentage of spouses will separate or divorce. While my husband and I also grieved (and still grieve) differently, we both agreed that we had already lost too much...we would do everything in our power to make sure we made it to the "other side" together, even if we didn't grieve together. And it's been almost 6 years, two more children and a messed up ectopic pregnancy later and we are still together. It wasn't always easy, it took me a long time to realize that just because he was grieving diffently, didn't mean it was wrong, just different.
I think we both learned to be a little kinder to each other, and to ourselves. I try hard to find the good things that came/come out of William's death, and I think this greater understanding of my spouse is one of the those things.
this is a gorgeous post, bon. you capture so beautifully and perfectly that sense of separateness, that lonely solitude that is inevitable through the grief journey. it's so true that no matter how intimate the grief, no matter who surrounds you and shares it, we are still at our most vulnerable and must find our way through alone. the eyes tell no lies, they are secrets to the soul.
thank you for articulating this so eloquently.
I am in this space.... this was so gorgeous, Bon. Profoundly right. I never would have thought we would have been shakable by anything, but this? This was divisive. I wonder if losing a baby is like some kind of big bang, something that explodes us apart for a while, both of us in separate corners, but then by gravity and shared experience we cling back together again.
But the road between apart and together.. it's not easy. You've got time on me, and I'm glad to see that it gets better. 'Better' is the most ridiculous word, but I'll use it anyway, with hope.
We have, at times, done it both ways-- incredibly in tune, and incredibly out of it. I try not to question for that exact reason-- I know he hurts as much as I do, and some days I get glimpses of it that are blinding. Some days he faults me for blog therapy, for finding too much of an outlet here, and not talking to him. Other days I know he cries reading my blog, and then he tells me he doesn't know how I find the words.
The whole thing is not easy, not a walk in the park. But the together thing is somehow not in question. And for that I am grateful.
The scars do linger...and for me, four years later, my husband and I still have moments of anger, misunderstanding, tension, over our grief. We nearly lost our marriage after Ben died, when I was at the point where I didn't understand his grief - so quiet, so introverted, so unlike my own - and when he wanted to express it, I retreated into my solitude. It does feel like grieving alone, even though you grieve the same person, the same experience of birthing one already dead, and holding and loving him for a few short hours. In many ways, I still don't understand his grief, and he has not yet fully expressed it. But we keep trying. It's all we can do.
Bon, I think this is one of the most perfect things you have ever written.
Beautiful post,Bon. It blew me away.
Two solitudes is so right. Even though we have been brought closer, our coping and grieving had been very different. Sometimes I feel I need to hide my grieving even.
This is a great post.
I agree with Janis in that sometimes I feel I need to hide my grief from my husband. He just wants me to be better, when I'm sure he knows all to well better is not really an option. The loss brought us so close, in the earliest days, when we both felt and grieved the same. It is only now, when we our grief looks so different, that we find ourselves fumbling to find that closeness once again. We just need time. I know this.
Beautiful post, Bon.
I can't imagine the feeling...the sorrow, the deep sadness tattooed to the soul after a tragedy like this... Why is it that the grieving will always be different? What makes it so hard to express your anger, hurt, your loneliness to the one who still has a piece of your heart? Is it just that they can't cope with yours and theirs-or that it's too fresh, raw, and sore to open up again?
My deepest sympathies to all the lost mama's, stumbling in the dark, whispering to their soul babies. I hope that time will scab this wound and let you wake to enjoy days without so much grief...
"There is a terrible intimacy in having to share grief with someone."
This line really hit home with me. It is so hard to want to cry with the person -- the one person -- who knows everything as you do, and yet simultaneously want to crawl in a cave and never to speak to anyone ever again. And finding the medium between those two poles is what makes and breaks couples when the spotlight is shown on all the cockroaches. I like to think that grief just exacerbates problems that were already there, and that couples who communicate well will make it through, but that's probably any vestige of optimism I have left talking. this is hard. It's all hard. It's unfair that we should have to work at something during the worst moments of our lives, but we do.
Frankly, I don't know how he does it any more than I do myself.
i have started to post on this a few times, but for some reason haven't finished. Bon, you are so on point. grieving w/ my husband has been so hard--it is absolutely impossible to be on the same page--to feel like not being alone when the other wants only to be alone. But . . . there are a few things that have helped us, for which i am grateful. it's helped that we run together--it puts us both in a better mood and more able to relate to each other and to the world. it's helped that he reads my posts and the posts i respond to. i truly think if we didn't share this blogging thing, there's a very good chance we could come out on opposite sides of each other. and finally, every once in a while we share a few beers and/or some wine. it really does help us--in all of this heaviness-to stop sometimes and just enjoy. we're clearly not anywhere near through the woods of our life yet, but for those things, i'm grateful.
...and sometimes he seemed like a stone that I could only break myself on.
Yes.
"There are no other eyes in the world that have shared with me what his have..."
This line rips me apart.
And even in its truth, I see other truths: how we each saw the other during that horrible, horrible time. And both bind us, in our grief.
I just wanted to say thank you for sharing such intimacy. I found this entry so beautiful.
And touching, and synchronistic.
I was just speaking of the husbands this weekend. Limited is my knowledge but I am just so amazed of what I hear from the wives of them.
I know it isn't all wonderful bonding and supporting...
I'm sorry, my words are failing me.
I've wondered if I would feel less defensive and self-critical about the way I grieve if I were, y'know, a guy. Because people's descriptions of the way their partners grieve often seem to resonate with me in a way that their descriptions of their own grief do not.
This is a heartbreakingly beautiful post and I find myself tying to imagine the exact shade of yellow on your kitchen walls.
I have probably said this more than anything regarding losing our babies: men and women grieve differently.
Certainly all people do, but the spot on thing is what you said: this particular loss happened the most personally to he and I. And it was at times beyond me how he acted, reacted, went on and at other times the few words he said to me, are what got me through another day...helped me to believe I was really going to weather the storm. I remember our high risk OB saying we were newlyweds at the time, having only been married 1.5 years when they were born. I also remember many people commenting how incredible it was that we made it, how strong we were. To the outside, it must have looked better than the reality :)
this was, as niobe said, heartbreaking. i often wonder about men and their grief, especially after the loss of a child. i'm sure they are out there in the blog world, but i haven't stumbled upon their words. though i just found a sad, sad blog written by a man whose wife died nine weeks ago one day after giving birth. it is an amazing blog, very moving.
Thank you so much for this post. Dh and I have been having so many problems...problems that at time seem unfixable. And it's because I resent that he does not grieve the soul-shakenly grief that I feel. that it does not continue to shake him to his core the way it does me. That on her one year anniversary, he said nothing to me about it...
It's just so hard. And so good to know that if we can just cling on, we will get through.
Thanks again for this hope
Pain is almost impossible to bear alone. And yet, in some ways, we do bear it alone, don't we? It brings us together and tears us apart. But you wrote a post a year or so ago about that very bit, and so well that it echoes still in my mind; you learn to put the pieces back together again, and somehow, you live through it. Together.
Lovely post, as always, Bon.
Christine,
I saw the blog you mentioned -- my heart literally ached reading his words.
Just a heads-up: my husband has an online journal talking about our experience and his processing of grief. If you are interested, you can find it at http://letting-days-go-by.blogspot.com
Thanks again, Bon, for an amazing post.
My husband is not a "guy's guy" -- not that he's girly -- he doesn't hunt or fish or play football. So it struck me hard and deep when he insisted on signing the authorization form permitting both of our son's heart surgeries. It surprised me because I did all the paperwork, but he took that one away to sign himself. He said that he didn't want it on my conscience if anything went wrong that I had given them permission to cut our boy open and stop his heart.
It still amazes me that it occurred to him (it didn't occur to me) and that he took that step just to make sure, just in case. I don't think I've ever felt more protected.
Differences can be hard, yet they are still good.