Foreign Language

During our kitchen renovation last year, we moved one of our favorite paintings out of the way, but stupidly not off the floor. And when the reno was done, we clearly didn't hang it back up fast enough because one day we discovered the glass had shattered.

My husband had given me a bunch of old maps of our neighborhood for Christmas '06 -- two months before Maddy died -- and told me the map store guy recommended a small, "doesn't really have a storefront" framer. Said he was the best in town. Of course, I never took my maps in, they just sat and collected dust, but I dug up the name of the framer when I needed my picture fixed two years later.

I called the number, and was greeted with a recorded message: he was currently scaling back his hours due to his wife's death. He left an email on the message, so I sat down and composed what I thought was a fairly simple note: You were highly recommended; I have this painting with broken glass; and I'm so very sorry to hear of your wife's death. I may have added a sentence that I understood completely the need to scale back hours, and realizing that I was a new customer anyway, I would come in at his convenience.

He called back within hours, and after arranging a time to bring in my picture, he said "Thank you so much for your words about my wife." I said again how sorry I was to hear of his loss, and he went on to tell me it was after a struggle with cancer. I asked how old she was -- in her 50s. Ugh.

When I went into the store, he had a small picture of his wife up on his desk. We chatted again, I asked how he was doing ("You're very understanding," he said appreciatively at one point), we talked about her battle. And then the story spilled out: as it so happens my house, for a few decades in the mid-1900s, was a school of sorts. He saw my address, and confirmed which house was mine, and it turned out he went to this school. He eventually taught at this school. He met his wife at this school, in the building that was now my home.

My heart broke in two. I invited him to please come over some time -- we'd love for him to walk around and point out what was where as he remembered it, and place some of the ghosts in their appropriate rooms. But to think, if I had not been so engulfed in my own grief, I would've made this trip much earlier -- two years earlier -- and they both could've come over and relived something together. For some reason I felt miserable. (During this entire discussion I never once mentioned Maddy, though I may have alluded to "a personal tragedy.")  We spoke some more, he fixed the glass on my painting, and I have yet to take in my maps. I need to call him.

:::

My mom was really quiet on the other end of the line. I asked how she was doing, and she said, "I guess I'm just getting used to the idea that my mom isn't here anymore." For some reason, I blurted out, "Grief isn't linear."

Which sounded too pat. So I started gently explaining that in my opinion (trying desperately not to sound like I had written this a million times in a million venues), that perhaps you went through the stages, but not with any rhyme or reason. It wasn't better, better, better every day until suddenly . . . . all done! You went through a stage, sometimes really fast, but maybe you circled back around and did it again a few months later. I pulled out my traffic metaphor: sometimes you're in the express lane, sometimes you find yourself stuck in traffic. You can be humming along only to make a turn and find yourself lost, or in a dead end.

"That makes a world of sense," said my mother. "Thank you."

:::

I discovered a neighbor's father had died during August, my personal month from hell with the endless houseguests and my own grandmother dying. I ran over a card on which I wrote (after saying how sorry I was) that I was looking forward to hearing some stories about his father the next time we got together. And to please call if he needed anything.

:::

I have given up thinking that I am to find or gain something positive from Maddy's death. It was brutal and ugly and senseless, and I've decided I really don't need any "silver lining" in order to move forward. Maybe it will slowly hit me one day, maybe not, and I'm fine with that. I've stopped looking or caring, in any case.

But some things have certainly changed in my behavior and mind's eye, and some of those things I would venture to say for the better.

I can now talk about death. I am completely comfortable talking to people now about all things grim reaper.

There is no way I could've had any of the above conversations prior to three years ago -- I would've been tongue-tied, perhaps mumbled an "I'm sorry," and maybe listened, but probably in hopes they would soon change the subject so I wouldn't have to. I remember standing around a funeral for a father, a distant relative, and being so crushed for his wife and children, and having absolutely nothing to say. Nothing. Seeing the vacant miles of space behind his teenaged-children's eyes, and not knowing how to acknowledge that I saw it, too. Just standing arms akimbo, feeling very lost and removed.

Now, I'm right there with them. I listen attentively, as long as they need to talk. I ask questions. I don't state platitudes. I am not so bold as to say I am empathetic -- I don't know cancer, I have never lost a spouse, my parents are still alive. I only have the briefest of experiences with dementia, and second- and third-hand relationships with hospice. But I know grief. I know the contours, the expressions, the varieties -- each with a differently shaped leaf. I can sense now when to simply be quiet, when people don't want to talk, and when they need to dump. I am no longer fearful or awkward around graveyards, or DNR discussions. I am no longer afraid when people cry. I know this. This I can do, for them.

I can -- usually -- rather easily feel what other babyloss parents are feeling, even if the circumstances are wildly different and their reaction is polar opposite from my own. I know the language now, all those words about "loss" and "never," "why" and "beautiful," but mostly "sad," "crushed," "hopeless."   Certainly it hurts to read of new deaths in some respects, but I feel a sense of obligation to bear witness to the stories, to roll the name(s) off my tongue, and simply (virtually) sit with the parent for a few moments. A few moments -- that's all it hurts me any more, but I know for them the moments will stretch and multiply and crawl until it seems they're drowning. It's the least I can do now that I know I can do it.

I abide.

Some would say this is a skill, or even a gift, that I didn't possess before, and I suppose I should be thankful and consider it a positive consequence to my own journey through hell. But there are days I wish I didn't have it, this ability to sit and be with death, and that I still felt fear, awkwardness, and taciturn bewilderment. Because it would mean none of this ever happened.

Have you experienced a death or another person's grief (outside of babyloss blogs) since the loss of your child(ren)? How did you handle it? How did it make you feel? Is it easier or harder or unchanged the way you acknowledge others' loss?

Comments

[Angie]

Three weeks before Lucy died, my father in law died. Two months later, my grandmother died. Around the same time, my friend's sister died suddenly and unexpectedly. She was 39. When I found out, weeks after her passing, I was devastated for my friend and her family. I felt lost and unsure, but I just went to her house, afraid of what our combined grief would stir in me, afraid of her loss, afraid of my own mortality. I had experienced the reaction of four generations of death in two short months, but this one was a woman very close to my age. I had sat with death of all kinds, old age, terminal disease, unexplained accident, and unexpected death. You know, the thing about sitting with my friend is that I didn't feel the need to say or do anything, which is something I would have scrambled to do before Lucy's death. I would have gone there armed with googled words of comfort and searching for understanding, but I just went, and sat, and cried, and listened, and asked to see pictures. I was so raw from Lucy's death, and we talked about our griefs, which were very different, but shared the same quality of rawness, anger, fear and chaos. I got in my car and put my head in my hands and just wept. It was emotionally exhausting, but it also made me feel connected to this very human experience of loss. I felt more whole, in some ways, to be able to get out of my own suffering and grief, and see someone else's grief and suffering and be compassionate. It was healing in some ways to say--this grief experience is normal in its uniqueness and its vulnerability.

I really really really wish I didn't understand that too. There is definitely apart of me that fights against any positives I see out of the loss of my daughter, but the truth is that the loss of my daughter has given me a greater understanding. I cannot change the death of my daughter, no matter how much I wish I could, so I can only hope it gives me more compassion, more humility, more patience to sit with others and their own grief. I think I strive now just to be the person I wished I had, not someone special, just someone not afraid of death and grief and crying and emotion.

Great post, Tash. Thank you.

[Sally]

My frail, 90 year old grandfather died nine months after we lost Hope. He had a long, full and happy life and we had known the end was near for many months. It was incredibly sad but also very peaceful. He died the perfect death, if there is such a thing. That has (thankfully) been it. While I am able to sit with people in their grief far more comfortably now, I do find myself being somewhat of a selfish bitch at times (in my head though, never out loud). Even though I have experienced great loss, I don't always feel I can connect with another person's grief. I have the time, patience and compassion to sit with them and listen, but I don't always understand it. Babyloss is all I really know. I have lost two grandparents, but they went in the right order. It is normal for us to farewell our grandparents and eventaully our own parents. I'm lucky to have been spared that grief in life so far - very lucky. But I can't help but thinking sometimes, it really doesn't get any worse than this. I know it serves no purpose to play the "grief olympics" (and I could never play it here in babyloss land, as we're all in this together with our suffering and mourning our missing children). But it is hard for me, because while I have come to love and care for so many women here in this space, I don't know anyone else in my real life who has lost a baby. The grief for our babies is so unique and life-altering, I just feel so alone and misunderstood most of the time. People always turn to me with their sad stories now, because I am grief personified and they think I can handle it (which I can), but sometimes I wish I could just say "at least it wasn't your baby who died". I feel ashamed to even admit this, but there it is.
The loss of a baby or child is just so very different. Only anyone who has lost a child can ever really understand.
Thanks Tash, great post.

[Birdie]

I recently started a new job... .one where I am interviewed by perspective clients (or their representatives) who are all individuals with disabilities. Inevitably it comes up "how many children do you have". In the past I would always say 2. For some reason now I feel the need to say 5 but only 2 are surviving. The response is generally "Im so sorry". I can gracefully say "thank you". Someone today responded with "Im so sorry, I lost a baby in March". I froze. I had no words to say.

Ive mastered my own grief.... I have no words to respond to others'.

[Lani]

my mom's cousin just passed away from cancer about a month ago. i went to the funeral, even though the family told my mom they understood if i didn't feel like i could be there. but i felt like i had to be there. to support my cousins. they just lost their dad- and i now know how bad that feels. losing a baby is totally different, like you said. but i know grief now, and loss and i know how much it meant to me for the people in my life to just be there for me. so i was there and i didn't have to say anything.

when people tell me sad stories of death, i feel like i have lived it to the very core. i still fumble for the words, but i do know that just being there to listen is most important.

thanks tash- this topic is something i've thought about recently. i'm glad you wrote about it, and so beautifully.

[Sue]

Several months after our loss, I found that the one thing that could make me feel incrementally better was to be there for another DBM. I remember reading about Busted's loss and going right over there, trying to say something comforting. I don't know what I said, but I think it was probably something that I wanted to hear. Something people have trouble saying, which is simply (and only), "I'm so very sorry for your loss. I am hear to listen."

And 6 months after our loss, my oldest friend's father died. And I was panic-stricken. She had been there with me, cried with me when my mother died, Came home for the funeral, and brought me food after. It still makes me teary to think about how supportive she was with me, and how I could not be there for her. The idea of going to another loved one's funeral, it just made me panic. I feared I would completely lose control -- something she neither of us needed.

Now, I talk about my loss, if not casually, then, relatively easily. No tears. Matter of fact. I talk about being pregnant, and when I lost them, and how hard the road back has been. People always look at me kind of funny. Or I see it that way, at least. Maybe it's discomfort, or disbelief. Whatever is its, I don't really care. I feel almost powerful when this happens. I'm not really sure, but I'll take it.

Several more friends have lost loved ones in the last year or so. Somehow, I feel like, Well, this is the one thing I *can* do, when I say I am here to listen. When I say I'm sorry. When I just sit quietly with them. The one thing I can do.

I know I"m 39, and therefore an adult, a grown up. But it wasn't until my mom died 8 years ago that I even started to feel like a grown up. Now I definitely do. I guess that's a good thing. It still sucks, but I guess, at least there is that.

Thanks for this post. Thinking of you and Maddy today.

[Sue]

"here to listen." Sorry for the typo.

[TracyOC]

Tash,

Well put as always.

One of my co-workers had a young son who died in a tragic accident a couple of years before Rosemary died. Prior to Rosemary's death I had no idea what to say to him about it. He frequently brought his son up in conversation--that overwhelming need to talk about the missing child that's now so familiar to me.

A few weeks after I returned from maternity leave, a bunch of us were chatting about the weekend and he told a story about a disastrous scrapbooking event for his SIDS support-group. Apparently the scrapbooking expert had some very strong, and quite frankly, hilarious, opinions about the 'right' way to remember a dead baby. We were both cracking up (in that clinging-to-sanity kind of way) while everyone else stood around looking like they wanted to sink through the floor. A small part of me was glad that he didn't have to be so lonely anymore.

On the downside I have less patience for grief over dead parents and grandparents. Just something I have to work on I suppose.

[Ezra's Mommy]

This ability to be present with death is new found for me, it wasn't possible earlier in my own journey of grief. But with the space of more than a year since Ezra left, like you, I find myself able to be so much more present in other people's grief, something that would not have been possible before my sweet Ezra died. When my father-in-law passed away this summer, both my husband and I felt like we were re-visiting familiar territory, we knew these dips and turns already. I too shy away from seeing Ezra's death as having amounted to anything positive, but I do believe this is one of the many gifts he left.

[sweetsalty kate]

I feel both more abiding and more tongue-tied - although I didn't know I was tongue-tied until my neighbour, a young mother, was killed in a car crash. At the neighbourhood memorial I had a short conversation with her husband and felt utterly out of place. I didn't know what to say. I drew a blank, forgot myself, and cried as I walked home, feeling like I should have known what to say.

I think I know why that is, though. Had it been a more intimate setting, I would have been fine. I would have been able to focus, remember, listen. As it was, the house was bustling with about a hundred people, all of them laughing and chattering on, admiring one anothers' casseroles. They were all eating, stuffing their faces, like YAY! POTLUCK! and it felt callous and cheap. I stood there staring at him, surrounded by this outpouring of support from the community (regardless of how odd the tone was to me) and all I could think of was how people ran, and still run, from the memory of Liam.

It made me feel like a petulant child, that nobody but us and closest family has the memory of our children. To the outer world, our child never existed. Out of sight, out of mind.

And so I stood there, unable to speak. It all just rang so weirdly for me, and to this day I feel awkward around my neighbour. I wish I could find a way to apologize... really, I was one of those sputtering dipshits he might comment about on a collaborative blog for life after spousal loss.

[Courtney]

Thank God, I haven't experienced any loss since we lost our son Daniel to miscarriage in May of this year.

What I wanted to say was - you felt miserable about not having met the frame man earlier so that he and his wife could have visited the place together. That is out of your hands. The fact of your life is that you were in a difficult place at that time, and that's the way the story goes, so you didn't meet him sooner. BUT, it all panned out so that you could be a part of helping him through his grief process - offering him an opportunity and being understanding because of your own encounters with grief. I think the story is beautiful.

[AM]

Nodding to so much of this...

We moved this year and when we first went to see the house, the seller's agent made mention of "the young widow" 2 doors down as though she was an added feature like the local park or a special old tree in the neighborhood. Likewise, when we met her, she promptly informed us that she lost her husband in September to cancer. As this was January or so, she was still extremely new to [this particular] grief. Like so many of you who make me feel like less of an alien, I have reacted so differently than I would have before my daughter's death. I have been earnest! NEEDING to do right by her, with periodic e-mails and a donation on the day of her husband's death (a year later). She has retreated from our very warm community and so I have wondered if my attempts have been too much or not enough, but I have tried to err on the side of too much. It's what I wish I would have had, not this isolation.

I'm off to e-mail her. I haven't seen her in some time.

[AM]

Is that selfish? Is it projection? Am I just acting out my own needs and puking them onto her? Maybe she does want to be left alone?? Any thoughts?

[moops]

I think, AM, that what you're doing is tremendous - deliberately forging a connection with a stranger. Even if she can't respond adequately or even acknowledge you, I'd be willing to bet she's watching on with fascination and gratitude - you would be one of those people to help restore her faith in life - the help that comes from surprising places.

[tash]

A.M., I agree. Actually what I found most valuable were the people who were just *there*. They didn't exactly do anything, nor did they expect me to answer them or acknowledge them or reciprocate. The people who occasionally just sent me an email to say "I'm thinking of you."

I guess that's what I'd do with your neighbor. Not necessarily feel the need to bring it up or anything, just let her know you're thinking of her. And if she ever feels like it, you're free for coffee and would love to catch up. You're lovely to think of her.

Kate, I think I'd do the same. No need to beat yourself up, that's a horrible situation. Maybe the next time you see him just say, "sorry that was such a crazy day, it was hard to listen."

[IndieBambino]

I lost my Grandfather when I was in college. Some months later I had a dream about him where he was playing cards and smoking, he told me that he was ok, that I should stop worrying about him. He seemed like he was having a really good time at this card game, so I didn't argue with him, and afterwards I felt immensely better, and I was able to let him go in the sense that I stopped crying for him and wondering where he had gone to.
When Henry died I imagined my Grandfather taking him for me, to go fishing, or carrying him away tenderly in his arms, looking back at me just once to show me he was ok now. Your post makes me think of how I have sat in vigil with death, waited for it. When Henry took his last breath, and they were such ragged tearing breaths that took peices of me with them as he exhaled, I saw death take him. Phillip and I held hands around him as he was passing away, he lay on the bed. I remember saying "God Speed Henry", something that I have never said before, and it sounded like something my Grandfather would say.

[AM]

Thank you for the responses. I did write and it felt okay to do so. If I am "that crazy, annoying woman" I can totally live with that. I feel as though some day it will all become clearer.