one day at suppertime
I will always be suffocating on my own sorrow. ... How do you come back from this type of thing? Will this loss always define me? Should I feel guilty for not wanting it to define me? Or guilty because I want it to?
Oh, how to navigate this new part of my life...
One aching mother left this on our discussion board, not the first nor the last time the very same questions have surfaced there. I remember wondering the very same things myself.
How do you come back from this type of thing?
You don't—but you won't always suffocate on your own sorrow. You will become something else. You will grow gills, and you will breathe in an entirely new way.
Someday you'll get as far as suppertime before remembering, at least consciously, that your baby died. You'll be adding butter to rice with one hand and putting an oven mitt on the other, worried that you've burnt the almonds again, and you'll pause and go
Oh. Oh right...
But you won't stop. You'll open the oven door and the timer will ding for the frittata and you'll dish it all out and you'll sit down to eat and realize that it's been one whole day until suppertime without a single thought of what happened to you. All day it was just have to pay the power bill and christ, it's getting cold out and that was a great meeting and these shoes make me blister and what a gorgeous sunset and we're going to see that show this weekend and for that ticket price, it had better be epic.
And then, not until 6:12, as almonds edge precariously close to black:
Oh. Oh right...
You remember. That was me. God, that was us.
But then Wow. What time is it?
6:12.
It's been all day. I hadn't thought of it once and it's been all day.
+++
Will loss always define you?
Sure. Of course it will. Just as much as everything else you've ever done or experienced defines you. Sickness, love, career, marriage. Everything mashes up together to define you. Every relationship, every pothole, every blessing.
Right now, loss is all there is. It has overwhelmed everything else, as it must. But someday you'll pause for a moment and remember, and you'll wait for your eyes to get all hot and glassy. But they won't. And then, in a split second, all of this:
First, you feel almost ordinary, without guilt. This feels peaceful.
Second, you send love to that lost soul. You decide, regardless of what belief system you use to frame it, that your child is onwards, elsewhere. And this is a letting-go. This is a safe-journey, a wear-your-mittens, a don't-forget-to-eat-a-good-snack. This is the beginning of your active motherhood of that lost soul, for that's what mothers must do. From the very beginning they must let go.
Third, you eat frittata with parmesan reggiano on top, parmesan that cost too much. And buttered rice with toasted almonds. It is delicious. You sip a glass of wine as you ask your husband, the father of the baby you lost together, to make a fire. And you balance a plate on your lap as a billow of companionable smoke tufts into the living room, just as a good movie starts on television.
You remember, but you live. You see yourself in the mirror and see scars that no longer hurt. They are just... there. They catch the light, shimmer a bit where new skin grew back.
And you think alright baby, alright.
Tell us where you're at. Have you had that moment yet? Has ordinary settled upon you again? Are you almost ready to graduate from this community, at least in comparison to how you once needed it before? How do you know it? What would you tell those parents among us who are still raw? If you are that parent and your loss is recent, what do you feel you need to find that moment for yourself?
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My advice to newly raw parents is that it is a slog and you just have to get through it however you can. You WILL get through it. The most frustrating part for me was that there was no way to know how long it would last. It was like traveling through a thicket of tall, thorny vines. Tromping through, skin being sliced; there was no way to forget that it was there. IT HURT every second of the day. Then at some point the vines grew wider apart - there was a path, and the thorns only snagged my skin every so often. Now I feel like I'm out in an open field and once in a while I will glance to my left or right or behind me and see those vines and be reminded of what I went through. Sometimes it is unbelievable that that happened to me and that I got through it.
People who had gone through the same kind of loss as I had emailed me when I was in my darkest place and told me that they had been there and that one day it would be ok. Those emails comforted me, though it was hard to believe that it would be true for me.
Yes...not seeing the light at the end of the tunnel...it is positively panicking. But one day, it is there. And Kate is right. One day, you will go hours without thinking of your child and realize that not thinking doesn't mean you don't love them just the same. Not.at.all. It is simply just your mind beind kinder to yourself...as you can only take being raked over the coals so many times.
I think the part that had been scary for me to accept is that, as you get closer to going until suppertime without thinking of this loss, you realize how much you will have changed as a person. And in the beginning, I didn't want to change. I didn't want to be different. I wanted to be the person I was before we lost our sweet girl. And it's really just impossible...to endure what you have and be the same. Different sometimes seems scary in the beginning...but I must say that, as you become that new person, you do start to recognize all of the strengths you develop while living this new life. You emerge bolder than before. A survivor. A survivor who never forgets. Because making it until suppertime is not forgetting. It's simply learning to live in the midst of all of this in the sanest way possible.
That I had been slowly recovering had not even occured to me, until I suddenly realized one morning earlier this fall, that I had lost the bracelet my husband had given me after our son died--the one I had worn continuously over the last year and a half, that kept me from washing away in my grief. That gave me so much solace. I had not even known it was missing for--who knows how long. Or, I had known it was gone, somewhere in the back of my mind--earlier, I would periodically rummage through my jewlery box for something, but always deciding after a few moments that there was nothing in there that satisfied, but not understanding why nothing in there satisfied.
I dearly wish I could find the bracelet. But it was the shocking discovery that I had actually lost and then completely forgotten about this bracelet for what was probably weeks, that made me sit back and think about how far we had travelled, and how much sometimes, I wish we could go back.
I knew that going back to work would change things and it did.
It took a couple of weeks and drugs before the ordinary really settled in, but it did as quickly as I had anticipated. And the pain began to fade. I had thought that I needed the pain, that if I clung to the pain and didn't let it go it was the closest I could get to clinging to Gabriel. I remember early on someone told me or I read somewhere that I would always carry him with me, but I was so terrified that going back to Life and Normal (or what passes for it post-baby) meant giving him up a second time. That they were right about it was immensely comforting - sort of like easing into a pool and being asked to float and let go of the side and being pleasantly surprised to find that you can, in fact, float and find that you are not, in fact, drowning.
It shocks me to realize it's not yet been three months. I'm so far from where I was. Not far enough to be out of the woods, but far enough that I'm no longer afraid I will be stranded there alone and frightened forever. I'm just sort of sitting on a log, taking it all in at this point.
At the beginning, I needed Glow like I needed air and water. This is possibly the biggest thing that saved my sanity when I was really losing it. Knowing other people survived, learning I wasn't crazy or wrong or whatever else for how I as feeling, finding other people's words giving voice to the deepest things in my heart that I simply could not explain - so necessary. Now, though I check in often and am continuing to work my way through the archives, it's not the desparate searching it was before.
I would tell anyone who is as I was when I came here - breathe. Find a space, curl up. It won't last like this forever (even if you are reading about people are 1, 2, 7 years out from their loss still expressing anger, hurt, resentment, bewilderment - this is a safe space to do that, so you are more likely to see it here than if you were to observe them elsewhere), it will hurt, you can't rush it or make it go faster, but I think some kind of peace (however it is for you) will come eventually. And when it does, it may be the eye of the storm. You may never be 'done' grieving, but you will live and you will come to find some pleasure in that again. Until then, I am here to sit with you.
at only 8 months out from our loss i actually feel better than i thought i would - i mean if you had told me 3 or 4 months ago that i would be getting through my days as well as i am, i wouldn't have believed it. i am not tearing myself to pieces all the time. i sort of have a routine, and projects i like, and i don't read the blogs all day. my bad days look more like short outbursts of tears and anger rather than the inability to get myself up off the shower floor. i enjoy myself with friends and family in a lowkey way. a lot of days i almost cannot stand how ok i feel. betrayal.
i still feel safest at home. still feel raw and freakish when around other people who are not dbms. i am tired all the time. i am angry. i have post-traumatic anxiety and flashbacks that knock the breath right out of me. i miss her in a heart-stopping way. and i'm glad for those things. i'm not ready for the days you describe, kate. it's good to know they are out there, but they aren't for me. not yet.
i know time will change this. i think time is all i need.
we had a weekend recently where we went out west to a music festival, with loads of friends, and just pretended to be normal. i thought about silas, of course, especially around our friends 1 yr old, but it didn't encompass my every thought. it came and went.
i don't have days yet where i don't think about what happened to me until that moment late in the evening. i think about it when my kitty is curled up in my arms instead of silas every morning. the missing him starts almost every day. but its fleeting. it comes and goes all day, every day.
i am a year and 2 months out. i am not fully, completely raw, but the rawness is there and i don't think it will ever leave. maybe when i finally have that baby to love, it may change. but for now, the loss is present.
losing silas doesn't keep me from living my life, from working, playing, and attempting to even enjoy life sometimes. but the sadness is there and always will be. i guess our focus these days has been on getting pregnant- and that is also a constant worry.
thank you so much kate. this post was perfect. xo
i'm almost 17 weeks into this nightmare, and have already noticed the days where I'm doing ok are lasting longer. I'm still in that stage though where I'm waiting for the crash back down.
I still think of Florence every moment of every day, while I'm doing my every day things. I sometimes catch myself doing something normal like eating a delicious meal and wondering how I can enjoy something so every day when my baby girl is gone?
I am however starting to focus on the future, I'm scared,but I'm hopeful too, and I think that's got to be a good sign.x
That's just spot-on--exactly how it feels. Even though I wouldn't have believed you two years ago.
My heart aches every time I see a new name here but I feel better knowing that they've come to a place that will help with healing and give them some hope.
I think the strangest thing about healing is the back-and-forth. I'm 95% readjusted but I still take mental trips back to the NICU every so often (mostly triggered by the scent of hand sanitizer--when will flu season end?). I guess it's just the new normal.
It's funny, this post is so timely.
I have been doing really well lately. When my son pulled up on the shelf next to our bed and pointed to his sister's picture and said, "that?" I was able to say with a steady voice, "that's your sister, honey."
I can think of my brief time with her in my arms and not weep, and I can believe honestly and hopefully of being reunited with her in heaven. I have been healing spiritually as well. I wasn't able to read my Bible or pray without losing it and feeling great anger toward God. But I'm back in a place of relationship with God, and while it's tentative and healing, it's real, and it's growing. So, I'm doing really well.
I had the epiphany that I was doing well, and then on Monday a friend of mine emailed to ask how I was doing because I's birthday had just passed. I wrote back to her and thanked her for asking, and I told her that meant so much to me that she remembered my little girl. In the process of writing this note, I burst into tears...and at that exact moment the new neighbor came over to introduce herself. She didn't ask, and I didn't share, but goodness, what must she think of me!
Then the next day I took my son to the pediatrician, and a new nurse came to give him his injections. We were chatting, and she asked if my son was my first...and I burst into tears. I don't know why it hit me at that exact moment. I explained to her why I was crying, and she started crying, too, and she told me she was also a babylost mama. Her baby boy died 23 year ago, and she still wept for him. She said, "you never get over it, honey. They will always be our babies." I think that we just learn how to live every day without suffocating in our grief, but there will always be those days, or those moments when we remember our babies and weep...and that will be okay.
I am differetn now, and feel differently about how I'll live my life, but Im not sure how that will be yet.