Boom
Jess at After Iris submitted a guest post not long ago, and her voice and words resonated with so many. She has a way of capturing a feeling perfectly in the fewest possible words. A gift we all wish we had. She combines cheekiness and deep insight harmoniously to give new wisdom into our own grief. In May 2008, Jess' second daughter Iris died while she was in early labour. Though she writes infrequently on her blog, Jess is Glow in the Woods' newest regular contributor and fire-spitting medusa. We are so honored. - Angie
I’m a noisy beastie.
Ra-tat-tat-tat-ing. Clattering around. Today I stood up and made a racket:
LISTEN TO ME WORLD! LISTEN TO ME OCCUPANTS OF MY OFFICE! I HAVE FEELINGS I MUST SHARE WITH YOU! I AM UNHAPPY ABOUT THE DELAY WE ARE CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING IN OUR RECRUITMENT PROCESS! WE NEED MORE STAFF! IMMEDIATELY! I AM EXTREMELY PASSIONATE ABOUT THIS! AS EVIDENCED BY THE SHOUTING! DO NOT SHUSH ME! DO! NOT! SHUSH! ME!
Noisy beastie with her noisy-loud-fist-on-the-table feelings.
I live out loud.
But I grieve in a whisper.
Or even quieter than that.
I grieve in the tap-tap of fingers on a keyboard. I grieve in the silent shudder-shake of waking with an aching face. I grieve in the hush of a turned cheek: turn away, turn away. They don’t know. They don’t know. I grieve by the light of a screen, a muted scream.
But in the quiet, my grief finds a voice. My grief can have a voice here, in this place.
If my tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Yes, in these Woods.
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This is my first post for Glow as a regular contributor, and I want to hear your voices. Do you speak your grief in a shout or a whisper? Have you written a post you wish everyone could read about your baby or babies? If you don’t write a blog, what’s the one thing you wish you could mutter in the world’s ear? I'm listening.
32 Comments
Reader Comments (32)
xxx
My grief is more silent now than it ever has been before. From somewhere (inside my own twisted head?) I feel pressure to relent on my constant verbal yearning for my dead son, now that I am a mere four weeks away from delivering his baby sister (fingers crossed). I just want to say I still miss him so, so much and it still burns as deeply as ever.
I just posted about this on my personal blog
http://andmonkeymakesthree.blogspot.com/2011/07/do-i-make-you-uncomfortable.html
So I turned the volume down. Started telling when I need leave to do something, like burial of the ashes (which started the discussion all over again...) or picking a headstone (only told to my nearest co-workers). I'm supposed to be ok now, supposed to be functioning when some months have passed from "the miscarriage". I am not supposed to bury "the miscarriage", think of him and mourn my losses. Not not not. So I quiet down. I tell them I use my afternoons sitting in the sun in a park reading a book. Technically true, what I don't say is that the park is a cemetery...
I started blogging in a new place, so as not to make even my internet-friends feel I'm too much. I even changed what language I use, not to be as easily found. I create a breathing space - a grieving space - for myself.
If I could I would like to explain for the people that discussed him as a miscarriage, that miscarriage is never what someone IS, it's a process. It's a cause of death - never what he WAS. And that this "fetus" took 17 hours to deliver. This "fetus" had tiny nails on every finger and cute ears on his head. He had closed eyelids and bright red lips. I would want them to understand that a fetus is not a collection of cells that grow as a blob inside until the legal limit of child arrives - to suddenly sprout arms and legs and fingers and ears. I would also tell the ones wanting me to get over it now that death is forever, it's not something we'll ever recover from. Neither him, nor me. The sun will not rise one day giving him his life back and me my son. It will rise on better days. Never on a "recovered" day...
Brianna - "inside my own twisted head" yes, I often think that some stuff remains unsaid, not because I'm filtered by other people's responses, but because in my dark, little brain I censor myself. The other day, I mentioned Iris to a colleague and was immediately worried that it would come across as attention-seeking. I know that's not how anyone else would see it! I know that!
Holly - yes, the thing I like about writing it, is it's "just right." It's exactly as I want it to come out.
Rachel - I hear you. They matter, they count.
Jessica R - I've written a novel in the comments of your post, but to say here as well: scream, rage, shock, shout as much as you need.
Missy - that's interesting, I'd never really thought about the powerful impact that silence can have on those around us. It does seem like you can't win for losing, doesn't it? Grieving a baby, loudly or quietly, is just not palatable for anyone
FC - I read this with my fist clenched. I'm so, so sorry that your grief and the memory of your son has been made to feel unwelcome in other quarters. He will be remembered and spoken of here I hope, and I'm heading over to your blog right now to read more about your boy.
I loved Missy's comment and I also wanted to say that I felt enraged for FC as well. I hate Hope being called "a stillborn". She wasn't a stillborn, she was my baby. Yes she WAS stillborn, but what happened to her does not define her. She was and always will be, my baby. I'm yelling now, but I know I don't need to here, as you kind people are always listening and understanding.
Love that we have you here now, Jess.
xo
I want people to know, that I'm tired of myself too, I'm tired of my grief, can I just have my little girl now? Haven't I done enough time as a grieving Mummy?
This is a great post and a good question. I think I was yelling too, in the beginning, and now, 'm a bare whisper, with silent yelling within.
xoxo
Janis
I'm not a particularly 'noisy beastie' in general. Sometimes I would like to be but it just isn't in my nature. I didn't scream as my daughter died, I felt calm and peaceful. I think that I was so glad to hold her, at last, that I somehow forgot that the only reason I was holding her was because she was dying.
Then, a few days afterwards, I starting screaming. My stiff upper lip just utterly, utterly dissolved. I screamed in hospital corridors and in supermarket aisles. At doctors. At family members. At total strangers. Embarrassing my husband and myself. But the embarrassment wasn't enough to stop my howling. It seems so strange now, to think that the screaming banshee in those memories was me. Or is me still. That screaming person is trapped in here, somewhere, even now.
Then I stopped. Just as suddenly as I'd started. I fell utterly silent for a few months. Then I started whispering, on the internet. And that's all I do now. Hide up here in the spare room and tap tap away. Sometimes I miss the screaming. If that doesn't sound too strange.
And despite all the words I've written, none of it seems to be what I meant to say about her, not quite what I'd hoped to write.
Christy - "I feel so strongly that no one wants to hear, that I will be judged for attention-seeking behavior, that some people will be dismissive of my loss, of my baby. I can't risk it. It's better to just be quiet." I fear the attention-seeking label too. I hate the idea that I might be perceived as "using" Iris' memory in that way.
Jeanette - I really strongly identify with the feeling of "I've done my time, can I have my girl now?" Grief is a lot of work.
Janis - thank you, and thank you for the posts you wrote for Glow, sharing yourself and Ferdinand with us. When I first came here, you were one of the regular contributor and your words meant a huge amount to me.
Nerissa - Yes. The curse of being strong. I get it. And sometimes it's just too hard and to "go there," it makes me weary to have to facilitate others' reactions to my grief.
Catherine - "And despite all the words I've written, none of it seems to be what I meant to say about her, not quite what I'd hoped to write." Having met you in person, I know your voice in both places and I've always felt the "truth" in what you write and say. I miss the screaming too. I'm quiet in the world and increasingly quiet on the internet, mainly because the words don't come easily anymore. The screaming was so primal, it just came out.
Brooke - Oh, I ALWAYS feel like I'm getting it wrong. Always, everywhere. And I love that this feels safe for you, and for me. It makes me feel warm.
crystal theresa - my jaw dropped reading what they ob/gyn said to you. It's still on the floor. Unbelievable. Sending extra fierceness to you, I admire your conviction.
I've only just started a bloggie and have now, just this moment hit the public button (eek! please be kind).
Thankyou for this. I've loved reading your words over the last 6 or so months Jess. You have such a way and your writing is inspiring to say the least.
Thanks for this.
And now, now with this flicker of hope inside me, I'm rendered wordless as well as silent. It is like being a whole new person.
I am so glad you are posting here. I have missed you.
Mary Beth - "I don't like to give people the opportunity to disappoint me, so I choose carefully with whom I can be loud." Yes. In that sense it becomes both a test and an affirmation of a relationship. If I can trust you with my grief, then I will do anything for you.
Merry - silent, wordless nodding going on at my end. Sending love and crossed fingers.
I have so much to say, out loud, but no-one wants to listen any more. Everyone else has their own opinion on how I should be feeling, and they're not scared to share their opinions with me.
So I say nothing. To anyone. I keep it mostly inside. Sometimes I write on my blog, but it's private because there are too many people who want to tell me how to think, how to write, how to feel, how to grieve. Too many people who think that they understand me, as a mother of three dead children.
So I don't say much any more. But that means I have little actual communication with people. I
t's usually just Craig and I. That's what death, and death, and more death does. Your life changes completely.
I wonder if I will ever get used to that: the death and the change.
I honestly don't know how to answer this. My blog is called "Only a whisper" but I'm not by nature a whisperer. I'm a put it all out there for the world to see sort of girl and I did write an early blog post featuring "The scream" called "Inside I'm 4", where I talked about wanting to rant and rage and scream. I do remember screaming a lot in those early days - I had a sore throat for months from the yelling I did.
Now, I still make it a point to talk about Emma - I can speak now in a very matter of fact way about her birth and death. I have discovered that is the only way to keep her present for other people - to make sure I don't sound like the crazy, angry grieving woman. It feels callous to me but it seems to give other people comfort that I'm unlikely to dribble snot all over them and enables them to speak about her too - so I tolerate speaking calmly and metter-of-factly about something that this so unspeakably awful that there are no words, not really.
You understand me.
Your voice speaks in unison with mine.
Same fashion.
Noisy Beastie - Silent Griever
Thank you
Jill - The scream does feel childlike somehow, doesn't it? It's so... free. Tolerating the calm. What very grown up thing to be able to do. I'm not sure I like being a grown up, but I tolerate it too, in much the same way. When I talk (out loud, to people) about Iris, it's not a discussion of grief or yearning. It's plain and honest-faced. An honest face for my lying heart, because the scream goes on.
Cheryl - I just want to hold your hand. I want to reach across a kitchen table and grasp your hand. It's lovely to understand and to feel understood. Thank you.
Cynthia - It seems such a simple ask, doesn't it? To be able to say 'I miss my baby.' People say meaningless shit all the time and yet to speak true words of love and loss and motherhood... it's taboo.
I have somehow managed to learn a new skill, crying so that no one can see that tears are falling. Somehow, my body has figured out that showing my emotions nine months later is just not acceptable. I will have full on tears streaming down one side of my face; the side that no one can see.
Most of my grief work has been done in private. Face to screen, or nose to book... I do try to make time to share my epiphanies with a small group of those that I can trust, but I feel that I would overwhelm them if they knew the whole grief narrative that goes on in my head.
I too, have lost friendships, but not so much because they chose to leave, but rather, I have made deliberate choices to surround myself with loving and supportive people; and evict the others that don't bring joy into my life. I have also reevaluated my life's purpose and have traded in my former career for one that not only brings life meaning, but that honors Alexander's memory
This has not been an easy journey, and one that I never would have chosen to undertake, but it is where I find myself... Without supportive communities like this one, I would still be caught up in the brambles or stuck in the quick sand of this dark wood... I know the path is a long and arduous one, but with supportive people in my life I know that I will find a way to completely integrate my new reality, the mother of an angel <3 <3 <3
I've been thinking of all the silences in my life lately. Many of them are there because I don't have enough discretionary time to fill them, one of the difficult aspects of having a living baby after my firstborn died. I still have things to say, but not much time in which to say them, and because of this it's harder to frame my thoughts, to lead up to them and put them in context. I mentioned to N the other day that the summer weather had me thinking about Teddy, and now he thinks I'm unhappy, when really I'm just dealing with pockets of sadness mixed in with everyday stuff like what to make for dinner and how to convince coworkers that online reference is actually going to be a good thing for the libraries. So, when not writing here, I mostly whisper, or just shut up, because I'm at the point where I want to talk about my son without killing conversations entirely and so far that isn't possible, except here. How funny to think that this online place, that I'd designated for my grieving self, is turning out to be a place where I can be a whole self.
Goodness, what a ramble.
Salatia - what you've written here is pragmatically philosophical or philosophically pragmatic, either way it's admirable and I'm so glad you've found the right people to support you.
Erica - "How funny to think that this online place, that I'd designated for my grieving self, is turning out to be a place where I can be a whole self." as always you express things so beautifully. I think that's my truth too.
I am thankful that there are forums for the bereaved to voice what's been too long silenced by a society that is intolerant with expressions of grief. (Here's a link to something I wrote on this topic: http://onewomansperspective02.wordpress.com/2011/09/17/the-topic-of-grief/) Too often we, the bereaved, feel we have to cater to the discomfort of those around us, to those who are uncomfortable around deep grief. Too often we, the bereaved, feel we have to push the grief down, silence its voice, and hide its face just so people won't avoid us. There are people who will never be comfortable around grief. People will continue to disappear. It will never be an easy walk. But unless we, the bereaved, voice our grief and experiences, how can there be any understanding?
It amazes me how many blogs are written by parents who have suffered miscarriages, stillbirths, or death of a child. We may whisper on our blogs, but it is my hope that this gentle whisper will create a climate of understanding for those who suffer deep grief concerning the loss of a child.