It’s been six months since the worst day of my life. I’m
still alive, though at times I’m not sure how I’ve survived this long. There
have been so many desolate, heart-rending moments that it has become my mantra
whenever someone randomly came upon me in tears: “I’m just having a moment.” So
many moments; my life has been redefined by grief, surrounds this grief, and
each and every day it looms over me like a cloud, ready to strike without
warning. Somehow I navigate through each small storm, but every raindrop
represents a thousand tears of missing my son.
In the first month or two, after returning to work too soon
following my loss, I hadn’t even bothered to put on make-up. More often than
not, on the few days I had ventured to try, my make-up had been cried away
before even arriving to the office; other times it may have lasted to lunch,
but behind my closed office door it wouldn’t keep much longer than that. Many
mornings I was late to work (I’m still often late) because I could not stop
crying while getting dressed, or because I had cried so much the night before,
my eyes were swollen beyond recognition and I couldn’t traipse into work flaunting
bee-sting swells. Other days there were no tears, but also no motivation, and I
struggled to drag myself out of bed to perform the mundane task of pretending I
wanted to be at work or anywhere other than the dark recesses of my empty and
silent apartment. I had moments wondering if I should have stayed home from one
day to the next, but truth be told, if I stayed home every time I cried, I
would have been MIA from work for the better part of a year. Eventually I
realized this was my new norm and people would have to accept me as such: I was
going to cry, I could cry at any moment without warning, and I would likely be
in a down-trodden, fuck my life mood on the daily. So if you knocked on my door
with a question needing an answer, you would know that you would likely find me
teary-eyed, snotty nosed, red-faced, with a simple “I’m just having a moment”
as an explanation for it all. And it would have to suffice.
These moments could be sudden and random thunder claps of
grief; at times they came when I least expected them, even in the middle of
bursts of laughter I could shift seamlessly into hysterical heaves of sobs and
tears, but other times they were brought on by very obvious triggers, usually
baby stuff. My electronic devices drew from cookies of search history during my
pregnant days and spewed out suggestions for baby clothes, gadgets, diapers,
and newborn posts. Clients came into the office with my son’s name, a name that
had never been popular, which no one had bore in my six years of working at
this clinic, but suddenly following his death I was bombarded with three Jaces
reverberating off the walls of my empty heart. But nothing hurt more than the
babies around me and those who were blessed with healthy pregnancies.
I struggled to be around my niece, who was only 6 months old
when I lost Jace; I struggled sometimes to hold her, to peer into her cherubic
face, knowing I would never cuddle my son the same way, he would never reach
the milestones she would conquer like laughing, crawling, walking. At times I
was desperate to hold her, other times I couldn’t bear to be in the same room
as her without breaking down. A triad of friends were pregnant with me, all of
us due just a few months apart from one another, and it was earth shattering to
watch as each of them brought their healthy, beautiful babies into the world
while I wore the ashes of mine around my neck. We had once shared our pregnancy
woes and excitements, we had bubbled over future playdates and being new moms
together, and now they had moved forward on this wonderful road of motherhood without
me. Two of the trio had already suffered their own losses previously, and I
recall thinking how dreadful it would be if one of us lost our babies, how hard
it would be for her to bear witness to the rest of us having our kids. Truth be
told, I didn’t count myself as being the one at risk; the others had a history
of difficulties, and they were the ones I feared for. With 20 weeks of healthy
tests and good ultrasounds, I never thought it would be me. But one in four
women suffer from a pregnancy or infant loss, and of the four of us, statistics
rang true: it was simply my turn.
The biggest challenge with this came the balance of
self-preservation and my glaring absence from the living. Always having built a
strong bond with my older nieces, I realized a gap was forming between my
youngest and me because of my difficulty in being around her, and I worried we
wouldn’t be as close. Her first birthday party is around the corner, and I’m
trying to build the strength to go. It will be a heartbreaking reminder that my
son will never reach his first birthday, but I don’t want my niece looking back
on photos years from now, wondering where I was. With the triad, I’ve had to
mute social media posts and I struggle to ask about how they and their children
are doing because I can’t talk about their babies without the painful reminder
that I don’t have mine. I should be sharing in their joy, this momentous
occasion of their lives, planning visits, gushing over their babies, stealing
another minute holding them. But I can’t even see a photo of them without
crying. I feel like a lousy friend. I feel like a distant aunt.
Everyone of course has been incredibly understanding and
respectful of my process, but the guilt is there nonetheless. With grief comes
an immense amount of guilt for various things, but mostly I felt guilt for
being unavailable to mostly everyone in my life. I stopped interacting with
most friends and family because social interactions were so draining, most
times I didn’t feel like leaving the house. Other times I refused invitations
because I feared bursting into tears at any moment and ruining the fun for
everyone else. It was easier to stay home knowing I had the freedom to cry when
I pleased, that I didn’t have to put on a mask of joy, that I could just be a
grieving mom. I forgot birthdays and important events, and I struggled to be
present as a bridesmaid for my best friend’s wedding and all the gatherings
leading up to it. With a bridal shower and wedding ceremony attended by two of
the triad, and a bachelorette attended by a pregnant woman and the chatter of
her upcoming baby shower, it was challenging keeping myself together so I
wouldn’t take the focus off the bride. I made it through most of the events
unscathed, save an emotional moment when one of the triad brought her newborn
to the bridal shower and when I had too much to drink at the wedding, drunkenly
insisting that another one of the triad to show me photos of her babies. This
was more so I could feel like a good friend asking about her little ones than
actually thinking I could handle seeing her blessings. It ended with a tearful
“I’m happy for you” and a jaunt back over to the open bar.
I had joined support groups, one online and one face to
face, mostly in hopes of finding other mothers struggling through the same. The
face to face group was short-lived and mostly unsuccessful as the faces all
changed from one group to another, and after I was three sessions in, the group
facilitator quit. The online group was a mosaic of freshly bereaved mothers,
anxiety-inducing stories of failed pregnancies and potential hazards I had
never heard of, irrational emotions, and worst of all, a never-ending storm of
grief. The resounding message from most women in this group was it doesn’t get
better. Some were years into their loss and still lamented that their grief was
as powerful as the day their child died. And it scared me. I didn’t want to
fall into that bottomless pit. I had once lived in a 12 year depression and I
didn’t want to feel that weighted darkness on my shoulders again.
My friends and family did their best to raise me above the
clouds, checking in with me, trying to drag me out of the house, sending me
small thoughtful gifts. My mom was at my beck and call whenever I needed a
shoulder to cry on. My staff at work, usually the anti-social types tried their
best to stay festive for the holidays to keep my spirits up. My best friend
found the time to send daily funny memes and videos on Instagram in the midst
of the chaos preparing for her own wedding. My dad, who has never been great
with emotions, took it a step further in an effort to fix my sadness by finding
me a project. A new home, in fact. The plan had always been to buy a home after
Jace was born, when my apartment lease expired. But with Jace gone and mortgage
interest rates at an all time low, my dad determined this was the time to buy.
He was helping me with the down payment and left me with little choice, though
I fought tooth and nail against this plot, knowing such a huge life decision
should not be made a month after losing a child, knowing I hardly had the
energy for it. A rushed escrow and a move in date fit snugly between
Thanksgiving and Christmas was an emotionally draining whirlwind of
distraction, but when the dust settled, although I loved my new little home, it
was no cure for this level of heartache.
Some things were not so helpful, such as comments that were
made but not thought through. Having people tell me I can “just try again” like
Jace was so easily replaced. Others telling me “something better is coming” as
if he wasn’t the something better I’ve been waiting for all my life. At a
family gathering, in the midst of hyperactive sugar-fueled children tearing
around the house, one family member asked me if I was grateful I didn’t have to
deal with the chaos of children once I returned to my home. Yes, I am grateful
my son died so I don’t have to deal with an ecstatic, giggly squealing,
slightly crazy toddler that I paid thousands of dollars to have. Asshole.
Others were well-intentioned but misaligned religious comments. I’m not
religious, but I could appreciate the vigils, the spiritual-themed gifts and
condolences; I even allowed people to hold my hands and pray for me. But I
could not abide the religious justifications of my loss, the chorus of “it’s God’s
plan”, “a test of strength”, “heaven needed another angel”, and “he’s in heaven
waiting for you.” If it was a plan, it is the most fucked up plan since the
slaying of Egyptian first-borns. If it was a test, my whole life has been a
test, I didn’t need another. Heaven did not need my angel, I did. I don’t
believe I will see my son again. It’s painful, but less painful understanding
this was some biological failing than trying to understand some distant deity
sitting on a cloud watching his plan of inflicting immense suffering play out.
And the suffering is still playing out.
The remnants of PTSD are fading: the dreams of ongoing
pregnancy loss, the anxiety of driving the same street that I had taken to the
hospital that day, the heart-stopping stomach flutters that were mistaken for
his kicking are slowly dissipating. I've nearly forgiven my body for what I've believed to be the worst betrayal of me by letting my son die. I;m trying to give myself the space to grieve when I need to. The tears have subsided to a few times a
week versus a few times a day. I’m slowly finding my way through this storm and
I’ve had to live through very difficult moments of honoring and remembering my
son to get there. I painstakingly filled out Jace’s baby book the best that I
could, noting the information I could about his conception and prenatal growth,
sugarcoating the story of his delivery, and pasting his ultrasound photos into
the pages that were meant for pictures taken after he was born. I tattooed his
tiny footprints on my forearm above his name. My due date was marked by a tear-filled
hike to my favorite place in the mountains and a balloon release, little latex
pockets of air with messages of love to my son scrawled on them. His teddy bear
urn still sits on the shelf shown in my last post with a candle lit for him
each and every night. I still sleep with his blanket and travel with it
wherever I may be going for overnight stays. I write him letters professing my
undying love for him. I wear his ashes around my neck in an engraved urn
necklace.
I am doing better day by day, however. I'm seeing more friends, getting out of the house. I'm crying less, laughing more, slowly coming back to life. I know I’m forever changed, that grief will always be a part
of me and a daily challenge to combat, but I can’t let it stop my life. I’m
trying to prepare myself emotionally, physically, and financially to try for a
baby again as living motherhood is still a dream of mine, but he will always be
my firstborn son, and big brother to any little ones following in his tiny
footsteps. Until then, I’m going to keep having my moments, so thank you for
your patience.
