"...The thing I have always wanted to say I have no right to and may be so unwanted and I never would wish that. And my greatest fear has always been that my words could possibly cause you further pain which I would never want.
But I am saying it today to you. Forgive me if this is upsetting, please please.
I have always seen you as a mother, to Thomas yes, but in my soul I have always felt you must become a mother to another child, no matter how, no matter from your body or not, from birth or not it has been so strong I have written friends to speak about you and ask their advice. I feel it achingly in my core that your life, that your joy and your path is this, is to find a way to make it happen for you. Through foster or adopt or any other means. And I know that is so easier said than done, I know what you have said about all of it. I do I truly do. I just want you to know I dream about this, it haunts me and I have never understood why it is so, with you, it has never done so with someone else from our land of IF."
I think about this sort of thing a lot. Even still.
I imagine the life I nearly had every time I see a mother lean in to her child to listen to a secret he wants to share, or watch her touch her child with that absent-minded mother-love that makes her need to stroke her daughter's hair without even realizing she's doing it. I feel the emptiness around me so acutely in those fleeting moments when I see so clearly what I'm missing. And I panic in those moments too, knowing that I won't have that kind of connection with anyone. Ever.
But I also believe that childlessness is the road some people walk - some by choice, some because the choice was made for them.
I'm not walking it to be noble or to take the bullet for someone else. I'm walking it because I have to - because this is where life has lead me and I can't turn around and go back to a different starting point. Not now. Not after everything. I tried to choose a different path, but I kept ending up back on this one - more bloodied and broken each time - and there finally came a moment when I decided to stop fighting against it and accept that this is what was meant to be.
I regret that I was ever put in a position where I had to choose. But I don't regret the choice I made. I have to trust that it was the right one for me and for My Beloved.
I admit that it haunts me too. It probably always will. But I do believe that for us this is how it is supposed to be.
So I've just decided that I'll be a mother in other ways to other people until I'm with my own children again. A universal mother, if you will.
I'll crochet for my friends' babies, I'll listen when someone needs to talk, I'll keep secrets, I'll send cookies to work with My Beloved so he can share them with his co-workers, I'll make homemade birthday cakes, I'll make spaghetti sauce from scratch, I'll dry tears, I'll soothe hurts, I'll offer advice, I'll make things better when I can. And I will always keep tissues, gum, hand sanitizer, and aspirin in my purse.
I can still be a mother in the little ways that mean so much. It's not the same, I know that. But walking this road doesn't mean that I can't still use the mothering instincts that I was born with, or pass the kindness and love that I was shown by my own mother on to others.
Making that choice is easy.
Bleu, thank you so much for your comment. I know it came from a place of love and respect, and so no, it didn't hurt me. In fact, I've been thinking a lot about this whole "universal mother" thing in the last few months, and your words helped. Truly.
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Monday, August 11, 2008
Shadow Mother
I always aim for the 9:00am Mass (shhh - don't tell God that it's partly to get it over with. I'm pretty certain he doesn't think that's a particularly good reason to choose a Mass time). But I don't necessarily always make it up and out that early on a Sunday morning, particularly if I've fallen asleep on the couch watching an old movie the night before.
As a result I'm a bit of a wanderer, and so I see "regulars" from all three Sunday Masses, depending upon which one I manage to make it to.
This past Sunday I saw a women who, last time I saw her, was pregnant. Yesterday she had a baby carrier in her hands. Her third little girl was nestled in the carrier.
The odd thing is that my first thought was, "Oh - oh, so the baby came home". Or something along those lines.
My FIRST reaction. Good God.
My second was to marvel at how fast time flies when you're spinning away on your little hamster wheel going absolutely nowhere. But with great determination and fortitude. Blah ha.
As I was marveling at the speed with which time seems to be passing, I noticed another family that I used to see regularly when I was pregnant with Thomas. I sat in the same section they did back then - a section I hardly ever go to now. It's where people with children tend to congregate. There's something about the space that seems to lend itself to carriers and strollers and toddlers. But not to me, now.
Anyway, this family have two girls and a boy. Their last child, a girl, was born around the same time as Thomas. Maybe a little after. I can't remember anymore.
When I saw them yesterday, I was stunned. I don't see them very often, but I know I've seen them during the past three years. I'm sure of it. But there they were - not the same family at all. The oldest is now a proper young lady, the toddler is a great big boy and the baby? A real little girl.
This beautiful family, sprouting up before my eyes. And mine hasn't changed a bit. Not one single bit, at least not that anyone looking at me would ever know.
It was odd, the feeling I had seeing that family; like time has forgotten me. Forgotten both My Beloved and me.
It's a strange, strange thing to be surrounded by friends and family - and strangers - with growing children. It's painful in some ways, of course, but it's also oddly frightening. Like I want to run along beside them screaming, "Don't forget me!" or juggle pythons and broken glass so they'll notice me.
I'm ashamed to admit that sometimes now I forget that I was a mother. That I am a mother.
I never forget my children. Ever. But I have trouble remembering that I'm a mother. I see them with their growing families and baby carriers and big round tummies.
And that's just not who I am.
I'm a shadow.
As a result I'm a bit of a wanderer, and so I see "regulars" from all three Sunday Masses, depending upon which one I manage to make it to.
This past Sunday I saw a women who, last time I saw her, was pregnant. Yesterday she had a baby carrier in her hands. Her third little girl was nestled in the carrier.
The odd thing is that my first thought was, "Oh - oh, so the baby came home". Or something along those lines.
My FIRST reaction. Good God.
My second was to marvel at how fast time flies when you're spinning away on your little hamster wheel going absolutely nowhere. But with great determination and fortitude. Blah ha.
As I was marveling at the speed with which time seems to be passing, I noticed another family that I used to see regularly when I was pregnant with Thomas. I sat in the same section they did back then - a section I hardly ever go to now. It's where people with children tend to congregate. There's something about the space that seems to lend itself to carriers and strollers and toddlers. But not to me, now.
Anyway, this family have two girls and a boy. Their last child, a girl, was born around the same time as Thomas. Maybe a little after. I can't remember anymore.
When I saw them yesterday, I was stunned. I don't see them very often, but I know I've seen them during the past three years. I'm sure of it. But there they were - not the same family at all. The oldest is now a proper young lady, the toddler is a great big boy and the baby? A real little girl.
This beautiful family, sprouting up before my eyes. And mine hasn't changed a bit. Not one single bit, at least not that anyone looking at me would ever know.
It was odd, the feeling I had seeing that family; like time has forgotten me. Forgotten both My Beloved and me.
It's a strange, strange thing to be surrounded by friends and family - and strangers - with growing children. It's painful in some ways, of course, but it's also oddly frightening. Like I want to run along beside them screaming, "Don't forget me!" or juggle pythons and broken glass so they'll notice me.
I'm ashamed to admit that sometimes now I forget that I was a mother. That I am a mother.
I never forget my children. Ever. But I have trouble remembering that I'm a mother. I see them with their growing families and baby carriers and big round tummies.
And that's just not who I am.
I'm a shadow.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
For Mothers of angels...
When Mother's Day Feels Empty
By Clara Hinton, Silent Grief
There are no words to completely describe what a mother feels when her child has died. She feels lost, abandoned, afraid, lonely, forgotten, and most of all empty. The emptiness is like none other because it is an emptiness of the heart. When a child dies, part of a mother's heart also dies.
Mother's Day is a traditional holiday that has grown bigger and bigger throughout the years. We are bombarded with advertisements to take out mothers for a special dinner or buy Mother's Day flowers. For more than a month before Mother's Day, reminders are placed everywhere. It's impossible to pick up a newspaper, listen to the radio, or turn on the television without some kind of reminder of Mother's Day.
There are Mother's Day banquets, Mother's Day baby dedications at church, and special family gatherings to honor mothers. All of this is wonderful except for the mother that is grieving the loss of her child. For the grieving mother, every reminder of Mother's Day is like another wound to the heart. The hole in her heart caused by grief grows larger and larger with each reminder, and the emptiness feels darker and colder than she ever imagined possible. What is a grieving mother to do when there are so many reminders of the precious child she has lost?
Mother's Day is the only holiday that specifically uses the word mother, so there is no real way of avoiding this day. A grieving mother can, however, prepare for Mother's Day well in advance so that she knows how to avoid placing additional pain in her life.
Remember that Mother's Day is not a holiday that has to be celebrated. If a grieving mother does not want to attend a banquet, or watch baby dedications at church, or see special family gatherings at restaurants, then she has the right to choose not to participate in these events without feeling guilty. Many mothers choose to stay home and do nothing special at all on Mother's Day, and that is fine. Grief follows no rules and there is no right or wrong way to grieve.
Explain to others that this day is painful. Giving yourself permission to grieve in your own way is very healing and helpful, especially during such a difficult day as Mother's Day.
Do what feels right for you. Maybe that means taking a mini trip away where nobody knows you. Maybe it is staying at home. Perhaps a walk in the woods or a walk along the sandy beach would help you during this empty time. Journal your thoughts. Release a balloon. Or, maybe you want to avoid Mother's Day altogether. You know what feels best for your heart, and giving yourself permission to do what is right for you can be the most healing thing of all.
Lastly, remind yourself often that you will not always feel this empty. With each passing day new hope will enter your empty heart until one day you will wake up to realize that the empty hole is beginning to fill with some joy. Mother's Day is only one day. With a little bit of preparation you can make it through, and you will have walked one more step in your journey of healing!
By Clara Hinton, Silent Grief
There are no words to completely describe what a mother feels when her child has died. She feels lost, abandoned, afraid, lonely, forgotten, and most of all empty. The emptiness is like none other because it is an emptiness of the heart. When a child dies, part of a mother's heart also dies.
Mother's Day is a traditional holiday that has grown bigger and bigger throughout the years. We are bombarded with advertisements to take out mothers for a special dinner or buy Mother's Day flowers. For more than a month before Mother's Day, reminders are placed everywhere. It's impossible to pick up a newspaper, listen to the radio, or turn on the television without some kind of reminder of Mother's Day.
There are Mother's Day banquets, Mother's Day baby dedications at church, and special family gatherings to honor mothers. All of this is wonderful except for the mother that is grieving the loss of her child. For the grieving mother, every reminder of Mother's Day is like another wound to the heart. The hole in her heart caused by grief grows larger and larger with each reminder, and the emptiness feels darker and colder than she ever imagined possible. What is a grieving mother to do when there are so many reminders of the precious child she has lost?
Mother's Day is the only holiday that specifically uses the word mother, so there is no real way of avoiding this day. A grieving mother can, however, prepare for Mother's Day well in advance so that she knows how to avoid placing additional pain in her life.
Remember that Mother's Day is not a holiday that has to be celebrated. If a grieving mother does not want to attend a banquet, or watch baby dedications at church, or see special family gatherings at restaurants, then she has the right to choose not to participate in these events without feeling guilty. Many mothers choose to stay home and do nothing special at all on Mother's Day, and that is fine. Grief follows no rules and there is no right or wrong way to grieve.
Explain to others that this day is painful. Giving yourself permission to grieve in your own way is very healing and helpful, especially during such a difficult day as Mother's Day.
Do what feels right for you. Maybe that means taking a mini trip away where nobody knows you. Maybe it is staying at home. Perhaps a walk in the woods or a walk along the sandy beach would help you during this empty time. Journal your thoughts. Release a balloon. Or, maybe you want to avoid Mother's Day altogether. You know what feels best for your heart, and giving yourself permission to do what is right for you can be the most healing thing of all.
Lastly, remind yourself often that you will not always feel this empty. With each passing day new hope will enter your empty heart until one day you will wake up to realize that the empty hole is beginning to fill with some joy. Mother's Day is only one day. With a little bit of preparation you can make it through, and you will have walked one more step in your journey of healing!
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Limbo
I know it's folly, I do, but every once in a while I sit and think what my life would be like right now if we'd gotten married and had the first child we conceived. Or the second. Or Thomas. Any of them.
So much of my life right now is about waiting and wondering and worrying. And missing and grieving and healing. I spend so much energy doing all that, that I'm exhausted by the end of the day, or just too preoccupied to do the things I think I would probably be doing were it not for all the mental energy I use up dealing with uncertainty and sorrow.
I haven't worked since Thomas was born. I've done some freelance jobs here and there, but I haven't reallygone back to work. I left a contract writing position to have Thomas and fully expected to be a full time Mom for the next few years. Maybe doing the odd freelance job here and there, but basically I was planning to be a mom.
And I am, but I'm not.
I'm just waiting. Always waiting.
The psychologist who spoke to us in the hospital after Thomas died urged me to take my maternity leave. He was so earnest and insistent, that I gave myself permission - guilt free - to do just that. To take a year off to recuperate and heal and figure out what was going to come next.
It's just that I didn't realize it would be secondary infertility. And tests, and appointments, and surgery and still more uncertainty. And in that climate I froze. It seemed impossible to even contemplate finding a job. No one from the company I left has ever asked if I've considered coming back, and the idea of telling a prospective employer that I'd need an unlimited number of free passes to attend regular clinic poking and prodding sessions makes me very uncomfortable. No boss I've ever had would be particularly impressed with, "I'll be needing to be out of the office several hours of several days each month - and no, I can't tell you what days or when or for how long".
And I don't think prospective employers are particularly interested in taking on someone so desperate to get pregnant and bugger off on maternity leave anyway.
I don't suppose I'd have to disclose the reason for my frequent absences if I didn't want to, but the cloak and dagger routine really isn't me. I've had enough of people looking at me curiously and wondering what's going on in my head.
I've thought a lot about how wonderful it would be to jump back into the world of meetings and deadlines, and to feel useful and productive in that working girl kind of way - but I can't. I just can't right now.
Believe me, I'm not blaming my lost children for the fact that I'm a housewife in limbo right now. I don't blame those little souls for anything.
It's just that there are days when I think how much easier my life would be if things had worked out the way we'd planned. I know there would probably still be turmoil and uncertainty - it is life, after all - but I would know where I was headed, and things would make sense. My purpose would be clear. My job would be to be a mother - to a live child who needs me.
Maybe easier is the wrong word. Maybe life wouldn't be any easier if one of our children had survived. But I think my life would certainly make a lot more sense to me. I would understand it and my place in it so much better than I do right now.
Now having said all that, I suppose I do know what I'm doing - I'm doing everything I can to bring a living, breathing, healthy happy child into our lives. And I'm sacrificing parts of my own life to do so.
Hmmm. Maybe I'm more of a mother than I thought.
Maybe I am.
I just didn't realize motherhood was this confusing.
So much of my life right now is about waiting and wondering and worrying. And missing and grieving and healing. I spend so much energy doing all that, that I'm exhausted by the end of the day, or just too preoccupied to do the things I think I would probably be doing were it not for all the mental energy I use up dealing with uncertainty and sorrow.
I haven't worked since Thomas was born. I've done some freelance jobs here and there, but I haven't reallygone back to work. I left a contract writing position to have Thomas and fully expected to be a full time Mom for the next few years. Maybe doing the odd freelance job here and there, but basically I was planning to be a mom.
And I am, but I'm not.
I'm just waiting. Always waiting.
The psychologist who spoke to us in the hospital after Thomas died urged me to take my maternity leave. He was so earnest and insistent, that I gave myself permission - guilt free - to do just that. To take a year off to recuperate and heal and figure out what was going to come next.
It's just that I didn't realize it would be secondary infertility. And tests, and appointments, and surgery and still more uncertainty. And in that climate I froze. It seemed impossible to even contemplate finding a job. No one from the company I left has ever asked if I've considered coming back, and the idea of telling a prospective employer that I'd need an unlimited number of free passes to attend regular clinic poking and prodding sessions makes me very uncomfortable. No boss I've ever had would be particularly impressed with, "I'll be needing to be out of the office several hours of several days each month - and no, I can't tell you what days or when or for how long".
And I don't think prospective employers are particularly interested in taking on someone so desperate to get pregnant and bugger off on maternity leave anyway.
I don't suppose I'd have to disclose the reason for my frequent absences if I didn't want to, but the cloak and dagger routine really isn't me. I've had enough of people looking at me curiously and wondering what's going on in my head.
I've thought a lot about how wonderful it would be to jump back into the world of meetings and deadlines, and to feel useful and productive in that working girl kind of way - but I can't. I just can't right now.
Believe me, I'm not blaming my lost children for the fact that I'm a housewife in limbo right now. I don't blame those little souls for anything.
It's just that there are days when I think how much easier my life would be if things had worked out the way we'd planned. I know there would probably still be turmoil and uncertainty - it is life, after all - but I would know where I was headed, and things would make sense. My purpose would be clear. My job would be to be a mother - to a live child who needs me.
Maybe easier is the wrong word. Maybe life wouldn't be any easier if one of our children had survived. But I think my life would certainly make a lot more sense to me. I would understand it and my place in it so much better than I do right now.
Now having said all that, I suppose I do know what I'm doing - I'm doing everything I can to bring a living, breathing, healthy happy child into our lives. And I'm sacrificing parts of my own life to do so.
Hmmm. Maybe I'm more of a mother than I thought.
Maybe I am.
I just didn't realize motherhood was this confusing.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Love
"The love, the love is overwhelming. It's huge, and, at least for now, it's painful. I realized a little bit ago that I love my children exactly the same, exactly the way a mother should-- the same. It's strange to love these two people the same-- one who I have watched grow for five years, and one I only got to hold after he was gone. It took me several weeks to realize that, and for now it hurts. It hurts because there is nothing I can do to show my son this love. I hope it gets better with time."
This comment made me ache.
The desperate love I had for my son and the awful feeling that I had no way to lavish it upon him after he died made me crazy in those early days. I think it's why I spent so much time choosing his grave marker, and why it felt like the most important thing in the world for me to do. I believed it was all I could do. Ever.
Because the love you show to a baby is so physical. We kiss, we hug, we tuck in, we rock, we nurse, we pick up, we swaddle, we cuddle. Our bodies are in almost constant contact with a newborn, as they were when we were carrying them.
So when your child dies and you find yourself with empty arms and too much time, that terrible and confusing feeling of having all that love and no one to give it to is agonizing.
It's probably why I still occasionally find myself tucking in My Beloved - a 37-year old man who is quite capable of pulling the blankets up by himself.
But as time has passed, I've settled in to a comfortable rhythm with Thomas. When I let myself think about it too long and too hard, my arms still find themselves empty and useless, but most of the time they don't. My love for him is about more than what I can physically do for him. It's about so much more than that - as is every mother's love.
I talk to him. A lot, actually. And I remember him and love him with a fierce passion I can't begin to put into words. And I keep his spirit alive by speaking his name - by making him part of conversations with family and friends. And, of course, I write about him here.
My greatest fear has always been that he'll just fade away, eventually becoming something people are too uncomfortable to talk about. By keeping him alive as part of my life, I show my love for him. Every day.
And Julia, you do too. I know you do.
As Thomas' birthday draws near, I've been reminded in a very tangible way that people do remember our beautiful boy, and I'm more grateful than I can adequately express for the comfort and happiness it brings me.
It's not even his birthday yet, and donations have been made to:
United States Fund for Unicef
St. Jude Research Hospital
Children's Wish Foundation of Canada
The Heifer Project (a donation of a flock of geese to a family in the third world)
St. Louis Zoo (a sea lion adoption)
Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation (for pediatric cancer research)
A hospital's NICU (local to the donor)
Riley Hospital for Children in Indianapolis
S.O.S Children's Village, BC (Family care service for Foster children and Foster families)
B.C. Children's Hospital
Operation Smile
Children's Memorial Hospital, Chicago
Red Cross (Blood donation)
Make A Child Smile
TEARS Foundation (offers financial funeral assistance to bereaved parents)
A donor's Church's school (which aids community youth)
Walk America (March of Dimes)
I don't take any credit for the incredible and overwhelming generosity of the people who have made these donations in Thomas' memory, but I do believe that the love that My Beloved and I show for him is at least a small part of the reason why people are moved to specifically remember him.
So I know that he sees my love - and I know he feels it. It's not your average mother/son relationship, true, but it's every bit as strong, important and real as it would be if he was still here.
And it always will be.
This comment made me ache.
The desperate love I had for my son and the awful feeling that I had no way to lavish it upon him after he died made me crazy in those early days. I think it's why I spent so much time choosing his grave marker, and why it felt like the most important thing in the world for me to do. I believed it was all I could do. Ever.
Because the love you show to a baby is so physical. We kiss, we hug, we tuck in, we rock, we nurse, we pick up, we swaddle, we cuddle. Our bodies are in almost constant contact with a newborn, as they were when we were carrying them.
So when your child dies and you find yourself with empty arms and too much time, that terrible and confusing feeling of having all that love and no one to give it to is agonizing.
It's probably why I still occasionally find myself tucking in My Beloved - a 37-year old man who is quite capable of pulling the blankets up by himself.
But as time has passed, I've settled in to a comfortable rhythm with Thomas. When I let myself think about it too long and too hard, my arms still find themselves empty and useless, but most of the time they don't. My love for him is about more than what I can physically do for him. It's about so much more than that - as is every mother's love.
I talk to him. A lot, actually. And I remember him and love him with a fierce passion I can't begin to put into words. And I keep his spirit alive by speaking his name - by making him part of conversations with family and friends. And, of course, I write about him here.
My greatest fear has always been that he'll just fade away, eventually becoming something people are too uncomfortable to talk about. By keeping him alive as part of my life, I show my love for him. Every day.
And Julia, you do too. I know you do.
As Thomas' birthday draws near, I've been reminded in a very tangible way that people do remember our beautiful boy, and I'm more grateful than I can adequately express for the comfort and happiness it brings me.
It's not even his birthday yet, and donations have been made to:
United States Fund for Unicef
St. Jude Research Hospital
Children's Wish Foundation of Canada
The Heifer Project (a donation of a flock of geese to a family in the third world)
St. Louis Zoo (a sea lion adoption)
Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation (for pediatric cancer research)
A hospital's NICU (local to the donor)
Riley Hospital for Children in Indianapolis
S.O.S Children's Village, BC (Family care service for Foster children and Foster families)
B.C. Children's Hospital
Operation Smile
Children's Memorial Hospital, Chicago
Red Cross (Blood donation)
Make A Child Smile
TEARS Foundation (offers financial funeral assistance to bereaved parents)
A donor's Church's school (which aids community youth)
Walk America (March of Dimes)
I don't take any credit for the incredible and overwhelming generosity of the people who have made these donations in Thomas' memory, but I do believe that the love that My Beloved and I show for him is at least a small part of the reason why people are moved to specifically remember him.
So I know that he sees my love - and I know he feels it. It's not your average mother/son relationship, true, but it's every bit as strong, important and real as it would be if he was still here.
And it always will be.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Two years
Two years ago today they started the induction process with an application of gel.
I'm literally floored that so much and so little time has passed.
It was a whole other life back then. And I was a totally different person living it. The world was ordered differently and things made sense. There was logic. Plans could be made. Prayers worked. Doctors saved. Babies lived.
For God's sake, it's like I've been abducted by aliens and I'm living in some sort of parallel universe where things appear to be normal, but are clearly very, very different indeed.
I once read in a document (intended for physicians and therapists treating bereaved parents) that most parents who lose a child find it takes between 2 and 5 years to feel "normal" again.
And by normal I don't mean the same as before, because there's no going back to the person you were before your child came and went. You can't be the same after losing your heart - after losing a piece of yourself. An amputee is forever changed, and so are we. It's just harder to tell from the outside.
So it's been almost two years. Do I feel normal? Yes and no. I feel more connected than I did a year ago. I'm faking things a lot less and that fuzzy, out-of-body feeling that plagued me when I was out of my comfort zone (at parties, social events and family gatherings) has all but disappeared. I seek out my friends more than I used to and I look forward to their company in a way I wasn't able to before.
I'm not just enduring things the way I was that horrible first year. I don't have to force myself so much anymore.
But I'm not quite there yet. I don't feel comfortable in my own skin the way I used to. I'm still a little bit of a stranger and I startle myself every once in a while. The me I used to be reacted to things very differently than this person I am now does. And sometimes I'm caught off guard by her antics - and the depth of her sorrow and anger.
But she's not all bad. Yes, there's a good deal of road rage and a lot of ranting about things that are beyond my control (like President Bush, kids with cellphones, gas-guzzling SUVs and the fantabulous infertility midway ride from hell that I didn't pay for and can't seem to disembark), but there are also some good bits in there too.
For one thing, I'm a good mommy. And, more importantly, I feel like a mother in a way I didn't when I first lost Thomas. It's different than being a mother to a living child, sure, but I am a mother. Feeling the love I have for my child is something that moves me to tears. I had no idea it was possible to feel love like this, and to be inspired and challenged by it every day.
I like that bit of me very, very much. And I'm immeasurably proud of it too.
Now if I could only figure out a way to stop flipping off drivers who tailgate and honking at ones that refuse to signal lane changes I'd be even closer to my goal. But I've got three more years for that, right?
I'm doing okay.
I'm literally floored that so much and so little time has passed.
It was a whole other life back then. And I was a totally different person living it. The world was ordered differently and things made sense. There was logic. Plans could be made. Prayers worked. Doctors saved. Babies lived.
For God's sake, it's like I've been abducted by aliens and I'm living in some sort of parallel universe where things appear to be normal, but are clearly very, very different indeed.
I once read in a document (intended for physicians and therapists treating bereaved parents) that most parents who lose a child find it takes between 2 and 5 years to feel "normal" again.
And by normal I don't mean the same as before, because there's no going back to the person you were before your child came and went. You can't be the same after losing your heart - after losing a piece of yourself. An amputee is forever changed, and so are we. It's just harder to tell from the outside.
So it's been almost two years. Do I feel normal? Yes and no. I feel more connected than I did a year ago. I'm faking things a lot less and that fuzzy, out-of-body feeling that plagued me when I was out of my comfort zone (at parties, social events and family gatherings) has all but disappeared. I seek out my friends more than I used to and I look forward to their company in a way I wasn't able to before.
I'm not just enduring things the way I was that horrible first year. I don't have to force myself so much anymore.
But I'm not quite there yet. I don't feel comfortable in my own skin the way I used to. I'm still a little bit of a stranger and I startle myself every once in a while. The me I used to be reacted to things very differently than this person I am now does. And sometimes I'm caught off guard by her antics - and the depth of her sorrow and anger.
But she's not all bad. Yes, there's a good deal of road rage and a lot of ranting about things that are beyond my control (like President Bush, kids with cellphones, gas-guzzling SUVs and the fantabulous infertility midway ride from hell that I didn't pay for and can't seem to disembark), but there are also some good bits in there too.
For one thing, I'm a good mommy. And, more importantly, I feel like a mother in a way I didn't when I first lost Thomas. It's different than being a mother to a living child, sure, but I am a mother. Feeling the love I have for my child is something that moves me to tears. I had no idea it was possible to feel love like this, and to be inspired and challenged by it every day.
I like that bit of me very, very much. And I'm immeasurably proud of it too.
Now if I could only figure out a way to stop flipping off drivers who tailgate and honking at ones that refuse to signal lane changes I'd be even closer to my goal. But I've got three more years for that, right?
I'm doing okay.
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