Defining our family's new normal

It's interesting to see how uncomfortable grief can make other people, to steal my dear friend Paula's words. I can only think that people who say strange things, which I'm sure they mean to be comforting, want to make this death and grief and all these unhappy feelings just go away.

Since we've moved and I don't know anyone here yet, these comments hearken back to June. Some mothers at the schoolyard said things to me when I first stumbled back in to pick up the older boys after the death and funeral of our infant son and the things they said hurt at the time. I think they wanted to let me know how sad they were, but in some way didn't feel that a simple, "I'm sorry" was enough. But in trying to explain away baby George's death they said things that hurt rather than helped. Their words haunt me now that I've had time to ponder. Some of the painful I-can-only-imagine-this-was-meant-to-comfort comments included:

"You should be thankful your baby died. After all, you wouldn't want to raise a vegetable."

"I guess you must almost be over this whole experience. After all, it's been nearly a month."

"He was too good for earth. That's why God took him. He was just too perfect."

"Thank goodness you have the other children to distract you. I'm sure you don't even have time to think about the baby."

"Well, you already have four."

"At least it wasn't one of your older children. I mean, you didn't really know this baby yet."

"You can have more. You obviously get pregnant so easily, you can have another baby."

"It was meant to be. It's nature's way of taking care of mistakes."

Oh. My. God.

At the time my ears rang, I felt sick to my stomach, and I couldn't always speak. Sometimes I did and I gently let these mothers know that I didn't agree with them.

I have trouble letting things like this go. I remember everything. So many terrible things people have said and either they are really malicious and didn't like me, or they somehow thought these platitudes would make me feel better. I can only think that maybe, just maybe, the people who said these things have never suffered a terrible loss and just don't know what to say. Or, as my husband says, some people are just stupid.

Let me think. Now that I'm not standing there, newly devastated by the shock of my baby's death and the birth of a baby who never cried I can respond better.

I will never, ever be thankful that George died. You cannot tell me that God pre-ordained the death of my child, that it was "meant to be." If that is so, well, I can't believe in that. My God is loving and kind and why would He ever punish me or any other mother with such a reality? My baby was healthy and beautiful and there was nothing wrong with him. He wasn't a vegetable or a mutant or some freakish ghoul. But know what? I wouldn't have loved him any less if there was something wrong because he was part of me for nine months. He was and is a blessing, just not the way I had anticipated.

Never in this lifetime will I be "over" the death of my child. I may get through my grief in time, but I'll never get over it. I won't ever forget labouring after learning his heart had stopped beating, nor will the memory of pushing out his lifeless body ever just go away. How could someone say that? That's saying that his life and death were insignificant.

And yes, I know I'm very, very, very, very blessed to have our other children. Believe me, no one values her children more than a bereaved mother. But no other baby will take the place of the one we've lost. Even if I am blessed to have another baby, and that baby is a boy, that baby will not be George. George is George and he is gone from this earth.

When my heart was breaking in hospital after they took my baby's body down to the morgue, I prayed for every other mother who has ever had a baby die. And especially for mummas who lost their baby and had no others to gather into their arms for comfort. I prayed for those mothers and still do during my sleepless nights. But having other children does not mean that I'm not affected by George's death; while they are a distraction and a joy in and of themselves, the impact of our baby's death isn't somehow magically erased. I don't love George any less or any more than our other children. To say that I didn't know him is insanity: I carried that boy in my womb. I talked to him, felt him move, and loved every inch of him. Losing a baby may be different than losing a child, but it's terrible to lose what might have been and pain is pain. How can one death be more or less painful? My thoughts go to George constantly. What should have been. And to help my other children grieve and move through their own sadness is no picnic. Because, surprise! Children grieve, too. They miss George and, just like me, their sadness surfaces at different times and in different ways.

I read on another mother's blog her comment about a book where the author had a stillbirth. That writer observed that "grief outlasts sympathy." How true. There are only a handful of people who check in to see how I'm doing and mention George. Others avoid the topic or touch on it but I can tell don't want to actually talk about our sorrow. Two friends who did phone last week and ask how I was doing seemed incredulous that I still felt sad. When I said, honestly (but mildly really, considering how I'm reeling), "Oh, I'm up and down," the response from one was silence, the other exclaimed, "Still?!"

Yes, still. The first month I was in complete shock. The second month in utter and complete disbelief that this had happened (plus we had to pack up and move into our house - it was supposed to be a happy time to be first-time home owners). George's death is really only hitting me now. Now that the shock is wearing off and the dust is settling after moving.

I wish I lived in olden times. Mourners were expected to mourn for years, not days or weeks. I'd like to wear black or an armband and let strangers know that I've suffered a loss and I'm not functioning at full capacity. I'd like a big black wreath on the door, to have it considered normal that I'd have photographs of our much loved dead child. I'd like to not feel rushed and hurried to "get over" death.

It's going to be a while. I'm not a total downer and I like to laugh. But everyone is going to have to be patient when I cry. Because I do that unexpectedly.