Wrung out

I'm despairing over grief. I'm tired and sad and struggling this week, wishing beyond words that things were different and our baby boy was here with us and that was our normal. Not this new normal, the one that I didn't see coming that has me feeling disconnected and not myself.

The boys started at their new school this week and I'm missing having them home. Having them here gave me a focus and kept me busy. Not that their little sister isn't a distraction and a joy (okay, and sometimes a challenge as she's quite a determined little person), but having all of them home was a comfort. I worry now like I have never worried before that something will happen to another one of my children. But I don't want to live in fear. I'm conflicted and feel constantly out of step with life.

The whole, "How did you spend your summer vacation" thing is a gut wrencher. I cried quietly through the school assembly after the children were asked to raise their hands if they had a GREAT summer and my three boys sat quietly, hands down in their laps amid a sea of waving jubilation. My oldest son talked with me about the obligatory essay on this topic they were assigned to write in grade four; he wondered if it was okay for him to write about George or if the teacher would be cross (interesting that he senses how many adults don't want to hear about a dead baby). I said, well, if you want to write about your brother, write about him. It's been a summer of lots of changes, some of them good and some of them bad and you can write about everything that you think is important because that's your summer. He looked so relieved and said, "Yeah. Lots of changes. I like that." Their honesty is amazing to me. Children are okay with grief. There's no pretending; there's no weirdness; there's no inhibition. They talk about it. They ask about it. And they live it rather than deny it.

But still, although I admire their honesty, part of me wanted them to have their hands raised high in the air with huge happy faces and an essay all about a summer full of fun and laughter without the sorrow of losing their sibling. We've tried really hard to have a nice summer, but the reality of George's death is interwoven through everything of course. As it should be. But I wish so much of course it was his little self intwined in and creating our memories and not his spirit.

I wept, too, thinking that the last time I was at the school to get uniforms my baby boy was very much alive and kicking. Just days away from his birth, I stood in that hallway and compared my very pregnant belly with a similarly enormous tummy of an expectant teacher. I felt so calm and happy, content with the move to come and no idea of the sad ending of my pregnancy that was looming. I'm sure other mothers at the assembly and in the kindergarten class probably think I'm bonkers, sitting there wiping away tears. I was quiet, but I couldn't stop the tears. I have to remind myself that I am still only a few months post-partum and my hormones are no where near normal yet.

And still, very few adults want to hear about our dead child. Not too many people want to hear me say I'm sad. When did sadness become so uncomfortable in our society? Why do people want me to hurry through and be happy all the time? I feel pressured and judged. I find myself acting to please others. Then, just like a petulant teenager, sometimes I rebel and refuse to play along. When I'm asked how I am I answer honestly and say, "Oh, up and down." What kind of mother would I be if I didn't feel sad and didn't register the very significant loss of this baby?

I got a beautiful handkerchief in the mail today from For Your Tears. Thank you, Deborah. It means a lot that someone I've never met, and who is older than 10, is comfortable with the thought of me crying for the loss of my beautiful boy. And thank you to Bernadette at Morning Light Ministry for sharing with me her realization after she lost her beautiful baby girl that lamentation is a form of prayer because there are still many times I don't have words. Only tears.