Scott and I still go to counseling once every other week,
and we probably will for a while.
There was a point when we went every week, and I still went to
individual grief counseling every week as well. When Ethan was still in counseling, this meant that I spent
the majority of my days either in counseling or sitting in a waiting room at
Solace House while Ethan completed a session with his counselor. Eventually, Ethan didn’t need counseling
anymore, and I didn’t have a huge need for individual counseling either. It wasn’t that we were “healed” or
anything like that; it’s that we took the techniques that we learned from our
counselors and figured out how to use them in our daily lives on our own. I guess we were ready to give it a try
on our own. That’s the whole point
of counseling: to teach you how to
cope on your own. For good
reason, Scott and I have continued to go to counseling together. We’re not really trying to “fix”
anything, but we are trying to learn how to grieve together and also how to
heal together. We have always had
a pretty strong relationship. Yes,
we disagree and we argue, but somehow we have both been able to keep the bigger
picture in mind. We aren’t good at
fighting, and we don’t do it often.
We are, however, very good at compromising, so we do that often. I don’t just feel lucky to have a
husband like Scott; I know that I’m lucky. I know that I’m blessed, and sometimes I have felt that I
got way more than I deserve with him.
No matter what has gone on or what issues we’ve had, I have always known
without a doubt that Scott loves me to the core and with everything he
has. I know that he would do
anything for me and that he would never do anything to risk what we have. He listens, he understands, he cares,
and he gives. Scott is the most
selfless person I know. I can’t
say enough good things about him.
That is why we go to counseling.
Because he means too much to me to not do anything and everything in my
power to make sure that we are on this journey together. Because he deserves all of my
efforts. Because he is my partner
in everything, including losing a child.
Because I need to know that he will be okay.
At our last counseling session, Scott told our counselor
about his day with candor. He had
a bad day, he said. She wondered
what made it bad. Was there
something in particular? It turns
out, there was something. A pretty
big something, in my opinion.
Scott has gotten into the habit of “checking on” Ethan since Max
died. He is terrified that Ethan
will die. I am too. For most people, this fear can be
written off as irrational or unfounded, but we aren’t “most people” anymore. Ethan usually wanders into our bed at
some point in the early morning hours, so checking on him has become a little
bit easier, but it’s not done any less frequently. On this particular morning, Scott woke up and looked at
Ethan in our bed. He looked too
still. Scott touched him, and he
was cold to the touch. He picked
up Ethan’s arm, and it flopped back on the bed. Scott was sure that Ethan was dead. He put his hand near Ethan’s mouth and
nose to feel for breathing, but he felt nothing. Panic set in, and Scott picked Ethan up, just as he had
picked up Max on June 10th.
Ethan still didn’t react.
Scott said his name and shook him a little. Still no reaction.
Finally, Scott said, Ethan opened his eyes and looked at Scott. In Scott’s words, Ethan’s facial
expression seemed to say, “WTF, dad?”
That’s the only funny part of the story. On a side note, I do think that we will become quite
accustomed to that look in the years to come. Scott is the one who woke up to find Max unresponsive and
not breathing that morning, and this event echoed all of his findings that
morning. Obviously, the end result
was quite different. I cannot
imagine how Scott must have felt in those moments when he was convinced that
Ethan too was dead. I cannot
imagine how he even got out of bed that morning and went on with his day, but
he did. Of course, the day was a
wash from that moment, but he still did everything that he was supposed
to. He took a shower, got dressed,
got Ethan ready, helped him brush his teeth, and then dropped off his little
boy at school and said goodbye. He
did all of this just a few hours after reliving the worst day of his life and
convincing himself that it was all happening again. I think I forgot to mention how strong Scott is. And if he is the husband I described
earlier, then can you imagine him as a father? He’s amazing.
Truly.
Hearing Scott talk about his morning made me realize how
different our world is now. June
10th marked the beginning of a completely new world to us, one that
is scary at times and one in which your worst fears sometimes become your
reality. It is a world in which
you look at your child and picture him dead. It’s a world in which that thought isn’t even remotely
impossible. In fact, sometimes it
seems more possible than impossible.
One of my friends, a fellow SIDS mom who is also pregnant, posted on
Facebook the other day that she yearned for the innocence of new parents whose
only worry is when they will sleep.
I yearn for that too. I
live in this world where it’s not silly anymore to think that my child could
die. The idea of a plane crashing
into my house isn’t even a laughing matter anymore. When I worry that Ethan’s growing pains are really the early
signs of bone cancer, it’s not as easy to laugh it off and push that thought
out of my mind anymore. I used to
be comforted by the fact that the odds were in our favor. Do you know what the odds are of having
a baby die of SIDS? Now, odds
don’t matter. Anything can
happen. In this new world, no one
is safe. Every stranger, every
co-worker, every friend, and every family member is a potential victim. It gives the saying “It’s your world;
we’re just living in it” a whole new meaning. Usually I try to end on a positive note, but I think I’ve
kind of dug myself too deep of a hole here. I’ll just end by saying that this “new” world is quite
unsettling and scary and sad, but I’m learning to live with it. So is Scott. It’s just a new part of our new life, and that’s okay. We’ll never stop worrying that Ethan
will die. We’ll always worry about
Quinn and any future children that we may have. We’ll worry about our families, our friends, even complete
strangers. We’ll worry about each
other. Unfortunately, we’ll always
know that we could be right for worrying.
This worrying, though, comes from a place of deep loss, but of deep love
too. It comes along with knowing
that what you hold dear might be ripped from your arms tomorrow, so you better
enjoy holding on to it while you still can.
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