I wrote earlier about the new
relationships that I have formed since Max’s death with other parents who have
lost children. Just as my friends
and family have helped me in ways that my news friends couldn’t have, these new
friends have helped me in ways that my old friends couldn’t. I would never choose one group of
friends over the other the other; I need both of them for different things. My old friends have given me the kind
of comfort that new friends aren’t able to; they know how and when to make me
laugh and when to just let me cry and hug me. My old friends knew Max, and they know what me, Scott, and
Ethan need right now. My new
friends have helped me discover that I will be happy again, though I will
always be sad as well. They’ve
also helped me be okay with that sadness and given me some of the strength to
do the things I am able to do now.
Without my family and new and old friends, I wouldn’t be able to go into
Max’s room, write about my feelings, or even talk about him without becoming a
blubbering, crying mess. I still
do that sometimes, but these new friends have helped me feel hope and be able
to remember Max beyond the moments after finding him lifeless and not
breathing.
In the days after Max’s funeral, I
wondered from room to room trying to figure out what I was supposed to be
doing. Most of the time, I just
ended up sitting on my back porch and staring into the trees behind our
house. I couldn’t begin to see a
future without Max. Being inside
my house could send me into a panic sometimes. I can’t explain it, but I suddenly felt claustrophobic. I also couldn’t stand going into
public. Seeing other people living
normal lives and having normal days with their normal families really pissed me
off. It seemed impossible that
anyone could be normal when my little Max was gone. It sounds ridiculous, but I really struggled with anxiety in
public places. I started feeling
anxiety attacks coming on in Wal-Mart and Target, and I would hold back tears
until I could drag my trembling body back to the car and break down. I almost caused a scene at a Goodwill
store. That actually probably
doesn’t sound so ridiculous to those of you who have been to a Goodwill store
recently. J Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I felt very
discombobulated. Great word. My mind raced twenty-four hours a day,
and my body couldn’t keep up with it.
What I wanted to do was to be able to turn my brain off or escape it
somehow. I had a lot of moments of
sheer panic, and I had strange urges during those times. I wanted to go to the funeral home, I
wanted to take donuts to the fire station, I wanted to plant a garden, I wanted
to ride around in a convertible, etc.
Most of the time I didn’t go through with these urges, but sometimes I
did.
One of my urges was to talk to
another mom who had lost a child.
It was more of a feeling of desperation than just an urge. I desperately needed to talk to someone
who could tell me with credibility that everything would be okay. A friend of a friend of a friend (you
get the picture) had given me the phone number of a woman whom she thought
might be helpful for me to talk to, so I called her during one of those moments
of desperation. I had been sitting
in Max’s room in the chair that we used to rock him in. As I sat there, I stared at everything
in the room that Max should have been using. I stared at the clothes hanging in his closet that he never
even got a chance to wear. I stared
at the dirty diaper in his trashcan.
I stared at the changing table where I had changed so many of his
diapers while singing to him, talking to him, and staring into his curious
eyes. I stared at his car seat,
his favorite blanket, and a burp cloth—all three still smell like him. I couldn’t stand looking at all of
it. I left his room sobbing and
shaking my head in denial, just like I had the morning of June 10th
when the fire captain told us that Max was “gone.” That’s when I decided to call this woman. It was almost a challenge. I was challenging her to prove to me
that I would ever feel any way but devastated, angry, and hopeless. Luckily, she did just that. She shared her story with me. Actually, she shared her stories with
me because this woman has lost two children, one to SIDS and one to Trisomy
18. She was encouraging, blunt,
and compassionate during our conversation. Although I was crying too hard to share much about Max during
that first phone call, I hung up feeling peaceful and calm. I have talked with this woman quite a
few times, and I actually just met her in person a few days ago. She put me in touch with many other
women who have lost babies to SIDS, and we’ve formed our own little support
network. These women are some of
the strongest, most optimistic women I have ever met, and we laugh and have fun
together, despite the tragic common thread that brought us together. I actually met one of my newest, yet
closest friends indirectly through this support group. More about her later…
I know when I’m having a really
hard time seeing past today, I can count on one of these women to make me see a
brighter future. Yes, I will miss
Max and feel that void every day, but I can also be thankful for the time that
I had with him. I wanted much,
much more time, but his early exit from my physical life doesn’t mean that he
is gone forever. I have reminders
of him every day, and I always will.
Sometimes those reminders make me sad, but other times they give me a
smile and a feeling of peace. I
feel that same rush of love when I think about his smile and unique laugh that
I felt when I first held him in my arms.
I know that will never go away, even if I can’t see his smile change
with the addition of teeth or hear his laugh change through puberty.
No comments:
Post a Comment