The day after Max’s funeral, I had my six-week postpartum
check-up. I decided not to
reschedule it; I just wanted to get it over with. It was hard to walk into the office where I had gone
monthly, then weekly when I was pregnant with Max. I had taken Max there a few times after he was born
too. I took him just a few days
before he died just to have him weighed.
I felt like he was growing so fast, and he was. The ladies in the office had gotten to
know me well over the last year or so, and they oohed and aahed over every part
of Max. Of course, they loved his
hair. Everyone did. They commented on how beautiful he
was. Everyone did. They made me feel like he was the most
perfect baby they had ever laid eyes on, and maybe he was. I spoke with many of these women and my
doctor on the day that Max died.
They were so concerned and wanted to do anything to help. I loved my doctor and his staff before,
but I really love them now. Donna
gets all the credit for referring me to this practice. Thanks, girl! Anyway, when I went for my postpartum check-up, the mood was
obviously different. The smiles
and oohs and aahs were replaced with tears and hugs and comforting words. I started to sit in the waiting room,
and I knew I couldn’t hold it together.
Some of the receptionists came out and got me and took me back
immediately. I was already bawling. My mom was with me. I’m glad that she got to witness the
kindness of everyone at my doctor’s office. It just would be too good to believe unless you saw it
firsthand.
After
my appointment, we went to Costco.
The reason for our trip there escapes me now, but I remember exactly how
I felt. I felt like I was
floating, and I know that I had a dazed look in my eyes and an eerie (probably
creepy) smile on my face. Who
smiles when they go to Costco?
Seriously. My mom said
something to me as we walked in that I will never forget. It struck me as the complete
truth. Nothing I’ve ever heard
sounded as true as what she said.
“There are probably at least three people in this store right now who
have lost children.” Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that? One of the reasons why I had such
anxiety in public places was because I hated the thought that no one knew that
my son had just died. No one knew
how hard it was for me to make myself go to the store. I was completely alone in my misery. I worried that someone would be rude to
me, and I would just crumble. I
would cry and scream and cause a big scene. I would demand kindness and a proper apology from them. “You don’t know what I’ve been
through!” I would scream. But that
didn’t happen. People weren’t rude
to me. Even at Costco. Raise your hand if you have ever been
to Costco without wanting to punch a fellow shopper in the face. If you raised your hand, I would like
to shop at your Costco. And I
think you’re lying. Anyway,
something about those words made me feel lighter. I felt a sense of relief in knowing that there were people
all around me who were sad too.
Sad about real things, like death and loss, not silly things like a bad
hair day or a date gone wrong. I
never expected to feel that way after my appointment. I expected to go home, crawl into bed, and emerge the next
day. But I didn’t. I really surprise myself
sometimes.
What
my mom taught me that day was something that I badly needed to learn and that
other people should probably keep in mind too. You never know what other people have gone through. You don’t know their sad stories that
might be hidden behind their public smiles. The woman who cut you off and snarled at you could be
picking out flowers to put on her husband’s grave. The man who sneaks in front of you in line could be on the
verge of a panic attack after seeing a baby who looks like his dead
daughter. You just never
know. I’ve been keeping that in
mind lately. People probably look
at me, Scott, and Ethan and think that we have a good life. They see us smile and think, “What a
cute little happy family.” They
have no idea what is missing in our lives. I had an experience this weekend that really reminded me to
never assume that people are happier or somehow better off than me.
We
took Ethan and our good friend Ellen and her son to Great Wolf Lodge for a
little staycation. Ellen has done
so much for us. She has been a
constant presence at our house whether we’re having a good day or a really bad
one. She cleaned up after the
murderous, Satanic dog killed Bonnie.
She too said sociopath serial killer dog to an emergency vet and then
drove him to Lee’s Summit. She got
home at 5:30 in the morning. She
bought me a 90-minute massage at Great Wolf. She is incredible.
So, as some small token of our appreciation, we took her and Cooper to
Great Wolf Lodge. As I stood in
line waiting to check in, I was surrounded by babies. Seriously. They
were everywhere. None of them
looked like Max, but I was jealous of all of their mothers. The woman in line behind me chatted
with her family members who sat on a nearby couch. I gathered that she was the grandmother of the baby being
held by a seemingly happy mom. The
baby was around the same age as Max would be, but she was a girl. I stared at that baby with envy. I felt sorry for myself that she had
her baby and I didn’t. I felt
sorry for Max’s grandparents that they weren’t standing in line chatting with
me while I held Max and played with him.
I was jealous of their happiness and innocence. I want that! I noticed Scott talking with some of the family members, and
I just assumed that they were making small talk. Pretty soon though, Scott came over and talked to the woman
behind me in line. It was clear that
they knew each other. She
mentioned that her granddaughter was four months old. Max would have been four months old the next day. I kept waiting for her to ask how many
children we had, but she never did.
For some reason I wanted her to know about Max. Maybe it would make my rude staring a
little bit understandable. She
asked about Scott’s parents, his brother, and our family, but she didn’t ask
about our children. We parted ways
when it was my turn to check in. I
never said a word to this woman.
As
we walked toward our room, Scott filled me in. The woman in line behind me was the mother of one of Scott’s
high school classmates. I had met
him at the ten-year reunion a few summers ago. I met his wife too, the one who I had been so jealous of holding
the baby on the couch. This
classmate died not too long ago.
It was very sudden and very unexpected. His wife was pregnant at the time. She was pregnant with the little girl that she sat holding
on the couch. How naïve of me to
be so jealous of them. I just
assumed that they were one big happy family coming to spend a nice weekend together. How wrong I was! I had been staring with envy at this
woman who had lost her husband months before. I had been so jealous of her as she sat playing with her
daughter, who no doubt is a daily reminder of just what she has lost. I envied this grandmother who never got
to tell her son how proud she was of him and how beautiful his baby girl
was. I was so jealous of this tiny
baby who will never, ever meet her father. And I was jealous of the baby’s father, who I assumed was
gathering his family’s bags from the car.
I couldn’t have felt like more of a jerk. To think, of all the people in the lobby that day (and there
were A LOT), I stood in line in front of the one woman who has experienced the
same loss as me. How weird that I
focused all of my jealousy on the one mother in the entire lobby who has a hole
in heart just like mine. I wanted
to find them later and tell them how sorry I was for their loss. I wanted to rush back into the lobby
and tell the woman behind me in line that I know how she feels. I didn’t. I never saw them again, but I’ve thought of them since
then. It’s funny how right our
moms are about everything.
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