Back In a Moment

It has been five years since Max died. It’s been three years since I wrote on this blog. In those three years, I’ve still been writing. And I’ve still been grieving. I’ve also been living--carrying on, if you will. I’ve tried to go with the flow, especially when it comes to grief. So, when I felt like it was time to go a little more inward with my grief, I did. It’s been good for me--I catch myself smiling at funny thoughts about Max, and I welcome those smiles. I’ve caught myself feeling sad or springing a few tears when I think of Max and all that I’ll never know or experience--what he would look like, his personality quirks, first day of kindergarten pictures (that’s coming up in August)--and I welcome those feelings too. In the past three years, I may have been even more surrounded by signs of his enduring presence than ever before. Or maybe I’m just more present, more receptive, more open to those signs. There is a scene in The Secret Life of Walter Mitty that captures what I’ve been feeling. In the scene, Sean O’Connell (Sean Penn) and Walter Mitty (Ben Stiller) sit atop a mountain waiting for a snow leopard, which O’Connell has gone to great lengths to capture on film, to appear. When it finally materializes, O’Connell, instead of taking the photo, simply watches the creature. Here is the dialogue that follows:

Walter Mitty: Are you going to take it?

Sean O'Connell: Sometimes I don't. If I like a moment, for me, personally, I don't like to have the distraction of the camera. I just want to stay in it.

Walter Mitty: Stay in it?

Sean O'Connell: Yeah. Right there. Right here.

So, I guess I’ve been in “a moment” over the past few years, and I’m just trying to stay in it, to experience it all. Now, five years after Max’s death, I’m ready to slowly get back into documenting the moments while still making sure to stay present in them. I’ve written a piece for a website that will launch in June, and I’m going to start adding more content to my blog as well. A friend recently commented to me that “living is the hardest part of grieving,” and she’s absolutely right. My goal moving forward is to focus on the living part that comes after grieving. As I’ve been preparing to share more of my writing, I came across something that I wrote two years ago, on the third “anniversary” of Max’s death. It isn’t finished, but I’d like to share it as is, and then I’d like to add a postscript (below):

Today marks three years of life without Max. I’m not sure what to call it--anniversary seems ill-fitting, as I think of an anniversary as a celebration. I certainly celebrate Max’s life, but I doubt that I’ll ever celebrate his death. Some have called it Max’s “Heaven Day,” which I think sounds nice, but I feel like a phony saying that since I’m not sure that heaven exists. Some people call it Max’s “Angel Day,” which I also think sounds nice, but I am not certain that I believe in angels. These are my personal beliefs, which I hope will feel more solid and clear someday. Until then, I am completely fine with whatever people want to call it, whatever aligns with their personal beliefs. And I am completely grateful and comforted that so many people think of Max as an angel in heaven with such certainty.

If I’m being honest, which is the goal in everything I write here, then I have to admit that my memories of Max are fading. I don’t remember the lines of his face or the color of his hair with the vividness that I once did. Sometimes an object or a sound or a smell will unearth a buried memory, and I’ll think, “Where has that memory been hiding all this time?” I hadn’t thought of it in so long. It’s not that I don’t think of Max. I think of him every day. Several times a day, in fact. But I think of him in intangible terms--his spirit surrounding me, his life affecting my approach to situations, his impact on the world. I don’t think I’ll ever forget certain things about him--the smell of his farts, the sound of his laugh, the feel of his hair, the weight of his body in my arms. I guess that maybe my brain has undergone a reorganization of sorts--it has moved the most important memories and ideas to the most easily accessed part of my brain and stored the rest in the basement, where they can still be accessed with a little work. I find it interesting that this is exactly what I’ve done with Max’s things and all the reminders of him. I’ve picked the most special and meaningful and put those on display or in parts of the house that I access often. I’ve kept the rest, but they are stored in bins in the basement, where I can still get to them with a little effort on days like today. My plan today is to spend time going through all of Max’s things, including those items that I associate with him, but that came after and as a result of his death--cards, the memorial service guestbook, tokens of remembrance, correspondence with other moms, etc. There’s nothing I’m necessarily searching for or hoping to find, other than the feeling of closeness with Max and a purposeful reflection on his life. Maybe I’ll pick up on his smell, which I only vaguely remember now. Maybe I’ll spend the day sobbing and feeling sorry for myself. Maybe I’ll find some peace. Much like life after Max, I have no idea what to expect, but I will embrace it and allow myself to experience it, and then I will give myself permission to carry on.

A few days ago, I found myself wondering how in the world I got out of bed on June 11, the morning after Max died. I had always thought that I wouldn’t possibly be able to carry on with life if one of my children died. I’d actually imagined it--me in bed, unable to find a reason to put my feet to the floor. I imagined that I would remain unable to find a reason, and so I’d just stay in bed and maybe die myself. I am not naive enough to believe that experiencing one tragedy exempts me from experiencing any others, so I have imagined Ethan and Quinn dying as well. I still think the same thing--I’d never be able to get out of bed and carry on. I don’t remember exactly what I did on June 11 when I woke up, but I do remember exactly how I felt. There was a split second when I thought none of it was true--Max was still alive, surely. With the transition from sleep to reality came a physical pain--it started in my heart and gushed through my veins to every part of my body. It literally hurt. I’ll never forget that physical pain. I thought I finally understood that a broken heart was a real thing, a physical ailment. That physical pain was something that I woke up feeling for several weeks after Max’s death, and yet...I got out of bed. Somehow, for some reason that I deemed worthy, I got out of bed and I carried on. I did the hard, heartbreaking work of planning my baby’s funeral. I forced myself to view his body one final time before his cremation. I touched his face, held his hands, let my tears spill onto his body, and then I carried on. I gritted my teeth through the pain of hugging hundreds of people while my breasts filled with the milk that my body continued to make to nourish the baby who was being mourned, and I carried on. I silently (and many times, illogically) raged at the rude cashier, the friend who didn’t reach out, the people who told me that my baby was in a better place and that it was all part of some divine plan, the poor clueless lady who cut me off on the highway, and I carried on. I broke down in stores, in private, in the car, at the doctor’s office, at work, and then I carried on.  

Postscript--that night, I did go through Max’s things. I unsealed a ziploc baggie that contained some never-laundered items, along with the sleeper that Max wore the night he died. These items are in a ziploc baggie to lock in the smell--Max’s smell. Opening the baggie was hard. I want to save enough of his scent to last my entire life because I do forget, and I know I will continue to do so. My memory, however, was restored the second the bag was opened. I don’t know that anything can bring about as intense an emotional reaction as a sensory experience. The scent of some forgotten item has a mysterious and never-failing way of ripping you back into a specific moment in time. I sobbed and sobbed, but I’m glad I did it. I haven’t opened up the baggie again in the two years that have passed, but I will someday. When I’m ready, and when I think I’ve forgotten too much, I’ll open it again, and I’ll take a big whiff and transport myself back to the days when Max was alive, in my arms where he belonged. Tomorrow, I will wake up on June 11, and, like I’ve been doing for five years now, I’ll get out of bed, and I’ll carry on.