The time of year leading up to Max's birthday and death day are always full of reflection and a whole panoply of emotions for me, but this year felt especially full of those things. May 4 through June 10 is typically a pretty heavy time for me because I am living out Max's entire lifetime during those weeks. It always goes so quickly--too quickly, just like he did. I read something recently that was ripped straight from my own head. Here it is. One thing that especially stood out to me was the idea that "the depth of your grief is equal to the depth of your love." I've been trying to capture that very concept using the perfect combination of words for five years now, and I never succeeded in the way that Cora Neumann did. That equation is probably a mathematician's dream because it is perfect--it's balanced and simple, yet full of significance and depth. And it helps to explain why I am (most of the time, at least) accepting and even welcoming of the overwhelming and crushing sadness and anger that I sometimes feel when I think about Max's death. That sadness and anger is grief, and that grief is my love. I'm okay with feeling whatever I feel because each of those emotions springs from the root of love. I'm not saying that it's fun or easy to get through. Not at all. It's terrifying and frustrating and incredibly difficult, but it also has purpose. Accepting these feelings and not fighting them is me recognizing that there's a little boy named Max who owns a piece of my heart that I'll never have control over. I'm okay with that; it's his, not mine.
This year, I thought a lot about those early days of grief--about regrets over things I wish I would have done and also about things that I'm glad I did do. I'm going to share some of those things so that, hopefully, someone in the future can reduce his or her own list of regrets. Obviously grief is a very personal and very individualized journey, so I'm not saying that this is how to do it right. There is no right or wrong way to grieve. What follows are simply my own reflections on those practical, but so difficult-to-make decisions that demand your attention and timely action in those first few days and weeks following an unexpected death. These are things that I had never given serious thought to and felt so completely overwhelmed by. I was just trying to wrap my head around the fact that my son was dead, but time wouldn't slow down enough for me to get through that phase before it moved on to the next one. The list below is full of things that most of us wouldn't dare suggest to a friend who has just suffered the sudden loss of a loved one. We are usually more focused on saying the "perfect" thing (which, in case you're wondering, doesn't exist, but a simple "I'm so sorry, and I'm thinking of you" is pretty close), and we trust that the family and close friends will help with the rest. If you feel so compelled, then maybe you just pass the list on to a relative or friend who might be able to gently suggest these things without sounding too business-like in the face of tragedy. Many of these things were, in fact, suggested to me by those very people in my life.
Save a lock of hair--or, in my case, many of them. At the time, I hadn't even thought of this. I don't remember who suggested it--my mom, our incredibly thoughtful funeral director, who knows. I'm thankful to that person, though. Max's hair was one of his defining traits; it was dark, silky, and there was so much of it. At first, this sounded morbid to me. It was hard enough to know that his little body has been subjected to the grotesqueness of an autopsy, and now they wanted to cut his hair? When I saw the little bag containing his hair for this first time, however, it was both a relief and a punch to the gut. It made his death more permanent, but it was also incredibly meaningful to have a piece of him still. I haven't opened that bag often, but I love to see it, especially now that memories of him are not as fresh in my mind as they once were.
Store unlaundered items--We only had a couple of unlaundered items, but someone suggested putting them in an airtight bag. Again, I am incredibly thankful to that person. Every person has his or her own unique smell, and it's hard to place a value on being able to smell it when he or she is gone. I still remember Max's smell, but putting his sleeper up to my nose and having it right there is truly a gift. It's an emotional experience, but it's worth it to have him right there with me, physically, every once in a while.
Let older children attend the memorial service--This was a tough decision for me, and we ultimately chose not to have Ethan in attendance. We worried that it was too much sadness for his little heart and mind, but I regret that. Grief is sad, so why hide it? Max was Ethan's brother, and he had a right to be there. I am forever disappointed in myself that I took that away from him. I understand and respect that some people may disagree, but I wish that I would have been able to pay closer attention to the doubts that I had when I decided to not let Ethan attend Max's funeral. I guess that the bigger message here is that if you doubt whether something is right or wrong, maybe you should opt for the least permanent choice. In hindsight, I wish I would have brought Ethan and had a designated person there to take him outside if he became upset or need a distraction. I can't go back and even give him a chance to be there now.
Get handprints and footprints--This is another item on my list of regrets. I wasn't even aware that this was an option, but I now know that it would have been allowed. I believe that this is a somewhat common practice for stillborn babies, and I know that the funeral home would have accommodated this wish. Ink, plaster, whatever you can make work, but I would love to have these for Max.
Preserve flowers from the funeral--Our house was absolutely full of flowers after Max's funeral, and they were all so beautiful. Somehow they made the house feel more full of life, and I realized that I didn't want them to die. There was something symbolic about them to me, and dealing with another death (even if it was just the flowers) didn't strike me as fun. For me, the days following the funeral were incredibly difficult. Planning the funeral gave my days purpose, and when it was all over, I was left with this looming, unanswerable question: "What now?" Living a normal life didn't really seem possible yet, and the thought of throwing out all of these flowers that were symbols of people's love for Max seemed daunting. So, I picked a few flowers out of each arrangement and set to work drying them out and preserving them. It gave my days a purpose, albeit a smaller one than planning a funeral, and it made me feel good to be able to save these little tokens of love. It's really a very simple process. I didn't know what I would do with them yet, so when they were done drying, I put them in big baggies and stored them in a closet. When the holiday season came around, I was so relieved to have them. I ended up making centerpieces with the flowers and some Ethan- and mom-decorated river rocks for our tables at Thanksgiving and Christmas. I'll post more about that process in the future.
Set up a private viewing--I think this is pretty standard procedure, but I almost didn't do it. I wondered whether seeing Max "like that" would replace my memories of him alive with ones of him as just a corpse. My mom ended up convincing me to do this, and, again, I am so thankful. It was an absolutely beautiful experience, and it didn't replace any of my good memories--it actually just added one to the list. Yes, it was emotional. Yes, it was a little traumatic. But, when I walked out of that room, I felt lighter and more peaceful than I had felt since June 9. Instead of talking to Max in my head, I got to talk to him. I caressed him, I kissed him, I fixed his hair one last time, and I told him all of the things I wanted to tell him. If I could go back into that room right now and have a few more moments with Max, I would do it without hesitation. Do not skip this part--its rewards will replace any doubt or squeamishness that you feel. And if you can find it in your heart, give other family members and friends the same opportunity to spend a private moment with their loved one before the burial or cremation. This is still a memory that brings me great happiness.
Don't make any permanent decisions about your loved one's belongings--For quite a while after Max's death, I was in an impenetrable bubble made of grief. It surrounded me everywhere I went, and it was strong. Not one thing could get through it. This is not the right state of mind to be in when making decisions that you can't take back. When you feel yourself venturing a little further outside of that bubble every day, then go ahead and sort through some belongings. Donate some to charity if you feel like it, or, do what I did--just store everything and decide later. This is what worked for me. It sounds selfish, but I couldn't picture another child wearing any of Max's things, sitting in his swing, using his burp cloths or blankets. And that's okay. They were his, and I still needed him around. I still needed to go into his room and smell him, sit in his chair, look through his clothes. Hell, I didn't even empty out the dirty diaper pail for months. I don't know what I thought I was going to do with a bunch of poopy diapers, but I wasn't ready to throw them away, and that's okay. It was not a pretty experience when we finally did empty it out, but so what? You really have to let your heart dictate the timeline and guide your decisions when it comes to your loved one's belongings. I found that it was a mostly spontaneous process. One day, I would randomly decide that I should pack up Max's onesies, some with the tags still on them. So I did that, and it felt okay because I didn't force it; I just let it come. One day, a few years after Max died, I decided that I would be okay with another baby using his swing. But, it could only be my best friend's baby. Selfish? Maybe. But that's okay. Grief is your journey, so give yourself permission to be selfish as you navigate it.
This is not by any means a complete list of the "practical" decisions that you have to make after your child (or any loved one) dies, but it's a good start. These are the things that stand out to me when I think back to that time in my life when I wanted to just hole up and not make decisions. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. So, with the help of some very wise and gentle family members and friends, I made the best decisions that I could. When the fog lifted a little bit, I could reflect with a clearer head, and while I did discover some regrets, I forgave myself. I still do forgive myself because I did the best that I could.
Hopefully someone somewhere will gain something from this list, even if it is just a better understanding of what a mother goes through when her child dies. Please feel free to share this list, and please add to it as you see fit from personal experience.
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