September 26, 2011--The Myth of "Acceptance"

It’s been a long time since I’ve written.  Way too long, honestly.  Writing really does help me, and I’m in need of some help lately.  The last few weeks have been beyond difficult.  In the last few weeks, I’ve had some of my worst days since the first few days after Max died.  There have been days when I felt like the only thing I could do was cry, and so I did just that for most of the day.  I’ve cried at work, in my car, at lunch, at the dentist’s office, at Wal Mart, and of course at home.  I’ve held back tears a million times at a million places using a million different strategies.  Holding them back doesn’t mean that they don’t come later, though.  Trust me on that.  I know that some people think that these “bad days” are happening because I’m coming out of the fog that you seem to live in after someone you love dies.  I won’t argue against the fact that my life has been a bit hazy since Max died, but I will argue with you if you say that I’m just coming to “accept” Max’s death.  I hate that word.  It means a million different things.  In some ways, I accepted Max’s death the moment I picked him up and realized that he was dead.  I accepted his death because it was true, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make it untrue.  I accepted it because he was stiff and still and way too quiet and cold to be alive.  I accepted it because there were people at my house telling me that my son was dead.  I accepted it because they covered Max’s little body with a blanket, put it in a horrifyingly tiny body bag, and took him to the morgue.  I accepted it because the medical examiner called me after he cut Max’s body open and tried to find a reason for his death.  What in the world did I do that day if I didn’t accept that he was gone?  What in the world have I been doing for the last 137 days if I haven’t been accepting that Max is dead and our lives are forever changed because of that?

I know that people probably don’t mean that I need to accept the reality that Max is dead.  They must know that I know he’s dead.  I can’t help but picture them thinking that I have been living in some make-believe world where I go home from work every day and carry a doll around, pretending like it’s Max though.  I imagine that they think I change this doll’s diaper, feed it, and talk to it while Ethan and Scott help keep up the gig to spare my feelings.  Obviously, I don’t do this.  I know that people mean that I need to accept that Max is gone in a way that brings me peace and comfort and makes me feel okay about that fact that I’ll never see him again.  I think that’s an awful lot to ask of me.  I have every right to be angry and sad and horribly heartbroken.  I know that I won’t feel like that every single day of my life; I don’t feel that way every day even now.  But I do know that I’ll always go through phases when I feel like that.  That’s as close to acceptance as I’m ever going to get.  This is one time when I would be happy to be wrong, though.

Sometimes I fear that people substitute acceptance for the idea of “getting over it” though.  If you are reading this, you are probably smart enough to know that I’ll never get over Max’s death.  I will admit, though, that I thought that it was entirely possible to get over a loved one’s death before Max died.  I see now that “getting over it” is some phrase that people use to make themselves feel better about another person’s loss.  Before, I just assumed that people got over their husband’s, child’s, parent’s, friend’s death with time.  I see now that I was completely wrong.  My grandma hasn’t “gotten over” my grandpa dying; she misses him every day, and her heart still aches at the thought of living without him.  My mom hasn’t “gotten over” her dad dying; she wishes she could call him every year on his birthday, and she still feels that painful stab in heart when she thinks about the moment she found out that he was dead.  I have a co-worker whose husband died suddenly years ago.  I didn’t know her when it happened, but I just assumed that she had “gotten over it.”  I feel like a jerk for assuming that.  No one ever gets over it.  We just go on because we have to.  We mention our dead loved ones less and less because people get more and more freaked out at the sound of their names years later or maybe because we are surrounded by people who might know of our loved ones, but they don’t really know.  People mention our dead loved ones less and less because they don’t want to bring it up.  They don’t want to make us feel bad if we’re having a good day or if we’ve “gotten over it.”  They don’t realize that having a “good day” means something entirely different after your son dies and that I’ll never, ever “get over it.”  If you say his name, you’re only saying what’s been said in my head a thousand times already that day.

Weird transition coming, but just stay with me.  I promise it will all come together.  Ethan has been seeing a counselor since Max died, and he is doing really well.  He feels a lot more comfortable asking questions about Max, sharing his feelings and memories with us, and supporting us when we’re feeling sad.  Ethan’s counselor helped him make memory boxes a few weeks ago.  One was for Max; one was for Bonnie.  Ethan painted the boxes and decorated them, and then he recorded memories, thoughts, etc. about Bonnie and Max on sheets of paper that were placed inside the boxes.  When he brought them home, I didn’t look inside them at first.  I don’t know why; I just didn’t.  A couple of days later, I did.  The last sheet of paper that I pulled from Max’s memory box said, “I miss all of him.”  Children have a way of saying things perfectly in as few words as possible.  It was such a simple way to say what Max means to him, but it was absolutely perfect.  I can’t believe I never thought of that.  I miss all of him.  It’s exactly how I feel.  I miss his hair, his eyelashes, his nose, his toes, his smile, his laugh, his cry, his skin, his fingernails…all of him.  Those words that came from Max’s big brother’s mouth made me so sad for him, but proud of him also.  He is six years old, and he understands what has been taken from him.  He is six years old, and he loved his little brother.  I hope he gets a chance to be a big brother again. 

Honestly, I don’t think that my recent “bad days” have much to do with me accepting Max’s death or coming out of any fog.  I think they have everything to do with me grieving the loss of one of the most important, precious people in my life.  I think they have everything to do with me needing to take some time to really feel the impact of my loss, pay tribute to my son, and mourn the loss of his future.  I think they have everything to do with me remembering exactly what his little body felt like that morning and comparing it to what his body felt like every day of his life before that.  They have everything to do with me feeling pissed off, traumatized, and short-changed.  And knowing that I am completely justified in feeling those ways.  I think I’ll always have periods of time when I feel like this.  Sometimes I’ll know when they’re coming; most of the time I won’t.  I’ll never accept Max’s death or get over it or move on or do anything else that some people seem to think that people can be heartless enough to do after losing a loved one, but I will realize the impact of Max’s death and the importance of his life for the rest of mine.  It won’t feel good, it will be hard, and I will hate every second of it.  But I know that I’ll get through it.

  

September 12, 2011

I haven’t been getting a whole lot of sound sleep lately.  I have no problem falling asleep; it’s the staying asleep part that gives me trouble.  I wake up several times a night.  Most of the time I fall right back asleep, but sometimes it takes a while.  Most of the time I’m not thinking of anything in particular and can’t really pinpoint specifically what woke me up.  In general, I probably don’t need to spell out what is waking me up.  It’s Max.  My thoughts of him, my dreams of him, my absolute obsession with him.  Sometimes I wonder when every single thought in my head will center on things besides just Max.  Then I think, a little panicky, what if it never stops?  And then I feel like a jerk for wanting to think about other things besides Max.  But I think I deserve that.  The truth is, not every thought I have of Max is wonderful and precious and comforting.  A lot of them are bad, actually, because they mostly involve the one thing that can’t be avoided:  the fact that he is dead.  I see a mom in the grocery store pushing her little baby around while her older child walks beside them, and all I see is me not getting to do that.  I see Ethan gaze at my friend’s newborn baby, and all I see is him not getting to do that with Max anymore.  It doesn’t matter what I see, really, because I don’t see what’s really there; I see what’s been taken from me and from Max.  I teach my students a new word, and all I think of is that Max will never get to learn that word.  I put a sticker on Ethan’s sticker chart, and I think that Max will never, ever get a sticker.  He’ll never taste the lollipop that Ethan got from the nice cashier at Trader Joe’s tonight, he’ll never get a birthday card with his favorite animal on it, he’ll never make us proud by sleeping in his own bed and pottying in the big boy toilet.  I know it sounds selfish of me, and I’ll be the first to admit that.  It is selfish, but grief is selfish.  You don’t have time to worry about other people when you’re falling apart yourself. 

            On Friday night, I had another sleepless night.  We were in Tulsa at Scott’s parents’ house to celebrate Scott’s birthday and his mom’s.  I was exhausted in the way that all teachers are on Friday nights.  It had been a hard week too in the way that some weeks are worse than others when you’ve just lost your son.  Anyway, I went to bed about 10:30 and fell asleep quickly.  And then I started waking up.  Every 30 minutes, almost on the dot.  I think some of my restlessness had to do with Saturday being the 10^th, three months past the day that Max died.  Some time around 1:00, I started to imagine the things that I would have been doing exactly three months prior.  At 1:00 am, I would have been almost home from the KC Sporting game that I wish I had never gone to.  At 1:30 am, I would have been getting into bed and kissing Max one last time.  I remember looking at him before I fell asleep that night.  I remember smiling at how beautiful and perfect he was.  I remember feeling so lucky.  At 2:30 am, I would have been sleeping soundly.  At 3:00 am, Max could have already been dead, but I didn’t know it yet.  At 6:00 am, I did, but I wasn’t letting myself believe it.  I was giving him CPR.  I was trying to stay calm, but I eventually started screaming.  I knew what was going on, but I didn’t know.  At 6:00 am, I was blowing air into Max’s mouth and willing it to do something.  I was begging it to work.  It came right back out, and I knew, but I kept breathing anyway.  I couldn’t give up.  At 6:00 am, I was using my fingers to do chest compressions on my little 12-pound baby boy’s chest and trying not to hurt him.  I didn’t want to crack a rib; that wouldn’t be fun to recover from!  Of course, I knew that there would be no recovering from anything, but I didn’t really know.  I just kept on.  My hands and my breath and my mommyness would save him!  I made him; surely I could save him!  I think this is what they call “magical thinking,” and I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t work, no matter how much work and heart you put into it.

            I woke up at 6:22 in the guest room at Jim and Betty’s.  I looked down at Ethan, asleep in his little pod on the floor next to the bed.  It was exactly where Max’s pack and play would have gone, exactly where he should have been sleeping.  I thought about what I would have been doing three months ago, and I felt like I knew exactly what I was doing.  There’s no way to know for sure, but I feel confident of it.  I was sitting on the stairs in my house.  Two or three police officers stood at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the wall, probably feeling incredibly awkward.  I sat staring at Max’s body on our living room floor.  A baby blanket covered him.  I had gotten the blanket out just the day before to play with him on the floor.  That is the definition of irony:  a baby blanket meant for play covering a dead baby’s body.  How cruel.  I sat on the stairs shaking my head.  My signature move when I’m crying is to fan my face as if the act itself will somehow erase what is making me cry in the first place.  I didn’t fan my face that day.  I let the tears come, and I shook my head.  I’m not going to say that it felt like a bad dream or that it just couldn’t have been true.  I knew it wasn’t a dream, and I knew it was true.  But I willed it to not be true.  I willed it to just go away.  Just like I willed my hands and breaths to save Max, I willed the world to take back what it had done to me.  Unfortunately, this was just as effective as making someone take back something hurtful they’ve said.  You can’t take it back.  It’s always there.  So, maybe I shouldn’t feel so bad about wanting to be able to think of things besides Max.  I don’t know if it will ever happen, but I’ll deal with it either way.  I owe that much to Max.

            I don’t remember going back to sleep after 6:22 on Saturday.  I had a horrible day as far as days go, but I was surrounded by good people who care about me.  Seeing babies was harder for me that day.  Honestly, seeing people was just plain hard for me.  The three-month “anniversary” of Max’s death hit me harder than any others so far.  Maybe because we’re all going back to “normal.”  Actually, we aren’t, the rest of the world is.  I do know that I’ve accomplished some things that I didn’t think were possible in the past three months.  I’ve gone an entire day without crying.  I’ve had fun with friends.  I’ve done a pretty good job at work.  I’ve held a couple of babies.  I’ve come to terms with the fact that I might not have another boy.  I’ve thought of Max and smiled.  I’ve loved Ethan and Scott and my family and my friends with all of my heart, even though I thought it might never work again.  I’ve done a lot of things that seem small, but they are the things that really matter when you look at the big picture.  

September 5, 2011--Small World

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.