It’s coming…I can feel it. (Insert the threatening music here). I know it’s coming, I don’t need to look at the calendar for confirmation. My moods are all over the map, I’m sensitive and feeling things deeply. I swear, the woman at the bank with a stroller – she smirked at me. Yup, she looked at my bereaved self and smirked at me.
Clearly, that didn’t happen, but, during the preamble to Mother’s Day, it feels like she did.
Logically, I know she didn’t. But my heart has never spoken logic, it specializes in feelings, even when they defy logic.
My husband will take me out for breakfast on Mother’s Day. Later, we’ll go to the cemetery. I will pray for good weather and a make work project in the backyard will swallow the day. I will avoid Social Media and only look at the Still Mothers’ website – it’s my safe zone.
My first Mother’s Day I was pregnant, and no one knew. It was a delicious secret. I floated around, eating spinach 8 times a day, with a secretive smile. It was lovely.
My second Mother’s Day, was simply put a nightmare. It rained, it hailed and snowed when we were at the cemetery. I felt betrayed. I felt EVERYTHING, for that day, I walked around without skin. Nothing to protect me from my emotions or the elements.
The following year I heard about the International Bereaved Mother’s Day; I informed my husband we would be observing both. He does not understand but he respects my feelings enough that he goes along with it. Bereaved Mother’s Day brings with it a beautiful community of support and love. It’s a day when my grief is not something to make others feel uncomfortable, it is mine to spotlight, to celebrate to shout Thomas’ name from the rafters. It is a day, we the bereaved Mothers’ are allowed out of the shadows and into the sunlight, to be seen and heard.
As I dread it, I tried to break it down, to know my enemy. It’s just a day, a day about love. A day for all of us to profess our love for our mother’s, our gratitude for all they have done for us, for Mother’s to feel celebrated.
I know my son loves me, we love him beyond measure, he may not be able to make me breakfast, or bring home a craft but if it is a day about love – I can take part in that. Not the way I wanted to, not the way I dreamed of – but all I have left is love. I don’t have the messy craft, the half raw eggs, carried on a tray that orange juice spilled into them. I don’t have anything I ever though I would, except the never ending supply of love for my baby.
Last year, sitting on a bench in the cemetery, I saw two butterflies and I smiled. It was as close as I will get to a card from my son. My heart and soul soared.
This year, again, I will try and survive the day. I will skip seeing other people, even my own Mother. I will preach and practice self-care. And I will be grateful for all 22 weeks of my pregnancy. On a day about love, I will feel love – it’s all I have left.
- The Importance Of Pictures - October 12, 2020
- Self-Isolation And Still Mothers - April 3, 2020
- And Here We Are - June 24, 2019
They absolutely deserve recognition and the same supportive community. If you go to Carly Marie’s Facebook page, there IS a Bereaved Father’s Day – this year it is tentatively planned for September.
Is anyone working on establishing a bereaved fathers’ day too? The babies who died belong to them too and society has discouraged fathers grieving with phrases like “Be strong for your wife” or just “how is your wife?” but not asking them how they feel. They deserve recognition too.
May the butterfly soar, and the sun shines, let the rain drop where it may. Thomas is all around you, embracing your heart xx