I have always been a person who loves to learn. I was a nerdy child who looked forward to the first day of school with eager anticipation. Although anxious about who was going to be in my classes, I also always looked forward to a year of new experiences and academic growth. This yearning for more knowledge continued through my college years. Even today, I long to broaden my understanding of my job and the students I work with.
Recently, though, learning has taken on a new meaning. I have not only been learning about concepts and concrete subjects. I have been learning how to grieve, how to mourn for my lost children. I have been learning how to discover a new purpose in life while also attempting to maintain a positive outlook. I have been learning how to accept a life that I would never have chosen for myself. I have been learning how to keep my children’s memories alive.
I never fully experienced grief until my son, William, was born much too soon. When I saw him and held him, I saw perfection for the first time. I felt love, so much love. But I also felt pain, so much pain. I felt a gnawing emptiness that refuses to release its clutch on me, no matter how much time has passed. Since William’s birth, I have been forced to learn how to cope with the desolation in my heart. It’s a path I’ve been forced to navigate alone. There are others who have maneuvered through similar journeys, but every traveler is forced to forge her own way through because no two paths are the same. It is helpful and inspiring to watch how others have plodded through the treacherous expedition, but I know that my own path, my own feelings will be distinct. I have to learn how to live with the pain while at the same time letting the love for my son win.
It is not easy to learn how to mourn for your children. I long to keep my children’s memories alive. I want to be able to mention William’s name without people feeling uncomfortable. I want to be able to talk about him and the short time I had with him. I want people to ask questions about him. I want to hear his name uttered by others. It’s difficult to talk about a child who is no longer with you, though. Occasionally, I find small ways to inject William into conversations. I’m proud to share his picture with people who ask. Slowly, I am learning how to share my precious boy with the rest of the world, with those who never got the chance to meet him.
I have been learning how to reshape my thinking. I am trying to be grateful for the time I was able to spend with William. I am also trying to prepare myself for a life without living children. I no longer allow myself to dream of future offspring. I already have two children, and I’m not sure I will ever be blessed with breathing babies. So, I’m trying to teach myself how to be satisfied with the many blessings I do have. I am forever grateful for a loving husband, an adorable dog and a caring family. I have many friends and a support network of other bereaved mothers who have helped me feel less alone on this journey. At times, it can be difficult to focus on the positives in my life. I’m tired of combatting the negative, lonely thoughts that invade my brain. I want to relate to the mothers of living children. But I’m not yet part of that club and can’t allow myself to hope that I one day may be.
It can seem that others have given up on that dream, too. I recently went to a baby shower. People were talking to another person at the shower, saying things like, “Wait until it’s your turn!” I remember when people used to say those things to me. They don’t anymore. People don’t know what to say to me regarding children anymore. I understand — I no longer know what I would like to hear. It used to be nice to dream, but it’s anxiety provoking now. However, it also hurts to be left out of such talk. It’s as if others have also given up on my dream. Others, too, realize that I may never be able to watch my child grow into a waddling infant and mature into a wizened adult. Others are also afraid to hope for me.
It’s never easy to learn something new. Grasping this grieving process is hard, treacherous work. It is the most difficult thing I have ever been forced to understand. Maybe that is because no one can teach me how to do it. It is something that I must endure and grow from on my own.
Like all learning, though, there is a hidden beauty to this grief process. I have truly grasped the evanescence of life and appreciate the value of each quality moment spent with loved ones. I welcome the extraordinary beauty of the world around me. For the first time this year, I recognized the vibrant greens of the grass in the spring. I noticed how wonderfully the greens contrasted against the shocking blue of the sky. The beauty of the world truly amazed me in a way it never has. I have also experienced a whole new love for my husband. He has listened, held me while I cried, cared for me when I was in the worst pain of my life and stood by my side, even while he has been trying to navigate this new life, too. I have never felt more connected to him. He has truly been my rock in this storm, and I feel so fortunate to have him on this journey with me.
I am sure I still have much more grieving to do. It is a never-ending journey. But so is the learning that arises from it. I hope I continue to marvel at the wonders that grief has unraveled before my eyes. I hope that I continue to find new ways to inject my children into my life. I hope that I continue to learn how to let my love for them win over the pain hidden in my heart.
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I love this it speaks volumes to me… thank you for your honesty and your strength to share your journey.
Thank you, Melissa. I’m glad my words were able to reach you. Sending you many good thoughts.