I remember my first Mother’s Day; I was pregnant and I had a delicious secret growing inside me. Only a few people knew… but I had that happy, secret smile. I bought myself a foot soak, at a health store, thinking next year would be my first “real” Mother’s Day. I was joyful, hopeful and ignorant to the tsunami heading my way. I look back on that memory with fondness, despite my position now, as a survivor, post-tsunami.
The first Mother’s Day after Thomas was born was the second most painful day of my life. It was a nightmare. I was raw, completely vulnerable, drowning in grief and physically a shell of whom I used to be. I felt like I was walking around without emotional skin; and the wind was whipping me. I was alive but changed. Every moment of that awful day was one of pain and awfulness. I stared at the clock until midnight, grateful that the day was officially over and too tired to cry myself to sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking “it wasn’t supposed to be like this”.
The following year, I heard about International Bereaved Mother’s Day and was intrigued. Although, I took great comfort in the loss community – it was not a place where I truly belonged, either. All the “rainbow” commentary hurt me; the idea that my baby was “a storm”… and the knowledge that there would not be any living child for us to raise, no matter how, made other loss mothers uncomfortable. However, the more read about this day the more I valued the amazing sense of community around it. I told my husband about it, although I clearly knew he’d not embracing the concept, I simply told him I planned on observing both days. My husband does not always understand the depth of my grief, but he tries his best to support me and if I’m not crying, he’s a happy man.
The first International Bereaved Mother’s Day that I observed, I shared posts about it on my social media sites. I changed my profile picture to some of Carly Marie’s beautiful artwork proclaiming myself a beautiful mother. My family and friends fully supported me and surrounded me with love. Beneath that love, on that day, I could feel the web. The tight, invisible weaving of thousands upon thousands of loss mothers, bound together – working together – holding each other up. The loss community is one of immeasurable strength, that we lend to each other, freely and fully for as long as it is needed. On this day, I drank in that strength, greedily. It was a beautiful sunny day; Rob and I worked in the garden and soaked up the sun and the love. I did this knowing, the following week, I would need every drop of that strength.
It is a day that belongs to us, to ME. It is not a day where I need to defend or explain my motherhood; it has a name, a label that makes those painful, awkward explanations unnecessary. I know there is controversy – why is there two Mother’s Days? For myself, I need the strength of this community, the wisdom of this all too knowing group, to make it through the traditional mothers day. The one where I am invisible. The one where I am forgotten.
This year, again, I will be observing both days. One of strength, love and community; one of heartbreak, visiting a small grave and most likely hail. I need both of these days, the yin yang to help me cope.
How will you spend yours?
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- Self-Isolation And Still Mothers - April 3, 2020
- And Here We Are - June 24, 2019
Jarryd Mitchell Ethan Johnston xxx always wanted, always loved, always remembered – 21w4d
You’ve been gone longer now than you were with us for. We will meet again my darling boy.
Much love to you Andrea. I had had my loss at 23 weeks, a little girl. <3