“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the woman at the pastry counter said.
For some reason, I woke up that mid-November day thinking about warm sticky buns, the handmade kind with a cover of crusty brown sugar and chopped walnuts embedded in every bite. Emma had been gone for two months.
Without explanation, this was the first morning I had not awoken to a wall of impenetrable grief. I was lost in an out-of-body experience as I watched myself dress, stunned by each action, arm in sleeve, foot in shoe. These are things normal people do, but I was longer normal. As I reached for my coat, guilt consumed me, both for my lack of tears and pastry orientated motivation. This was my first time out of the house on my own. Each step back into the world felt awkward, like a toddler navigating their first uneven surface. I still looked pregnant, and our tragedy continued to headline the “current happenings” column in our small, southern Vermont town.
The woman at the counter, with dark eyes and curly brown hair, was searching my face, smiling through an awkward tone, waiting for me to respond.
I’m so sorry for your loss.
It was the first of countless times I heard this well-crafted phrase, a series of words designed to sympathize, without inquiring. This woman, and a caravan of others, employed the sentiment to express distress that my baby died. Every time some sympathetic observer uttered those words, I simply conjured a smile and a slight nod. But I always wanted to ask,
“Exactly what part of my loss do you mean? Do you even know how much I have lost?”
The truth is, we have been raped of so much more than the world sees. We have lost the naïve notion that uncomplicated, “textbook” pregnancies result in a screaming baby. We no longer believe that any week of pregnancy is “safe”, not even forty. We have lost possibilities, clearly visualized images of our baby, warm and swaddled within our arms in the middle of the night. We no longer share a sense of hope, a blissful ignorance that anything is possible, that miracles happen. We can no longer look at a mother and child and smile internally as we think, “That will be me someday”. Instead, indignation festers. That should be me, right now. Every measure of certainty has been erased. In its place – doubt, guilt, fear and answerless questions reside.
After our loss, we exist in that murky place, somewhere between the mirage of our past and our equally uncertain future. Yet the most horrific alteration is to our sense of self. Circumstance has reduced us to a pile of worn emotions and old perspectives, and then challenged us to live again. To re-create our hopes, dreams and future possibilities while balancing each new idea against the notion that our child died. Who can I possibly become now that my world is meaningless?
Grief is our constant companion. It is with us as we reach each mile marker, but the road is not that simple. We are now square pegs in round holes. We are asked to find a way to make the puzzle piece fit. For every stolen perspective, my worldly assignment appears:
Figure out how you will navigate the world through your new lenses – but live in it while you do.
Create appropriate memorials to the child you have lost- but do not obsess.
Talk about them just enough – but not too much.
Take all the time you need – but expect that others will pressure you to move on before you are ready.
Be prepared for some of your long-term friendships to fall apart – it is inevitable.
Decide how you are going to navigate this death for future children, or the ones you already have.
Oh yes – and don’t forget, figure out who you used to be before all this madness versus who you are becoming in the wake of your tragedy.
Loss is an internal make over of the grandest proportions. Without question, I have never again been the same person. I am lucky to have located shards and fragments – the “best” parts- of my former self, but I am a re-created soul.
My new lenses have focused. Emma’s burning bush sits within a circle of stones representing our never ending love. We talk about her all the time, not just on her birthday and Christmas. We both grieve and celebrate her existence. Forever is my time line. I have lost friends. I have gained so much more. Her sisters speak of her with pride, with love, with comprehension. I know who I used to be and I know who I am. I am Emma’s mother. I am forever changed.