On Friendship 

ACT 1

Today a coworker, let’s call her Fran, came into work with her newborn. I saw her down the hall showing him off to two other coworkers. I quickly slipped into my office and closed the door. No way was I going to handle that well. Later, a friend told me that Fran had been looking for me specifically. Eek.

The thing is, I feel like Fran should know better. She’s the one who wanted my address so she could send me an invitation to her baby shower. (Clue #1: no response to the text). She’s also someone who rescued me from taking baby appointments during the 22 days I worked at WIC post-loss. (Clue #2: me bawling in my office after seeing a baby). Later, this afternoon I noticed an envelope in the box on my office door. Thinking it was from someone else, I opened it. A thank you card. With a  photo collage postcard of her living baby. Pre-loss, I magneted photo cards like this onto our fridge.   Uh-uh. No way. I tried to pawn off the card on my living daughter but she had her own choice words to say about that baby. What the hell am I supposed to do with this card?

ACT 2

Six weeks after my loss, a friend, let’s call her Holly, phoned to tell me she is pregnant. (A rough way to receive such news, as I desperately held back tears while congratulating her). And even though I have known this woman for nine years, and even though she was one of the first people to reach out to me in my grief and offer her support, I have drawn back from her. I have stopped responding to her texts. I have neglected to return her phone calls. Last week I had a meeting in the building where she works and I couldn’t bring myself to stop by her office. 

Fran and Holly didn’t dump in or say hurtful platitudes. All they did was get pregnant and deliver (or expect to deliver) a living baby. However, I selfishly don’t want anything to do with either of these people. I don’t want to see them or talk to them and I CERTAINLY don’t want to see their babies.  This is incredibly unfair to both of them. 

Then again, it is incredibly astronomically unfair that my baby died.


In the midst of your grief, did you lose friends as a result of circumstance? Were the friendships eventually mended?


 

The Ring Theory 

When tragedy hits, people often don’t know what to say or do. Some grief-stricken individuals will reassure others that saying something is better than saying nothing. I don’t agree with this, although I can understand the good intentions behind it. I think what people mean when they say “It’s better to say something, even the wrong thing, than nothing at all” is that they wish for others to acknowledge their loss, they wish for their loved one to be remembered and they don’t want that awkward “elephant in the room” feeling. However, saying the wrong thing can be devastating, even going so far as to destroy relationships. One of the best resources on this topic that I have found is this one. To summarize the ring theory “in a nutshell”: comfort in, dump out. When I apply this theory to my own situation, I place myself in the middle. Directly around me is my husband and living daughter. Surrounding them, our parents, then close friends and family, and so-on. The most important part of the theory is this:

“The person in the center ring can say anything she wants to anyone, anywhere. She can kvetch and complain and whine and moan and curse the heavens and say, “Life is unfair” and “Why me?” That’s the one payoff for being in the center ring. Everyone else can say those things too, but only to people in larger rings.”

I had a few people “dump in” on me, but only once did it affect me enough to destroy a relationship.

A pregnant friend (and my hired home birth midwife) disclosed to me that she had been having panic attacks since my delivery. She told me that her partner, the father of her baby, was asking her to cease communicating with me as he was concerned that the stress of my situation was affecting their baby. She was having panic attacks? My daughter died. She died. In my body. My “friend” also told me that she was grieving for my baby. She was grieving for my baby? Yes, it was valid for her to feel this way (I realize this now). BUT it was absolutely NOT ok for her to “dump in” on me.

I felt guilty. If something happened to her baby, it would be my fault. I had ruined her life by delivering a stillborn baby. I had caused her undue stress. Her stress was going to harm her baby and it would be my fault.  These are the irrational thoughts that consume someone who is grieving.

And I felt (still feel) angry. Extremely angry. Like, irrationally angry.

Crazy angry.

Our communication ended, along with our friendship.

Before our friendship ended, this is what she told me: “So much love to you, my friend. I’m holding you all in my heart every moment and I will walk with you as you put one foot in front of the other. {{{hug}}}”

That was a lie. A promise she could not keep.

Comfort IN, dump OUT.


Did you ever experience someone “dumping in” on you during your grief? How did you handle it? Did it affect your relationship?


 

Parenting After Loss

I was a mother before I became a bereaved mother. I recall in my early post-loss days, one mother, who had lost her firstborn and then went on to have a second child, commenting that it must be much more heartbreaking for me, having a living child first then losing my second-born.  I’m not sure about that. I  only have personal experience on losing my second, but my (unprofessional, inexperienced) opinion is that losing a baby sucks, period.

These are just a few observations that may be a bit unique to someone who had a living child/children prior to their loss.

On Being a Big Sister:

A seems to think that being a “big sister” is a milestone, something that all girls get to be someday (despite pointing out examples of people she knows who aren’t big sisters). This has produced comments through the years like: “that’s the big sister box,” (referring to a box of too-big clothes stored in the top of my closet) and “when I’m a big sister, I will put the pacifier in the baby’s mouth.” This obviously raises the question of whether or not she is now a big sister. We certainly count Baby C as a member of our family. I refer to her as my youngest daughter. But it’s not as simple as that. After all, A isn’t putting pacifiers in mouths, singing songs to Baby C, or keeping her entertained in the backseat of the car. Even now, she begins sentences with “When I’m a big sister…”

And then there’s the fact that A never ‘met’ her sister. Although we spent nine long months preparing her to be a big sister, she never saw that tiny baby she was looking forward to meeting. I feel like this has made the entire experience very abstract for her.

On Explaining Death:

After Baby C died, my husband and I were faced with the task of explaining there wouldn’t be a baby living with us after all. A’s only previous experience with death involved Nemo, her classroom Betta Fish. Everything I read about explaining death to children detailed being very blunt and honest. So I was. But for days after, A would ask when the doctors would fix Baby C so she could come home.

And 10 weeks later: “If a people dies you don’t grow and grow anymore, you just die and you don’t have your birthday anymore.” (Birthdays are a HUGE deal).

On Mama Guilt:

In the earliest days, I felt TONS of guilt that I wasn’t able to pull myself out of bed for my living daughter. Mother’s Day was 6 days after I delivered, and I spent the ENTIRE day curled up in bed crying. I’m hoping this isn’t a memory that sticks in my child’s head

I often worry that A will become damaged from my grief. It cannot be healthy for a child to continually witness her mother crying.

On Triggers:

Having a living child meant that, once I was able to remove myself from my dark bedroom, I was expelled into the world, no longer able to hide myself away from tiny babies and pregnant bellies. There were many tears held back in the middle of Target, parks, birthday parties, beaches, daycare, and Story Land. One day at my daughter’s gymnastics lesson, a mom was hiding in the corner breastfeeding and I started to cry. For that one specific example, I must have twenty more.

Audio books.  Junie B. Jones. This one that my daughter LOVES but makes me cry every.single.time. I asked her why she loves it so much. Her response? “Because I love babies so SO much!”

On Empathy:

One night I was crying, not just the streaming tears crying–it was the all-out loud sobbing crying. A gave me one of her dolls to cuddle and when my husband asked me what was wrong, she said “she wants Baby C,” something I had not explicitly said to her. She wiped my tears and patted my face. It was the most amazing thing to witness a 4 year old express such empathy for another human. I’m not sure that can be taught.

On Being “Thankful More Than Thankful Has Ever Been Thanked”:

I often gaze at A in absolute awe. She’s alive. I lay my hand on her chest to feel the rise and fall. I listen close to hear her breathe. I kiss her temple. How? How could I deliver one amazing child, alive, and yet my sweet baby was cruelly jerked away from my loving arms? But in the midst of “why me” “it’s not fair” and “F-you, Universe,” I  truly am “thankful to the nth degree” (credit: Angela Miller–and if you haven’t read her writings, DO IT NOW!)

 

What insights have you found in parenting after loss? Is there anything you find to be unique about parenting your living child? Or, if your loss was your first-born, what do you think is unique about your story?