Margot is (Still) Dead; We (Still) Miss Her

When your child dies, you become weary.  Deep soul weariness.  The missing never ends and it's exhausting.

Either you get this or you don't.  And trust me, I wouldn't wish this type of understanding upon anyone.  The price is too high.

When Margot moved up to heaven far too soon, so many were heartbroken with us in that moment, but then were able to release the ordeal and proceed forward while leaving her behind.  Completely.  "In Heaven."  A picture of someone else's sorrow collecting dust on a shelf.  God needed my "angel" baby, but not any of yours -phew- so you don't have to keep interacting with this uncomfortable subject.  Of miracle babies dying.

Being a parent means making the rules for your kids.  When they go to bed, what they can (and can't) eat, who they hang out with, what words they are allowed to say.  Being a loss parent throws all that out the window.  Because you can't dictate "how people grieve" for your child.  You can't require certain things. Your baby isn't present, so you have to let people handle her absence in their own personal manner.  Which, hopefully, will prove to be a healthy, meaningful process for them.  But it feels like a sucking black hole of non-existent parental involvement.  A removal of authority over your child('s memory).  It hits like another loss.  Another reminder that she isn't here.

Recently, David has been reliving his trauma over and over again.  Each night before bed, his mind is a blank screen waiting for the worst memories to be projected upon.  The nurse searching for Margot's heartbeat.  Telling Elijah the news about his sister before bringing him back into the hospital room.  Singing a lullaby to perfect little ears that couldn't hear it.  You see, this isn't history for us.  It is HERE, HERE, HERE each night, each day.  In both horrific and beautiful ways.

Wren's presence (absence) as another removed daughter of our household adds more fuel to the emotional fire.  In short: There has been no movement and there is no promise of movement. International adoptions are halted indefinitely.  I imagine this process is a mere hint of the prolonged agony parents of missing children feel compared parents of deceased children.  There isn't closure, a singular event to mourn and process and move forward from.  It's like living inside the death of Wren as a part of our family everyday.  We're watching her childhood with us disappear, memory by memory.  And though the love we carry for our daughters is deep, the wounds we carry on their behalf are equally penetrating.  In some places these wounds are ripped raw, a seemingly fresh injury, while other aspects of the brokenness have stitched themselves together in surprising ways.

When I was pregnant, I kept up my usual (and in some cases, increased) banter with the library public.  There was a quirky older couple who especially enjoyed giving me a hard time.  But after Margot was born, no one -let alone myself- knew how to handle these "frivolous" interactions anymore.  I dreaded going back to work for this reason, for having to "people" again.  My first day back, I hid behind shelving books and unloading carts, trying to avoid prying eyes.  But the husband from said couple spotted me and went out of his way to offer a jovial -if odd- attempt at our old repartee.  I stood, a deer in headlights.  Eventually mumbling something while rolling my cart by him, I retreated to our craft closet where I sobbed to the point of needing to leave for the day.  The past lightness had been destroyed.  This is a world where daughters die and I couldn't even pretend to offer the ease of my former self.  I just couldn't.  Fast-forward to early March/April this year.  The wife of this gentleman had a heart attack.  Medical complications ensued and she passed right at the peak of "shelter in place" precautions.  This bold and vibrant woman was lost amid the pandemic chaos, leaving a husband grieving in isolation.  A few months later, guided by our new system of curbside service, I happened to be the one running a bag of library books to his vehicle.  By the time I got there, he had already stepped out of the car -mask on- to place a return in our book drop.  I lingered on the sidewalk, setting his books down beside the car, mask hiding my loud mouth -a mouth suddenly made quiet with the uncertainty of what to say.  He let me off easy, "How are you?"  Again, I just couldn't do it.  "No," I replied.  "How are YOU?"  I put my hand on my heart, tears filling my eyes, and said, "I am so sorry."  He locked eyes with me, tears gathering above his mask, placed his hand over his heart and said, "No.  I am SO sorry."  The cost of understanding is great. 

Grief can appear selfish.  And when humans, who are already selfish by nature, display intense grief, it can look egotistical: We want earth to orbit around our loss, our sadness.  Perhaps not a healthy or restorative way of thinking, but very typical for early stages of grief.  The "How can normal life continue for others when MY LIFE has been stopped or altered completely" mindset. Even as I write these words, I worry -to those who've avoided the heavy hand of out-of-order loss- the lines will sound bitter or reproachful.  That's not it, I promise.  You shouldn't feel guilty for what you HAVE, as -you would probably tell me- I should NOT feel personal guilt over what I LOST.  The reasons lie beyond us; we can't resolve the seemingly indiscriminate allocation of suffering and blessing.  But the ability to 1.  RECOGNIZE your state of being is key.  And the ability to 2.  Allow others to express their state of being is crucial.  Being seen and heard and listened to IS LIFE, especially for the bereaved.  Because we remember (as my most recently-read novel put it) "knowing the earth was solid beneath our feet."  We remember not looking over our shoulder -or- waiting for the bottom to drop out -or- screaming our sleeping teen awake in the van's back seat because we thought he was dead.  Yeah. My current state of being makes stillbirth a -not necessarily easier, yet- more essential conversation topic for me than pregnancy.  Clearly NOT the truth for most people and that is okay; I acknowledge this.  But the level of comfort (discomfort) or familiarity (reserve) people have with a certain life experience doesn't determine the value or appropriateness of sharing that experience.  It is valuable, not because it is or isn't pleasant, but because it is a true part of human life.  Period.  As my very favorite Fred (Rogers) said, “Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary. The people we trust with that important talk can help us know that we are not alone.”  Respecting and normalizing expressions of sadness as equally valid to expressions of happiness WILL foster connectivity.  Because, although we may wish it otherwise, there isn't a limit or finality to the type or amount of feels each person can encounter over their unique course of days.  As sensing, feeling beings in a changeable world, we're bound to travel the entire emotional spectrum during our lifetime.  It will be good to have friends in high....and low...and middling places along the way.