Selective Memory

I'm starting to find that my memories of Vincent are increasingly divided into three categories: things I remember and recall on a daily basis, things I have already forgotten, and things I remember (and don't want to forget) yet the recalling process is painful because of the very nature of the memories.

Nine months ago this week, Vincent died.  His last few days, weeks even, are burned into my mind, easy to visualize, precious, yet painful.  I don't enjoy recalling these memories very often, I have a file of pictures on my desktop entitled "pictures to never look at" and yet sometimes I wake up in the morning and throughout the day have mini flash-backs of those very moments.

Last time to play outside

Those are also the days I cry constantly and stay in bed.  Don't get me wrong, I never want to forget any of these memories.  But recalling them regularly is painful, costly, exhausting.

Then there are things I can recall easily on a daily basis:  Vincent nursing, playing and taking baths with his brother, going to the park, watching Sesame Street, everyone eating dinner and going to the beach.

First year photo shoot by Luminosity

Sprinkled in here are memories of diagnosis, hospital stays, medical complications.  (Like that d*&% feeding pump!!)  Most of the time I can remember these easily and bring them to mind without great pain, without that sinking, suffocating feeling of overwhelming grief.

And then there are things I have simply forgotten, memories that are lost somewhere in my mind due to exhaustion, inattentiveness.  For years now I've read blogs written by moms of multiple kids, and somehow they seem to manage their farming, crafting, nursing, and mothering pretty well.  I, however, was one of those moms that felt very overwhelmed with having two children under the age of two.  Both children were in diapers, needed more attention than I could give and had difficulty eating (Vincent had GERD).  My husband was gone 3-4 nights out of the week attending grad school, and I was working as well, largely from home.  It wasn't until Vincent turned one year old that I felt I really had a handle on it, raising these two kids, crafting, cooking dinners, cleaning the house, and staying on top of work.  Vincent's first year was a blur for me of busyness, exhaustion, and overwhelming stress.

And then he was diagnosed with cancer, right after his first birthday.

There is so much I'd like to remember from that priceless year we all shared.  I'd love to be able to recall just one week of how we spent our time, loved each other, how we made it to the end of the day in one piece.  I'd love to remember that one Christmas together, that Easter season, any day trips we took.

There is so much I don't remember.

For now I'll keep recalling any memories I do have, painful or not, overwhelming or mundane.  I'll nurture them in my heart like my love for Vincent, ever flourishing.

It's the Little Things

In grief work, it's always the little things that trip you up.

People who have lost a loved one often talk about how they'll be someplace innocuous like the grocery store, when suddenly as they're picking out produce or rounding a corner they catch a glimpse of an individual who looks like their lost loved one.

Of course, it isn't, it never is, but in that split second of almost-recognition, the emotions are so strong they can make your heart skip a beat, make you sob out loud. In a heartbeat you go from being OK as you're picking out milk to being close to losing it, throwing the milk, yelling and howling. Most of the time this doesn't happen. People shove their emotions into some hidden inner place, catch their breath, and continue on as law-abiding citizens, which I guess is often a good thing for the rest of us.

But sometimes the grief can sweep over you with such force that you can't not cry, right there in the shopping mall, library, gym. I have friends who throw plates when things get bad. They all go outside and toss them through the air in their yard. I can imagine that would be pretty cathartic (except for the cleaning-up process!)

Unfortunately in our society, people who are grieving don't have many opportunities for public mourning. Sure, our culture has rituals like holding a memorial service, a viewing of the body, and a burial/scattering of ashes. But that's about it. Most of those activities take place within a few weeks of death, sometimes up to a year. That's pretty short considering you still have to live the rest of your life without the person you lost.

Or what about people who are grieving the loss of a relationship, job, health, the loss of status or safety or the death of a dream? There is nothing, no rite, no standard method of grieving through these losses, much less an acceptable way to publicly broadcast grief. Even many of our churches view grief as something to privately finish, to overcome, to get through. By in large, we are left to fend for ourselves.

I've noticed that for many individuals, including me, observing people exhibit "negative" emotions in public is unsettling, scary. We don't feel safe. Why is this? Is this because we are so afraid to face our own inner darkness, our own sadness, our own disconnectedness that we don't like to see it in others? Do we not want to be reminded that it could be our turn next? It's tough because those of us who are grieving have to mix with the rest of society—we still have to get out of the house and do basic things like attend school, go grocery shopping, and show up to work. We usually look pretty normal until almost anything, anywhere can become a portal to a painful or precious memory, a vivid reminder of what we've lost.

I was talking with some people in the car the other day about what happens when you sleep—how your eyes physically roll up back into your head. My sister remarked on how she's developed some mild sleep anxiety due to this semi-disturbing fact, I can agree that it's definitely not the prettiest mental picture to have as you're drifting off to sleep.

Then I thought of Vincent, how as he died his little eyes stayed half-open for days, how they never rolled back, but just gradually lost their sight as he drifted further and further from us. I cried in the car on the way to the shopping center, then pulled myself together when we got there.  Because you should never cry in public. People might think there was something wrong.

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Why do you think it isn't acceptable for people to show emotions like sadness or anger in public? Have any of you had an experience where you saw an otherwise normal looking person exhibit some strong emotion? How did it make you feel?

Two

Hi Vincent!  Today is your 2nd birthday.

I know you don't age in heaven the way we do here, but I do know that you still mature, that your mind and heart gradually fill and expand with knowledge and love.

As you continue to grow in heaven, know that our love for you here on earth keeps expanding and growing as well.

And tonight when we blow the candles out on your birthday cake, I'll be counting down another year until we can be together again.  Forever.

Mother's Day for the Not-OK

It's that time of year again.  Endless jewelry commercials on TV.  Flowers featured prominently in grocery stores. Greeting cards, teddy bears, and giant balloons all remind us that May is here.  Specifically, Mother's Day is upon us.

I did not want this day to come.

Not because I don't have a wonderful mom, (and mother-in-law!) which I do, but because two years ago I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy we named Vincent.  This year his birthday falls on a Tuesday.  But in 2009 he was born smack dab on Mother's Day, the best Mom's day gift I ever got.  And then lost.

Ever since Vincent was diagnosed with and then passed away from an extremely rare form of liver cancer, I have met many other families who have also lost children.  Cancer, car accidents, homicides, miscarriages, premature births and stillbirths - there are so many ways kids die.  And there are many bereaved parents out there, more than I ever deemed likely in our first-world country.  I found out that every year, between 80,000 and 100,000 children under 19 die in the U.S. (depending on the source).  That's a lot of bereaved parents, a lot of devastated moms.  I know one absolutely wonderful family that has lost three children, all shortly after birth.

Needless to say, Mother's Day is a difficult holiday for many women.  Some women have tried for years to have a baby, going through endless and expensive fertility treatments only to be continually disappointed.  Other families have faced tragic developments while attempting to adopt.  Still others have raised healthy children, only to see the relationship fracture over time.  I even have a few friends who for various painful reasons elected to have abortions early in their child-bearing years.

So as you celebrate Mother's Day this year, think about the friends you know who have experienced the loss of a child, the loss of fertility, the loss of an adoption.  If you know of a family in your church, workplace or community who has lost a child, please, let them know that you remember.  That you care.  Send them flowers or a card.  Write them a note or online message.  Whatever you do, don't tell them that their child is in a better place, or that it will all work out in the end.  Don't tell them to be happy.  Just let them know that you care, that you are honoring their child, that you remember what happened to their child.  Parents never forget.  So try to remember, for their sake.

And then they'll remember that you remembered.

Palm Sunday Prayer

Jesus, I can see your love and bravery,

riding into Jerusalem with palm branches covering the ground,

knowing that you would soon be betrayed and killed.

In the same way, 

help me to walk with you confidently and without fear.  

When palm branches line my path with the green promise of new life,

remind me that pain is never far away.  

And when the darkness comes, remind me that you are nearer still.  

Amen.  

Retreat

This weekend I went to a retreat.  It was the same one that I attended last year (as the speaker) with Vincent tagging along.  This year I didn't do anything, I just hung out, got many hugs and ate way too much chocolate. Yes, men, that is what us ladies do at retreats!!  (Plus prayer, journaling, listening, and worship, can't forget those!)

When I walked into the beautiful room where we were staying (I was with a friend who's lost 3 of her children!) I had a huge flashback of walking into my room last year with Vincent.

Except he's not here anymore.

I know some bereaved parents find ways of feeling close to their deceased children.  Lighting candles, going to places their child liked to frequent, keeping objects that remind them of their child near... I've done all of this, and really, nothing greatly lessens the pain of loss, nothing makes me really feel close to him.

Vincent loved the beach, loved being near the waves, loved having his bare feet sink into the sand.  But when I visit the beach now, when I was there this weekend for the retreat, all I can feel is the deep hole of loss, the black feeling of permanence and overwhelming devastation.  I don't feel closer to him.

But I still go to the beach, simply because Vincent loved it.

So I still try to do things Vincent loved to do, go to places he loved, snuggle in his quilt, and wear his fingerprint necklace (which I've lost again!  Oh grief, how I hate what you've done to my mind!!).  But doing all that merely helps me survive.  I don't feel much closer to him as a result of all those actions.  In fact, most days I feel far from him indeed.

Even if Vincent were to visit me here on earth for a quick hug, even if an angel were taking him for a field trip to our home, I wouldn't want him to see me in such a messy, angry, destitute state.  I'm his mother, for crying out loud. I should be taking care of him, not bursting at the seams as he watches from a distance.

So somehow I need to pull myself together.  (eventually!)

And on that glorious day when I do see him again I want him to be proud of me, of what I've done with his memory, of how I invested and cultivated the fruit of our grief... I watched him come into the world, grow, explore, develop, thrive, struggle for life, then slowly die.  And throughout all his pain, chemo treatments and medical emergencies Vincent radiated a great presence of spirit, a great generosity of heart.  He didn't give up easily.  In the end he kept on fighting for eleven days without a feeding tube or IV fluids. We thought he had 48 hours.  He surprised us all.

It's very humbling to live in the shadow of your child.  Perhaps, like Vincent, I won't easily give up while undertaking this journey of pain.  That's the best I can hope for.