Doing Hard Things

Rachael invited me to meet her at the park today with the kids after school. I thought that I really should get the kids out of the house and into the sunshine today. The weather has been nice, and my kids need some time outdoors, so I started getting them ready. Rachael let me know that there were some other moms from church there in case I didn't feel like going. I don't want to hide from people. I cannot let myself become a recluse, and without forcing myself too much, I felt this would be a good baby step. As I drove closer to the park, I could feel my anxiety kick in. What would the other moms say to me? Would they say anything at all? I've never really been a part of the group of other moms to young kids around here because I've worked. But all these girls sent me sympathy cards, donated to our headstone fund online, brought meals over, or helped with the funeral luncheon. I know they care about me and know to a degree how I am feeling. I was afraid of being ignored and afraid of being talked to at the same time.

Walking into the park felt a little like my first trip into public after Brooklyn died. We had gone to Target the day before her funeral, and I walked around the store like a zombie. But inside I was screaming. I wanted to yell at perfect strangers for not caring that my baby just died. I wanted to yell at the mom who let her 3 or 4 year old daughter scream through the entire store. I wanted to lay down and cry, but I had things to get to wear to the funeral. But most of all, I felt like everyone in the store was staring at me. Some people looked at me with sympathy, some looked at me like I was crazy or about to fall down. I probably looked like a pathetic mess, just having a c-section 4 days before, in pain, drained of emotion and brimming over with it all at once. I didn't feel as horrible walking into the park today, but I did feel like everyone was looking at me. There were 4 or 5 other moms there with all of their kids. Before all of this happened to me, I would have no clue what to say to a mother in my shoes. I could sense that they weren't sure what to say to me. I talked to Rachael mostly, but eased into regular conversation with a few other moms. One mom got up and gave me a hug and said she was glad to see me. That made me feel acknowledged without making a big scene in public.

I know that I will hear things for the rest of my life that bring the sting of grief close to the surface. I know that no one says things to be purposefully hurtful. I know people will feel they have to be careful about what they say around me about babies, being pregnant, or giving birth or dying. I'm hoping this feeling of being an outsider doesn't last forever. One mom, who just had her 4th baby in 6 years, mentioned having to take her baby to date night with her. She innocently remarked, "He refuses to take a bottle. It's my life's dream to have him take a bottle!" I smiled, but something on my face must have revealed my inner thought: "It's my life's dream to have my baby here with me instead of in the ground." She laughed for a split second and the thought must have crossed her mind that the comment might be hurtful to me because she stopped smiling and changed the subject quickly. I don't blame her at all because I know I've made comments just like that, remarking how I wish my baby did this or that, how sick I felt during a pregnancy, how much I needed a break from being a mom for a few hours. I am only 17 days out from the worst day of my life, so I am hoping doing simple things like taking kids to the park and visiting with other moms becomes easier for me.

One thing I know that will never be easy for me is hearing, as I heard across the park today, another mom calling to her baby, "Brooklyn!Brooklyn!" I had forgotten that one of the moms who I hadn't seen in a while had a baby named Brooklyn. She is a blonde haired, blue eyed little thing, maybe 12 or 18 months old. I was able to keep calm at the park, but my tears did flow while I drove home. I wanted to drive right over to the cemetery, sit on her bench, and cry my eyes out. But I have two other children who wanted dinner, so home I went.

 I know that doing hard things will become easier for me. I hope the pain becomes easier to bear. I hope the emptiness I feel in my arms from time to time goes away. I hope the feeling of having forgotten or lost something important goes away. I can still feel the weight of her tiny body, bundled up in the sweet pink blanket in my arms, but the weight of this grief is so much heavier.