Helicopter

You know that mom at the park who follows her son too closely for him to have freedom of play?  Or that mom who calls after her son with such strain in her voice to please be careful?  

That's me.  

At least, that's me now.  

And while you may watch how I interact with my son and use words like, hover or helicopter, please know something: I used to be like you. 

I could sit on the bench and joyfully watch him play in freedom.  I could let him climb and explore without cringing and let him see for himself what his limits were.  We would interact with ease and trust. 

And we were happy in this place.  

For him to come to me with questions, or hurts and for me to trust his self-discovery and play.  

But we lost that simple innocence.  

And now I am that mom.  Terrified that something preventable will happen, I am on edge, always anticipating.  I want to regain that place, for him and for me. 

But when you have lost something so small, so precious, without reason, what else do you do but hold on tighter to what you already have?  

Lost & Gained

What we lost cannot be measured.  

We lost hopes and expectations, dreams and visions.  

We lost a son.  

My son lost a brother.  

We, as a family, lost.  

I sit and wonder still, what if.  And it takes me into a nothing place.  I can't allow myself into that hollow place where the only answers are my own echoes.  

And so the table turns.  It turns from losing to gaining.  

We lost, but he gained. And what he gained?  Also, unmeasurable.  

For we do not grieve as those who have no hope.  We grieve, oh we grieve. But we remember hope.  

The rainbow does not take away the outcome of the storm, The rain, the wind, the lightening and thunder, they all still came.  

But then came the rainbow.  

So too with hope.  The pain, the sadness, the grief and sorrow, they all still came. But then came the hope.  

Seven Words

She invalidated my suffering in seven words- 'oh well, there will be another one'.  How could I respond? 

She didn't need to know how agonizing that decision is already. She didn't need to hear all the thoughts that swirl around as we consider another one. She didn't need to be told how scary it would be to wait through another 40 weeks waiting to see if it would end differently. 

Because someone who can make suffering trite wouldn't understand the complexities of the next step. You cannot label tragedy with 'oh well’.  Nor can you expect me to move on as if his nine months were inconsequential. 

Every next time will be overshadowed with grief and clouded with angst.  There’s more below the surface of ‘oh well’.  

Voices

She cupped my cheeks in her hands and spoke with insistence.  I was listening but it wasn't just her voice that I heard.  The reality of what she was saying was swirling around with words of doubt, shock and disbelief.

I couldn't make sense of what I was hearing.

"There is nothing you could've done to prevent this" was mixed with "just wake yourself", "this will all be made right" and "they are all wrong". But in fact, hers was the only truth being spoken.  And hers is a hard truth to believe.   I clung to the thought that this was all a terrible lie.

If nothing was wrong, why did it all go wrong?

"There is nothing you could've done to prevent this" isn't much comfort when nothing makes sense.  But it does provide relief from the consuming power of 'what if'.