"Do you have kids?"
I have a very well rehearsed answer to that question.
"Yes, we have son who passed away the day that he was born. He would be about ___ months old now."
I find that it's a simple, concise answer that allows the listener to have enough information about our son, without having to ask more questions if they don't want to, or don't know exactly how to. Most people respond with something like:
"I'm so sorry."
Some will ask more questions about how he died or how far along in the pregnancy we were. A few times, people have sweetly shared stories of their beloved children who have also passed away.
I think my favorite response was from a dear woman in the hospital where I work. I didn't know her at all and she wasn't even my assigned patient for the evening. She needed help getting to the bathroom and I volunteered to assist her. She started making small talk, and following:
"Are you married?"
always comes:
"Do you have kids?"
When I gave her my routine answer, she simple and ever so sweetly replied with:
"That must have left such a hole in your heart."
Yes. It absolutely did.
She allowed a comfortable silence to fill the room and then let me direct the conversation forward. I asked if she had kids and we went on from there for just a few minutes until she was settled back in bed.
I have heard people talk about how they dread the question. I've stumbled over my words a few times and seen the dreadful turn the conversation takes if it isn't delivered quite right. People simply expect a "yes, I have ___ kids" or "no", not a "yes, but..." And I've learned that there is an unfortunately unfair burden on me to direct the conversation so that it doesn't completely crash and burn. And believe me, I've seen it crash and burn. And once it does, there's really no recovering.
I have to take the cues from the listeners and decide if it's a topic we can safely navigate, or if I need to bounce the conversation back into their court by asking about their families or job or place of birth. The responsibility is still on me, even when people respond with sweet understanding. They don't want to be the one to change the subject and seem unfeeling, but they don't always know how much I might be willing to share and might not really know what questions to ask either. They're stuck too. So I've learned that I have to take the lead and let them know that it's okay for us to talk about Garren and it's okay to talk about something else. To go on in the natural small talk fashion. With no hard feelings.
Most of the time, I delight in talking about Garren. I am so incredibly proud to be his Mommy. I hate to admit it, but sometimes I don't like enduring the "crash and burn" in a conversation. It's kind of exhausting, even if only for a few moments. I told myself and Garren that I would never lie and say that I don't have children. I am proud to say that he's my son. But I'll admit that sometimes I steer the conversation in a way that the question never comes up. And I feel horribly guilty about it.
Jay and I went on a Caribbean cruise this summer and had an incredible time. There were 4 other couples our age who were assigned to our dinner table. At first I was disappointed that we wouldn't be having dinner by ourselves for the week, but after we met the other couples it was pretty clear that we'd have a great time at dinner each night. Over the week, we got to know each other better and talked about our jobs, our hometowns, some hobbies, and then mostly our experience each day on the cruise. We had a blast and looked forward to spending dinner each night with our new friends.
I think it was assumed that no one at our table had children because none of us were travelling with children. I didn't ask any of the other couples if they have children, mostly because I was afraid of having to tell them the truth about us. I didn't want to spoil the great conversation we had and the happy atmosphere. I hate that I felt that way. I hate that I didn't tell them. I hate that I worried about what their responses would be. I hate that this is even something I have to worry about. I guess I figured that I probably wouldn't see them again and it didn't come up in conversation, so I could just let it be. I wish I didn't feel guilty about that.
My 10 year high school reunion is coming up next month. I've gotten a few texts asking whether or not I plan to attend. So far, my answer has been that I figure I already keep in touch with the people who I'd spend time with at the reunion anyway and I just haven't decided yet. That's true. I wasn't a wildly popular kid in my graduating class of 100. I had great friends and enjoyed my time in high school, but I don't know exactly what to expect of a reunion 10 years later. I think I'd be apprehensive about it anyway, but now there's the question.
The question.
I'll show up with my wonderful husband, introduce him to the people who "knew me when..." and then I'll have to answer the question.
With social media and you know, blogs and stuff these days I'm sure a fair number of my former classmates will have heard that Garren died. I know that people will be understanding and caring. I just dread the awkwardness in the conversation whether they've heard or not. I dread hearing them talk about all of their beautiful children and having nothing to add to the happy conversation. What I have to add will just be sad. I'm happy that they have their children. I just don't know that I want to put myself in a social situation that will likely make me feel just as insecure as I did in high school and have the added pressure of navigating the conversation to avoid making people feel awkward.
And the strange part about all of this is that I love talking about Garren. I want to talk about him. I love him just like any other parent loves their living children. I hate that I worry about ruining a conversation or making people feel awkward. But the truth is that I feel awkward. I hate that this is my story. Oh what I would give for things to be different. For him to be here.
Oh my goodness, the ache. The agonizing ache.
I'd be naïve to think that there aren't other people in my high school graduating class who have invisible pain. Maybe I should just muster the courage to go and be willing to listen with an understanding heart to their stories of the last 10 years, whether I'd be celebrating with them or sitting in pain with them.
I don't know. I'm probably making this a much bigger deal that it needs to be. In the end, if I go I doubt that I'll regret it. But then again maybe I will.
I just wish he was here.
Oh God, would you please help me feel at ease talking about Garren and instead of feeling dread of crushing a conversation, would you please help me feel overwhelmed with the pride and gratitude that I have in being Garren's Mommy? I feel that all the time, but too often it's mixed with the awkwardness. I know that there's no one emotion at a time any more and I hate that. I hate that the emotions are always mixed. I guess I need to ask you to help me feel comfortable and content in the mixed emotions. They're becoming more familiar, but I still don't like them. Please tell Garren that I'm so proud to be his Mommy. Please tell him how much I miss him and how much I love him. I love you too, Lord. Thanks. Amen.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Loving You
To My Precious Garren,
For two years I've known about you. Every day for two years, I have thought about you. Every day for two years I have longed to see you - alive and healthy. First, an eager longing, waiting for your grand arrival into the world. In a millisecond that eager longing changed. Drastically. The longing became a heart-wrenching ache. The ache is still here. The longing is still here.
I long to hold you. I long to kiss you. I long to hear your voice - the one that would giggle, or squeal, or scream, or cry. The little-boy voice that might be jabbering, practicing and learning new words every day. I long to give you butterfly kisses and imagine butterfly kisses from you as you grow up - with those long eyelashes, just like Daddy's. I long to see the sparkle in your blue eyes - those eyes that I will see for the first time on the day I get to heaven. I long to tickle your toes - those long toes, just like mine. I long to chase you around a playground and take walks with you in the stroller. I long to see you sitting at the dinner table with us, trying new and exciting foods for the first time and even making a mess of it all and then wiping your sticky hands and face when you're all done. I long to walk into your room, see you standing in you crib, smiling at me in the morning. I long to walk into your room, see you sleeping peacefully in your footie pajamas. I long to read stories to you and sing songs with you. I long to play with you and teach you new things. I long to tell you that I love you and hold you while I say it.
I've loved you for a long time, Garren. Longer than the 16 months and 18 days since you were here. And longer than the two full years since I learned that you were joining our family. My heart has always loved you, Garren. And it always, always will.
It's been two years of knowing you, and already a lifetime of loving you.
I miss you so much.
Love,
Mommy
For two years I've known about you. Every day for two years, I have thought about you. Every day for two years I have longed to see you - alive and healthy. First, an eager longing, waiting for your grand arrival into the world. In a millisecond that eager longing changed. Drastically. The longing became a heart-wrenching ache. The ache is still here. The longing is still here.
I long to hold you. I long to kiss you. I long to hear your voice - the one that would giggle, or squeal, or scream, or cry. The little-boy voice that might be jabbering, practicing and learning new words every day. I long to give you butterfly kisses and imagine butterfly kisses from you as you grow up - with those long eyelashes, just like Daddy's. I long to see the sparkle in your blue eyes - those eyes that I will see for the first time on the day I get to heaven. I long to tickle your toes - those long toes, just like mine. I long to chase you around a playground and take walks with you in the stroller. I long to see you sitting at the dinner table with us, trying new and exciting foods for the first time and even making a mess of it all and then wiping your sticky hands and face when you're all done. I long to walk into your room, see you standing in you crib, smiling at me in the morning. I long to walk into your room, see you sleeping peacefully in your footie pajamas. I long to read stories to you and sing songs with you. I long to play with you and teach you new things. I long to tell you that I love you and hold you while I say it.
I've loved you for a long time, Garren. Longer than the 16 months and 18 days since you were here. And longer than the two full years since I learned that you were joining our family. My heart has always loved you, Garren. And it always, always will.
It's been two years of knowing you, and already a lifetime of loving you.
I miss you so much.
Love,
Mommy
Monday, April 7, 2014
Looking Back
As we approached Garren's first heavenly birthday, I thought about writing a very reflective post on all that we had learned in the first year without him. Well, I didn't ever stop and take the time to write down my thoughts as we approached, and then experienced the day. Jay and I did talk about our prior year a lot though. In November we received a very thoughtful booklet, simply called "On the Anniversary of Your Loss". It asked some very simple and thought-provoking questions. We talked through a few of them each night before we went to bed, looking back on the good, the lessons, the blessings, the gifts that we have received since Garren died.
We learned that we can trust God.
I think we knew this in our heads, but really experienced it in a whole new way and had to know it in our hearts. We can trust that He is always with us and sovereign over all. We wish that He had chosen a different path for us - one that allowed Garren to live here on earth with us. But we know that God wants good for His children and gives us good gifts. Garren is one of those good gifts. I don't know exactly how, but Garren being in heaven is also a good gift. Yes, there is (and always will be, I think) a sharp, deeply painful sting in the death of our son. But we know that this sting is not forever. There will come a day when death has no sting. We are so confident of heaven and living there for eternity because of Jesus' sacrifice. We know that that is where Garren is and where we will see him again.
We can trust God because He loves us. Oh how He loves us!
It's so easy to fall into the belief that God must not love us or care about us when bad, painful, horrible things happen. If I'm being honest, I have had feelings of entitlement toward God. In my selfishness, I have felt that God owed it to me to spare Garren's life - as if I had earned the gift of a child as a reward for any "good" that I have done. It doesn't work that way. God doesn't give gifts as rewards. He gives gifts because He loves us. And gifts that are here only for a short time or gifts that take a long time to come, or gifts that we want and never get don't mean that He doesn't love us. I know it's so cliché, and the words stung like salt in my wounded heart every time someone would remind me of it in the weeks after Garren died, but I know it's true: God loves us, even if we don't always feel it.
We know that it's okay to be angry with God.
Some people might disagree with me and say that being angry with God is not very reverent. There is such honesty in pouring out all your feelings to God. None of it is a surprise to Him anyway. He knows exactly how we feel, before we even put a name to our emotion. He wants us to have authentic relationships with Him and hiding feelings of anger or hurt or disappointment don't make for a very honest relationship. I've learned that it's especially in those moments, when I'm the most honest and broken before God that He answers me with comfort I never expected. He hasn't often taken away whatever made me feel hurt, but He provides the comfort and peace to know that He still loves me, even when I don't feel warm fuzzies.
We've learned that it takes so much energy to fake what you're feeling.
That goes right along with being authentic and honest before God. I am not often able to hide what I feel from people either. And I don't usually try to, because frankly, I don't have the energy. That being said, I have also learned to identify the times and the places that are safe for me to share my heart.
There's a heaviness in grief.
It's exhausting. In the early weeks and months after Garren died, everything felt so heavy. I felt heavy. I am an oncology nurse and work felt really heavy. I didn't want to bear anyone else's burden on any level. I didn't want to be depended on for anything really. Sadly, a few friends and I share the pain of losing children. Only walking alongside another mom who lost a child seemed to be a burden I could bear, maybe because we were leaning on each other.
Forgiveness is hard.
We received a thoughtful letter in the days after Garren died. The letter was from another mom whose son passed away several years ago. In her letter, she told us some of what we might expect in grieving Garren. She told us that sometimes people would say things that would sting. They might say things that were hurtful and seemingly unfeeling. She told us that people mean to say that they don't want us to hurt anymore, and sometimes that comes out so very wrong. She was right. Grief is a difficult thing to navigate for the one steering the ship. And it is so difficult to know exactly what to say or what to do with someone else's feelings. But in the midst of hearing some hurtful things - even knowing that people didn't mean to be hurtful - I felt angry and resentful at times. And forgiveness is hard. Plain and simple. But when I hold the perspective that they mean well (and remember that I'm shown grace, just the same when I fumble through words) it becomes a little easier.
We have wonderful, supportive people around us.
On the other side of the hurtful things we've felt, it has been humbling to feel such love from so many people over the last 16 months. We received cards from some dear friends every month for a year. People reminded us that they were still praying for us, even months after Garren's death. Just last week, a sweet woman at church shook my hand during the greeting time and with an understanding look, asked how I'm doing. I answered that I'm doing well and she patted my hand and said they still pray for us and think of us. Isn't that amazing? I love that people talk about Garren and ask me about him. I love that people remember him with us. We received so many cards on his birthday too. My co-workers even bought a special gift for me on his birthday. And we had a wonderful group of people with us singing 'Happy Birthday', eating cake and spending time at the cemetery that day. People have been so thoughtful. And we're so very grateful!
This post seems a little late, but I suppose there is always a time for reflection, right? We miss him. Oh my goodness, how we miss him! But in the midst of the missing, we're doing alright. I've even started answering that I'm doing "well". That doesn't mean I don't think of him every hour of every day. It doesn't mean that we don't have that deep, sinking feeling in our hearts or our guts when we miss him more than usual. It doesn't mean that we don't cry and wonder why God chose it to be this way. It just means that we've learned more about God, more about His gifts and more about ourselves. And that ultimately, eternally, all is well.
Lord, thank you for these things we've learned. Thanks for the comfort you've brought us. We are filled with an aching joy (if that's possible) when we think of Garren. We're so grateful for him. Please continue to open our eyes to the gifts you give us, even the difficult ones. Help us to be more and more grateful for You. Would you please tell Garren we love him? Thanks!
Love,
Andrea
We learned that we can trust God.
I think we knew this in our heads, but really experienced it in a whole new way and had to know it in our hearts. We can trust that He is always with us and sovereign over all. We wish that He had chosen a different path for us - one that allowed Garren to live here on earth with us. But we know that God wants good for His children and gives us good gifts. Garren is one of those good gifts. I don't know exactly how, but Garren being in heaven is also a good gift. Yes, there is (and always will be, I think) a sharp, deeply painful sting in the death of our son. But we know that this sting is not forever. There will come a day when death has no sting. We are so confident of heaven and living there for eternity because of Jesus' sacrifice. We know that that is where Garren is and where we will see him again.
We can trust God because He loves us. Oh how He loves us!
It's so easy to fall into the belief that God must not love us or care about us when bad, painful, horrible things happen. If I'm being honest, I have had feelings of entitlement toward God. In my selfishness, I have felt that God owed it to me to spare Garren's life - as if I had earned the gift of a child as a reward for any "good" that I have done. It doesn't work that way. God doesn't give gifts as rewards. He gives gifts because He loves us. And gifts that are here only for a short time or gifts that take a long time to come, or gifts that we want and never get don't mean that He doesn't love us. I know it's so cliché, and the words stung like salt in my wounded heart every time someone would remind me of it in the weeks after Garren died, but I know it's true: God loves us, even if we don't always feel it.
We know that it's okay to be angry with God.
Some people might disagree with me and say that being angry with God is not very reverent. There is such honesty in pouring out all your feelings to God. None of it is a surprise to Him anyway. He knows exactly how we feel, before we even put a name to our emotion. He wants us to have authentic relationships with Him and hiding feelings of anger or hurt or disappointment don't make for a very honest relationship. I've learned that it's especially in those moments, when I'm the most honest and broken before God that He answers me with comfort I never expected. He hasn't often taken away whatever made me feel hurt, but He provides the comfort and peace to know that He still loves me, even when I don't feel warm fuzzies.
We've learned that it takes so much energy to fake what you're feeling.
That goes right along with being authentic and honest before God. I am not often able to hide what I feel from people either. And I don't usually try to, because frankly, I don't have the energy. That being said, I have also learned to identify the times and the places that are safe for me to share my heart.
There's a heaviness in grief.
It's exhausting. In the early weeks and months after Garren died, everything felt so heavy. I felt heavy. I am an oncology nurse and work felt really heavy. I didn't want to bear anyone else's burden on any level. I didn't want to be depended on for anything really. Sadly, a few friends and I share the pain of losing children. Only walking alongside another mom who lost a child seemed to be a burden I could bear, maybe because we were leaning on each other.
Forgiveness is hard.
We received a thoughtful letter in the days after Garren died. The letter was from another mom whose son passed away several years ago. In her letter, she told us some of what we might expect in grieving Garren. She told us that sometimes people would say things that would sting. They might say things that were hurtful and seemingly unfeeling. She told us that people mean to say that they don't want us to hurt anymore, and sometimes that comes out so very wrong. She was right. Grief is a difficult thing to navigate for the one steering the ship. And it is so difficult to know exactly what to say or what to do with someone else's feelings. But in the midst of hearing some hurtful things - even knowing that people didn't mean to be hurtful - I felt angry and resentful at times. And forgiveness is hard. Plain and simple. But when I hold the perspective that they mean well (and remember that I'm shown grace, just the same when I fumble through words) it becomes a little easier.
We have wonderful, supportive people around us.
On the other side of the hurtful things we've felt, it has been humbling to feel such love from so many people over the last 16 months. We received cards from some dear friends every month for a year. People reminded us that they were still praying for us, even months after Garren's death. Just last week, a sweet woman at church shook my hand during the greeting time and with an understanding look, asked how I'm doing. I answered that I'm doing well and she patted my hand and said they still pray for us and think of us. Isn't that amazing? I love that people talk about Garren and ask me about him. I love that people remember him with us. We received so many cards on his birthday too. My co-workers even bought a special gift for me on his birthday. And we had a wonderful group of people with us singing 'Happy Birthday', eating cake and spending time at the cemetery that day. People have been so thoughtful. And we're so very grateful!
This post seems a little late, but I suppose there is always a time for reflection, right? We miss him. Oh my goodness, how we miss him! But in the midst of the missing, we're doing alright. I've even started answering that I'm doing "well". That doesn't mean I don't think of him every hour of every day. It doesn't mean that we don't have that deep, sinking feeling in our hearts or our guts when we miss him more than usual. It doesn't mean that we don't cry and wonder why God chose it to be this way. It just means that we've learned more about God, more about His gifts and more about ourselves. And that ultimately, eternally, all is well.
Lord, thank you for these things we've learned. Thanks for the comfort you've brought us. We are filled with an aching joy (if that's possible) when we think of Garren. We're so grateful for him. Please continue to open our eyes to the gifts you give us, even the difficult ones. Help us to be more and more grateful for You. Would you please tell Garren we love him? Thanks!
Love,
Andrea
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