"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.
