Better
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A friend whose husband died not long ago recently asked me when things will start getting better. At the time I didn’t have an answer for her, but it prompted me to think. I came up with an answer that I think applies to me.
Three years.
It has taken three years for me to feel ‘better’. I don’t mean ‘cured’, ‘over it’ or even ‘good’. I mean ‘better’. Better than when he died, and better than the first, and second years after his death. I know everyone has a different journey and that some people will think that they will never feel better. Grief cannot be put on a time line. It’s gruelling and unpredictable, but I think three years have certainly changed my pain.
I barely remember some of those early days and weeks after his death. My feelings were so raw and painful. I blamed any and all of my behaviour, participation or lack there of, on the death of my baby. I could downplay everyone else’s problems because none could possibly be as bad as mine. I would compare everyone else’s losses to mine to see who had it worse. Was a dead grown-up child worse than a dead baby? What about a dead parent or spouse? My grief was always at the forefront of my thoughts. I would seek out sad movies, sad songs and anything else that would make me feel pain. I wanted to feel it. I needed to. By feeling the pain I felt closer to him and by not feeling it I felt like I was betraying him. How could I be happy when my baby was dead?!
By putting up a façade I was able to endure the early days and months. Sitting in a café with a friend was surely better than sitting at home, alone. It was during this time that I learned that others often do not know how to deal with grief. It was not uncommon for friends to make my situation about themselves, and I regularly had to comfort them because they didn’t know how to comfort me.
During the first year we gave away his cot to someone else who would soon have a baby. I made sure I was not home when this pregnant woman came to my door. Instead, I visited a friend who held me as my house was emptied. With the removal of his things, my grief remained unchanged and I realised that those possessions were just objects. By taking them away, she didn’t take away the feelings and memories I had of the child I missed so much.
When we went on our first trip away after his death I allowed myself some glimpses of happiness. It was such a welcome feeling and one that I initially didn’t think I could allow myself to have. I felt that leaving home, albeit temporarily, was like running away from my dead child. The guilt associated with that almost prevented me from going. I soon learned that my grief was quite a loyal travel companion. It actually felt better knowing I could go anywhere and take my sadness with me. It meant that he was still with me.
Gradually time moved forward and I began to participate in my life again. Slowly, I began to feel. When I previously felt hollow and numb, I now began to function on more than just auto-pilot. I tried to be more empathetic to other people’s situations and I tried to be kinder and less judgemental. Although I still sought out sadness, I tended to do it at more manageable times, perhaps more secretly and alone. Instead of crying in public, I would save my tears for when I was in bed at night while the rest of my household slept.
We are now into the fourth year since he died and my feelings this year are not significantly different to those of last year. A level of ordinariness has been restored and I now feel quite distanced from those early lonely days and months. I hold him closer to me now and keep his life and death more private. When I meet someone new, I do not feel compelled to tell them about my child that died. I reserve that for people who have earned that privilege.
I still think of him often, but my thoughts aren’t the overwhelming and debilitating thoughts they once were. Even though I miss him, I would not choose to go back to those very stressful months when he was alive. I can now think about him with less emotion, and I rarely cry at night. There are however, instances where time comes undone. Stories of death, especially those relating children, will instantly unravel the years. It still really hurts. My tears will flow, partly for them but also for me. I now understand why some people made my baby’s death about themselves.
The death of my baby gave me a sadness that I never thought I could survive. But it also gave me the gift of growth and empathy that I would otherwise not have had. His life and death have made me better and for that I thank him.
Are you at the point, yet, of ‘better’?