Unseen
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There’s a commonly held belief that when you meet the person you are meant to share your life with, there will inevitably be a moment when you “will just know.” After dating in Manhattan for the early part of my thirties I had begun to lose faith in romance altogether (dating in NYC will do that to a person!). And then it happened. But this moment didn’t take place in some dimly lit, overpriced wine bar. It was under the harsh fluorescent lights at the veterinarian’s office that I realized I had found my person. I had found R.
We had been dating for only a few months when my beloved cat Sigmund (yes, named after Freud) suddenly became very sick. For ten years, Sig had been my faithful companion, sticking by my side through cross-country moves, changing jobs, and one very dramatic broken engagement to someone who was definitely not my person. The amount of pain I felt when I learned that I would have to put him to sleep (Sig, not my ex!) surprised me. It was a deep sense of loss I had never quite experienced before.
On the day I brought Sigmund into the vet, R was there with me despite having just worked an overnight shift in the hospital. I can vividly remember trying to sign the consent form through a blur of tears when he turned to me and just said, “I’ve got this. I’ve got him.” I couldn’t bear to be in the room when they gave Sigmund the injection that would stop his heart but I also didn’t want him to be alone. So after I said a final goodbye, R stayed and held Sig in a warm blanket, making sure that he felt safe and loved in his final moments. When R emerged from the room I looked up to meet his eyes and he looked at me with such tenderness and empathy. I will never forget that look. He saw my pain and he was willing to hold it for me for as long as I needed. Twelve years, one wedding, and one beautiful son later, I would come to recognize that look once again.
It was the middle of the night after our daughter James had died two weeks before she was due to be born. I was in the hospital hooked up to a million wires, floating in and out of a morphine-induced sleep. I looked over at R sleeping on the cot that had been placed next to my bed. He quickly woke up and came to sit by my side. He took my hand and didn’t say a word. His eyes just met mine and held my gaze. He saw my pain, my broken, shattered body and heart and I silently understood that he wanted to be able to hold it for me once again. But this time was different. This time I saw his own anguish mirrored back at me. I remember thinking that I would give anything in the world to make it hurt less for him, for us. This is one of the most devastating things about babyloss. The grief is so layered. I was grieving for James but I also found myself wanting to take on R’s grief so that he could somehow feel a bit of a reprieve from the pain if only for a short time.
In the early days after James’ death, flowers and cards poured in. Neighbors dropped off meals and visitors came by to check on us. And even though we had both suffered this enormous loss, people tended to focus on me and how I was doing. R was given one week off of work and then expected to return to his job almost as if nothing had happened. As strange as it may sound, I felt grateful for the angry, jagged scar that ran across my stomach because it screamed to the world, “I am suffering.” But he was in just as much pain and even if the rest of the world couldn’t see it, I did. I saw him. I see him.
It’s been 15 months since James died. Our grief journeys have not always looked the same, perhaps a reflection of our very different personalities. R processes things quietly and inwardly and I find comfort in talking about my feelings, even when they are painful. When a wave of grief knocks me down, R is there to help steady me until I can find my way back to the surface. Although he doesn’t always show when he is hurting, I remind myself that his process may be different than mine but his wounds are just as deep. No relationship should ever have to face the absolute hell that is losing a baby. But I take solace in the fact that R is the only other person in this world who truly shares my lived experience, the intensity with which I will always love and miss James. It is a deeply powerful – and beautifully complicated – connection.
Do people treat you and your partner differently? Do they expect you to grieve differently? How do you support each other?