Milestones
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Welcome to our guest writer, Lynn. Lynn is the mother of two sons, one in her home and one in her heart. She lives and writes in Boston, Massachusetts.
When my son Felix died at birth, I was sure that all milestones did too. For 37 weeks, we’d watched and felt Felix’s progress and growing strength in utero. Now, there would be none of the joyful and challenging ‘firsts’ we had experienced with our firstborn. Felix’s eyes would never open, his teeth would never burst through tender gum, and the silence of each night without his cries would be deafening.
When we returned home from the hospital, the neighbors were gardening and spring flowers were starting to bloom. Children were laughing in the sunshine while our son’s body was chilled in the hospital morgue. Was the nightmare true? Had I even given birth?
Two years later I can recognize that we have had many ‘firsts’ and milestones. They weren’t the ones we envisioned having but they are the ones we got as we integrated our son’s death into our lives:
Support Group Meeting (2 weeks)
We are all gathered in our little Zoom squares, tissues nearby. I am describing my son’s death and birth, which happened in that order two weeks before. One woman holds a locket inscribed with her dead son’s initials. Another woman tells us that her dead baby’s name is “Baby Raspberry”. For ninety minutes I am grateful and angry to be held by this small group. Will my son please be less dead when I click “Leave Meeting”?
Visit from My Dead Baby (3 months)
I am attending a weekly yoga class at the YMCA. We are ending the class in savasana like we always do. But today I am simultaneously lying on my mat and tickling my dead son’s cute baby belly to make him gurgle and smile. The encounter feels so real that I am certain it will be a core memory of him for the rest of my life. Silent tears cascade onto my mat. Where did he go?
Meeting Other Bereaved Parents IRL (4 months)
We become family with these strangers in their little Zoom boxes during a 6-week closed support group for Infant & Pregnancy Loss. Several months later we are meeting up with two of the other couples in real life. The air between us is saturated with our dead children and we stay up late, lingering on the back deck in the dark, desperately needing to sustain this exhalation of mutual understanding. It’s like a dead baby playdate. They say it takes a village.
Looking at My Child’s Ashes (8 months)
It’s New Year’s Eve. I’m ovulating, so my husband and I need to have sex to keep “trying again” after we put our living son to bed. But first we want to transfer our dead son’s ashes from the small cardboard box into the beautiful ceramic urn we purchased months ago. I’ve been afraid of seeing Felix’s ashes for eight months, but here they are. They look like colored and white crushed shells from a tropical beach. I had expected something black and ashy like from the bottom of a wood stove. I am relieved to find that his remains are beautiful.
Attending a Grief Retreat (1 year)
I am at a beach house with ten other bereaved mothers. We have retreated from our daily lives to meet each other and our grief here by the sea. There is plenty to keep us busy: memory crafts, conversation, and food, but we all spread out onto the beach, looking for evidence of our missing children. I pick up a long smooth beach rock and spell my son’s name in the sand. A flock of seabirds take flight as we light luminaries decorated with our children’s names. Is this all we have left?
Second Visit from My Dead Baby (1 year)
I don’t cry very much on my dead son’s first birthday and death anniversary. I feel numb and in shock to arrive at this milestone. But the following morning as I wake up, my son is there to greet me with a behind the back/around the shoulders hug. In my vision, he is a teenager, maybe 16 or 17 years old, telling me: “Cheer up, Mom.” The encounter feels so real that I am certain it will be a core memory of him for the rest of my life. Silent tears cascade onto my pillow. Where did he go?
Spending Time Around a Child the Same Age that Mine Would Be (18 months)
Look at her. She’s so alive. (He’s not.) She’s learned to walk. (He never will.) She’s starting to talk. (He never will.) I force myself not to stare too long. It’s not fair to have to see or know any children that were born alive around the same time my son died. Their aliveness is inexplicable to me. (Just as his dead-ness is.) Perhaps my hand will pass through them if I reach out because they are just mirages. Or maybe they are mirrors who will splinter and keep causing more pain?
Holding an Infant (2 years)
I’m so nervous. Do I even remember how to hold a baby? It feels OK that the first baby I will hold after my dead son is my loss-mom friend’s subsequent baby, but I’m still nervous. Suddenly my arms are full of her gentle sleeping baby weight. She could be dead, but for the subtle rise and fall of her chest. It’s when her eyes open, blossoming fully into her face that I am undone; this tiny flame aglow with life-force.
Enjoying a Sunny Day (2 years)
At my house we pull the curtains closed in April. Spring is my grieving season and I reserve the right to be sad and bitter. How dare anyone comment on this “beautiful weather”?! How dare anyone openly sit and enjoy the warmth and light of the sun?! The second year is softer. I don’t want to punch anyone in the face. I am grieving for my son while starting to feel the first stirrings of my daughter in my belly: punch, kick, flip, turn. I reserve the right to be hopeful and scared.
What milestones have you marked?