Last year, walking through the soft, big flakes would have triggered a memory. I would have found myself back on Longwood Ave., stumbling along the slippery sidewalk, Henry heavy in his car seat, the oxygen tank slipping off my shoulder. Yes, a bit of weather could have thrown me back into the full-blown panic of trying to get my baby back to the hospital after being discharged into a massive traffic jam caused by a not so massive snow storm. But yesterday, I just noticed the beauty and sighed at the sight of more fallen lilac bush limbs. Then later in the day, my brain made the connection but I didn't get the emotional punch.
***
Today we went to our favorite sugar shack. We took Kathleen for the first time last year, and it triggered a flood of memories and missing. This year was different. We ran into friends who have a little boy who was born three days before Henry. We sat together and talked about a mutual friend who is pregnant again. We laughed at their son bestowing kisses on Kathleen. I fed Kathleen; they admonished their son to sit down and eat. It was fun to have breakfast with somebody we know.
Not once did I look at their son and think that Henry should be sitting across from him at the little kids' picnic table. Not once did I have a stab of what should be but isn't.
Later in the day I thought about the fact that their son is Henry's age, a simple fact once would have paralyzed me. I might have cried all the way home or curled into bed with Henry's blanket once we got here. But lately, things haven't been triggers tripping off emotional explosions. Lately, they just make me connect memories, that may be sad but are not as loaded as they used to be. It's a curious thing.
***
Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day, the slant of sunlight coming in the window or the scent of moist soil or a paper that got tucked into the wrong box may set me off, leave me clutching the counter top to stand and wipe me out for days. I know I have no power over these triggers. They come unbidden and unsuspected. Right now, the likely candidates aren't hitting me that way.
So for now, for as long as I can, I'll enjoy the fluffy snow and the conversations with the woman who I shared my first big belly days with. I'll watch with a smile as her son plays with my daughter and not bemoan that he doesn't play with my son. I'll enjoy these things as they are today, unmarred by scary memories, unshadowed by what what should have been.
Showing posts with label moving on?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label moving on?. Show all posts
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Thursday, July 30, 2009
It's Good to See You
As I was getting off the phone with my sister last night, she said, "It's been really good to see you lately." She meant that she enjoyed the fact that we've been able to get together more lately, but also that when we do it is me that she sees, the Sara she has known all her life, the Sara she lived with for years after college, the Sara she knows better than anyone else in the world.
She was quick to add that while she wanted me to know how good it was to see that me again, she was hesitant to say it because she didn't want me to feel like I couldn't be sad or angry or anxious with her. Because she gets that mourning and missing don't end in a year, that having a new baby fills me with love and wonder and awe but does not fill the gaping hole left in my heart by Henry's death. And she knows that there will be times when this new me gets buried again, but lately she has seen me, and she's liked it.
I've kind of liked it too.
I've liked being Kathleen's mom and watching her change so fast. I've liked laughing and smiling. I've liked spending time with Brian, working in the garden, picking berries, playing cribbage, running, making jam. I've liked singing and reading. And I've liked being happy without reminding people that I'm sad too.
I'm loosening my grasp on my need to remind people that Henry is gone, that we still miss him. It's not so much letting go of Henry as trusting people to remember him. I do still speak of him. I do sometimes still compare Kathleen to him, but some days I simply say, "Listen to her laugh in the tub," instead of "She loves her bath, but Henry hated his." I'm tentative about easing up, though, because I want people to remember Henry, because there are still days when I am crushed by the weight of the foreverness of his death, but I need to let go a little.
My five-year-old niece was riding through one of the tunnels in Boston last weekend, and she said, "I remember this tunnel. I went through here the last time I saw Henry." She's five and she remembers this. I can ease up a little.
My sister and my aunt were talking about being second born, listing the people in our family who are. My sister added Kathleen to the list, Kathleen who will be the oldest in my family, but still my second born. I can stop holding so tightly to the reminder.
Yes, there will continue to be the awkward moments of people who don't know about Henry and the hurtful, unintentional comments that gloss over him, but mostly people remember. They remember him; they recognize that Brian and I are shattered but recovering and rebuilding.
I'm not the me my sister knew for years, though she thinks she sees me again, but I have incorporated some of the pieces of the old me into the new me, the me who is still emerging. I'm still getting to know her, this new me, as she steps out into the light and begins to open up again to the world.
She was quick to add that while she wanted me to know how good it was to see that me again, she was hesitant to say it because she didn't want me to feel like I couldn't be sad or angry or anxious with her. Because she gets that mourning and missing don't end in a year, that having a new baby fills me with love and wonder and awe but does not fill the gaping hole left in my heart by Henry's death. And she knows that there will be times when this new me gets buried again, but lately she has seen me, and she's liked it.
I've kind of liked it too.
I've liked being Kathleen's mom and watching her change so fast. I've liked laughing and smiling. I've liked spending time with Brian, working in the garden, picking berries, playing cribbage, running, making jam. I've liked singing and reading. And I've liked being happy without reminding people that I'm sad too.
I'm loosening my grasp on my need to remind people that Henry is gone, that we still miss him. It's not so much letting go of Henry as trusting people to remember him. I do still speak of him. I do sometimes still compare Kathleen to him, but some days I simply say, "Listen to her laugh in the tub," instead of "She loves her bath, but Henry hated his." I'm tentative about easing up, though, because I want people to remember Henry, because there are still days when I am crushed by the weight of the foreverness of his death, but I need to let go a little.
My five-year-old niece was riding through one of the tunnels in Boston last weekend, and she said, "I remember this tunnel. I went through here the last time I saw Henry." She's five and she remembers this. I can ease up a little.
My sister and my aunt were talking about being second born, listing the people in our family who are. My sister added Kathleen to the list, Kathleen who will be the oldest in my family, but still my second born. I can stop holding so tightly to the reminder.
Yes, there will continue to be the awkward moments of people who don't know about Henry and the hurtful, unintentional comments that gloss over him, but mostly people remember. They remember him; they recognize that Brian and I are shattered but recovering and rebuilding.
I'm not the me my sister knew for years, though she thinks she sees me again, but I have incorporated some of the pieces of the old me into the new me, the me who is still emerging. I'm still getting to know her, this new me, as she steps out into the light and begins to open up again to the world.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Bits and Pieces
There is a school bus stop outside my house. If Kathleen isn't in an early nap (or strangely still asleep), we go out and say hello to our neighbors. Today was the last day of school, and as I stood holding Kathleen watching Meg get on the bus for the last day of first grade, I remembered holding Henry watching a younger, much more tentative Meg get on the bus for the first time on the second day of kindergarten. And I smiled, a bit wistfully, but I smiled.
***
Wednesday I made jam. Strawberry, strawberry rhubarb and a batch of double strawberry rhubarb. The pectin I use doesn't specify amounts for strawberry rhubarb, but I knew I had the recipe on a little scrap of paper somewhere. I sifted through my recipe box and a pile of papers tucked into my jam book—and there it was. I dropped it, and picking it up realized it was written on the back of an appointment card, one of Henry's pediatrician visits. I took a deep breath. I sighed. And that was all. It didn't break me. Not that day.
***
On Tuesday night, we went to a regular potluck dinner hosted by friends, the potluck where two other bellies grew large at the same time mine did when I was pregnant with Henry, the potluck where we went numbly after Henry died. It has gotten easier over time to be there, to see the other spring 2007 babies, but there are still twinges. But this Tuesday, Zoey, who adores Kathleen, wanted to see her as I was feeding her in the high chair, so I scooped her up on to my lap. And it struck me. This should be Kathleen's little brother on my lap, this child of just the right age. But again, it was strange, rather than crushing.
***
Earlier, or perhaps still now on a different day, any one of these things could have flattened me, reduced me to a sobbing heap, wiped me out, left me useless for the rest of the day and worn out the next. I feel in some ways stronger, but also more distant. Is the distance part of the strength? Am I simply letting go of some of pain to make room for more pleasant memories? Or is all this just a fluke and tomorrow a memory, a scrap of paper, or another child will take me down? I'm not sure. I'm hoping for b) the less pain, more pleasant memories option. Though that thought makes me sigh again—I wish there were more than memories.
***
Wednesday I made jam. Strawberry, strawberry rhubarb and a batch of double strawberry rhubarb. The pectin I use doesn't specify amounts for strawberry rhubarb, but I knew I had the recipe on a little scrap of paper somewhere. I sifted through my recipe box and a pile of papers tucked into my jam book—and there it was. I dropped it, and picking it up realized it was written on the back of an appointment card, one of Henry's pediatrician visits. I took a deep breath. I sighed. And that was all. It didn't break me. Not that day.
***
On Tuesday night, we went to a regular potluck dinner hosted by friends, the potluck where two other bellies grew large at the same time mine did when I was pregnant with Henry, the potluck where we went numbly after Henry died. It has gotten easier over time to be there, to see the other spring 2007 babies, but there are still twinges. But this Tuesday, Zoey, who adores Kathleen, wanted to see her as I was feeding her in the high chair, so I scooped her up on to my lap. And it struck me. This should be Kathleen's little brother on my lap, this child of just the right age. But again, it was strange, rather than crushing.
***
Earlier, or perhaps still now on a different day, any one of these things could have flattened me, reduced me to a sobbing heap, wiped me out, left me useless for the rest of the day and worn out the next. I feel in some ways stronger, but also more distant. Is the distance part of the strength? Am I simply letting go of some of pain to make room for more pleasant memories? Or is all this just a fluke and tomorrow a memory, a scrap of paper, or another child will take me down? I'm not sure. I'm hoping for b) the less pain, more pleasant memories option. Though that thought makes me sigh again—I wish there were more than memories.
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