As We Are....

I am not the same person I once was and I am reluctant (unable?) to completely accept that I never will be. Somewhere floating just beyond my grasp is that goal-the untenable goal to get back to the real me. The me who is carefree, who is able to shed (even briefly) daily burdens, the one who knows the amazing promise of infinite joy. The me who is capable of being completely in a moment without the distraction of something dark lurking just outside the periphery of every occasion of which I am part. Honestly, I don't even know that I would choose to be that person again, but the fact I don't have the choice makes the desire to get back to me all the greater.

Me and Hart with our love, the Reverend Dr Joan Malick
 Second Presbyterian Church

It's as if what was once a bottomless vessel of anticipative, endless bliss suddenly has a bottom and a lid; allowing the apex of my delight to reach only as high as the lid will allow. And, while I relish in that joy and I soak up every bit of it, I am acutely aware of its limitations.

As I watch my children navigate their lives, I notice they are also shadowed by this peripheral grief. I  don't see it in every aspect of their lives, but it unexpectedly pops up when they're busy trying to do life. And because grief doesn't respect boundaries, it's usually when they're busy doing important life things. It unveils itself when anyone questions their heart, their character or their motivation. There's something in their faces that implores, don't you know? Can't you see it? My heart is taped together with bandaids that were found discarded at the bottom of a swimming pool. Isn't it obvious? If I'm in, I'm all in with every bit of my fragile heart, so please be careful. Don't you see? My cautious heart is so precarious. Do you really think I would sacrifice keeping it whole by being inauthentic or manipulative? My heart is precious, I would not put it on the line for something small, insignificant or superficial. I can't afford it, my heart cannot bear it.

My heart breaks for them anytime they are hurt, or their intentions questioned and my desire to protect them is primal. But I hope my children's defenseless hearts aren't that obvious to others. I hope that when people meet them, they have no idea the depth of the grief they have known. I hope people feel the love that they so readily proffered, but not the vulnerability that is behind it. I pray that my children are allowed the gift of revealing their fragile hearts when they are ready, and only to those they trust will hold them gently.

My youngest son was not quite 3 when Hart was born. Not long ago, I asked him if he had any memories of Hart. He said he doesn't have any actual memories, only the kind born from hearing them so often that they become your own.

Flowers? What? Receiving flowers wasn't in the plan.
My inability to deal with anything unexpected is so evident in this picture.

A few days later, as I was driving him home from school, he said, "I wonder if it's easier to mourn someone you never got the chance to know or someone you knew really well?" And I, ignoring what was meant to be rhetorical, launched into a diatribe about mourning and grief. In brief, I told him that there's no easy way to mourn, it's not quantitative, and even given the same exact circumstances, you wouldn't mourn losses in the same way, so don't waste your time trying to compare.

There's no amount of practice or studying that makes you an "expert" at dealing with death. There's no way to master it which, theoretically, would make it easier to handle. But that just isn't possible. You can collect information, prepare for the acts of mourning, ask every question, but the emotional part of mourning is not something you can conquer with knowledge. And, no matter what, grief catches you off guard, even when it's expected.

I went through a period before Hart was born, of believing that, given enough resources, and if I collected the right tools, I could shore up my heart to protect it from being shattered by the loss I was about to experience. I realize how ridiculous that is, but I had been turned loose into an unknown world that was about to be blown apart and was grasping at anything that could prepare me or at least anchor me so that I wasn't blown apart in the wreckage.

Baby girl wasn't yet born when Hart lived. I've often wondered how she would navigate that-having to find her way, dealing with such a huge hole in our family without the memories that bring us comfort. We've always tried to keep Hart as a living part of our family, so she has seen our happy-sadness or our sad-happiness as we celebrate Hart, but she doesn't have his life as a touchstone like the rest of us do.

I pray that my children carry just enough of their grief to give them unlimited empathy, but not so much that their joy vessels have lids.