creating the space

A group I follow on Facebook posted a quote in honor of pregnancy and infant loss awareness month, something about surrounding ourselves with people who allow us the space to be sad. It’s a beautiful statement, and I’m grateful for a community of friends and family who continually supports me in this never ending journey. But I think we as people in grief have the job and responsibility to help create that space. (Our community might be great, but they’re not mind readers.) 

I’m someone who has written about and fully believes that there is no “getting over” or “moving on” from grief. And while that sentiment is true, it is hard to live. 

Because sometimes grief creeps up on us from out of nowhere. Even six and a half years later. Maybe a sweet friend sends you a picture of your sleeping kid and you can’t help but see Oliver’s face in theirs. Maybe Sam asks to see pictures of his brother. Maybe you come across a notebook with the list of names you took to the hospital before you knew he was gone. Maybe you get the chance to explain to a new person in your world that yes Sam is our oldest but he’s not our first. Maybe all those things happen in the same week. 

Maybe in the midst of all that someone asks why you seem low and you want to say, “well, my kid is still dead.” 

But you don’t. Because it feels dramatic and attention seeking. It feels ungrateful for all you do have. It feels awkward and uncomfortable, for the other person mostly. 

And it feels like a failure. It feels like a failure to still be so sad, so many years later. 

It feels like people will think you’re stuck and haven’t moved on. Which you know is bullshit. Because you know there’s no such thing. And you know that a life can be full of love and joy and sadness all at the same time. And there’s no failure in acknowledging that. 

So it’s our job to open up the space. It’s our job to say, “Well my kid is still dead. And I’m still sad about it.” Because when we stay quiet it’s a disservice to ourselves, and it’s a disservice to others to not acknowledge death and its lifelong consequences in our every day life.

And when we open that space, we open up the world of grief for everyone. We let people see that grief isn’t just one thing and it doesn’t look just one way. It isn’t sitting in your room, shutting the world out. It isn’t immobility or failure. It isn’t overshadowing the good in your life. Grief is simply the lifelong price of having loved and lost, and it is existing in us constantly, right alongside love and laughter and abounding joy. 

kindness is the revolution

I have been feeling hopeless these days. I know a lot of us have. I had no hope that the senate was going to do anything other than what they did. I had no hope that women’s lives wouldn’t be threatened for telling the truth. I had no hope that a woman’s trauma would prevent a man from gaining even more power.

I’m beginning to lose hope in these supposed grown ups altogether.

But I’m lucky because I spend most of my time with people who are not grown ups, in my home and in my work. And I have nothing but hope when I look at these children.

I know my real work is to ensure they grow up with different messaging than what has created the adults currently in control of our government. So that’s where I’ll focus my protest and revolution.

I’ll make sure kids know they are in charge of their own bodies.

I won’t ever force a kid to hug me or give affection to anyone they don’t want to, not even as a joke or a game.

I will listen to their words and help them develop language to articulate their feelings.

I will stop commenting on their appearance, especially girls, because a person’s worth has nothing to do with their clothes or hair.

I will teach them that mistakes are inevitable, and still we are accountable for our actions and always take the chance to make it better and try again.

I will make sure they know it is always okay to walk away from people who are not giving them the respect they deserve.

And I will teach them to speak up for those who cannot.

Ultimately I will work every single day to make sure these children know they are inherently good and the most powerful, revolutionary thing that they can do is be kind.

(And then when they’re old enough, I’ll tell them two things. Be kind. And vote.)

no day but today

Every year for Oliver’s birthday we go out of town together.

The first couple years were self preservation. I couldn’t emotionally stand to be in Sacramento and relive all the “lasts” of that terrible April in 2012. It’s enough to relive it in my mind, the actual physical landmarks surrounding me may have sent me over the edge.

But as the years progress, my reasoning for the trip has altered somewhat. And it wasn’t until I was faced with the possibility of not being able to get away this year that I really understood why. I’m not unreasonable; I knew (or at least assumed) that eventually life would get in the way and it wouldn’t always be feasible for us to drop everything and get outta town. I told myself that we’d handle it whenever that moment arose. I should have been prepared when we realized months ago that Daniel’s new full time school schedule would likely jeopardize our trip. As it turns out, I was not prepared at all. (Cue my brief meltdown months ago when Daniel casually mentioned his school schedule included finals in mid-April.)

The idea that we wouldn’t get to take our trip seemed unthinkable. But not because I can’t handle being in Sacramento come April 11th, because I’m fairly certain I could. If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past six years it’s that grief doesn’t wait for anniversaries and birthdays to arrive. I’m faced with Oliver memories daily. As I drive past the funeral home, or walk around the same park I did while I was having contractions, or meet someone new who has no idea who Oliver is to me. I handle all those head on, with a deep breath and as much honesty as I can muster. Time has done its job and things are certainly different (not better of course, but different) as the years pass, but the potential for no birthday trip felt unthinkable because of what this trip has come to mean to me.

Yes, this trip will always serve as time to honor and celebrate Oliver, all the while wishing he was still here with us. But now I see it more as an important celebration of what Oliver taught us, what he means to us on a daily basis, which is this:

there is no other time more important than now, and no other people more important that us.

(Or as Jonathan Larson more succinctly writes: “There’s only us, there’s only this.”)

So every year, for as long as our lives allow, we will make the time for a trip. It might be short, we might not get to go very far, maybe it won’t even get to be on 11th of April but a trip there will be.

Every time we get out of town we are telling ourselves (and the people around us) that we haven’t forgotten Oliver, and we haven’t forgotten the painful truth we found in losing him, that this could all be over in an instant. So we will always find a way to drop everything and celebrate us. We will celebrate Oliver and our family, spending time the only way that matters: together.