One, I thought he’d be the last baby to die. I couldn’t fathom that this tragic thing would keep happening over and over again. I figured we should be the last ones and then the universe should figure out a way to make sure that no one else ever had to go through it.
And two, I kinda hoped I’d never come across anyone named Oliver ever again in my life. I wanted the name to be his and his alone.
Neither of these things are true unfortunately. It keeps happening to parents every single day. And I didn’t pick a unique enough name to prevent ever having to see or hear it elsewhere. Last week I was looking through the interwebs for a picture of a cake for Sam’s upcoming birthday. The week before Sam’s birthday traditionally holds some feelings as I process never getting to see Oliver grow up. I hate that we never got to celebrate each year with him and I get a little crabby that Sam’s new age is the first time we get to experience it, not the second time around like I wish. The feelings don’t knock me down or anything, they just pop up to say hi and I acknowledge them and move right along. Of course as I scrolled through cake after cake I saw this one. For some other Oliver out there. Age 8. Just like mine should be.
And it reminded me of that irrational thought. The wish I had (still have sometimes) that our Oliver was the only one.
It came up a couple years ago, and this time it did in fact knock me over. As a preschool teacher I knew someday I’d cross paths with another Oliver at my school. I wasn’t looking forward to it and irrationally hoped I could avoid it forever. Every time we have a new kid, or a family of ours gets pregnant with a new younger sibling, I hold my breath when I ask their name. Anything but Oliver is all I hope for. A sigh of relief every time I hear a different name.
And then one day a family came in for a tour at school and introduced their tiny blonde son to me, their Oliver. I made it through the conversation politely but I broke down later. (To make matters worse I was largely pregnant at the time and, surprising no one, my subsequent pregnancies after Oliver were always experiences of extreme heightened emotions.)
The idea that I’d have to say this kid’s name over and over again, hear my coteachers use it every day, was too much. And what if he sucked. Like what if he ruined the name with a terrible personality or behavior. (Ask any teacher, it happens.)
I hated the idea of it all.
He didn’t end up coming to our school and I haven’t come across another one since. (When it has happened that I have a distant acquaintance name their kid Oliver, I remove them from my feed. Watching another Oliver get to grow up just isn’t something I need to see.) But when I saw that cake it reminded me of the feeling.
And after all these years I realize why it’s such an emotional thought for me.
When a parent loses a baby (or really when anyone loses someone they love) the worst thing that could happen is that they’ll be forgotten. That people will move along with their lives and simply forget. People say they won’t. But it happens. I know it. I know it every time someone who knows about Oliver tells me I have three kids.
Today I realized my fear of meeting and knowing other Olivers is a fear of him being replaced in name. A real visceral fear of his memory being diluted by some other Oliver out there coming into our lives. Filling our family and friends with memories and experiences our Oliver never got to do.
It hit me that I’m not afraid of meeting another Oliver and being reminded of mine, I’m afraid of another Oliver existing in my world and people forgetting mine as a result.
The cool thing about grief though is that our feelings grow and change and shift as the years go on. Never over it, but different. And I know lots of loss parents who love hearing their children’s names out in the world, being reminded of their beloved. Maybe that’ll be something I feel one day. Maybe it won’t. The other cool thing about doing grief this long and this deep is that I know I will be okay either way. 💚
