Chairs, Candles, and Tissue
Not long after losing Calvin, Louie and I began attending a bereaved parents support group through the hospital. We met in the same room every week for two months. The chairs would be arranged in a circle, and in the middle of the circle would be a circle of candles—one for each of us to light before we began then to blow out before we left. On every couple of chairs, there would be a box of tissue. The tissues were there, of course, because tears were expected. But their placement and the amount of tissue boxes (instead of one that could be passed around) were deliberate.
One of the therapists who facilitated the group explained that they wanted us to be able to reach them ourselves, because the act of handing someone a tissue is often associated with asking that person to stop crying, to stop the flow of tears. They didn’t want us to feel that pressure of needing to stifle ourselves and hold back. They wanted to honor our grief and our emotions, and they wanted us to do the same for each other and for ourselves.
Comfort, Tears, and Power
This has stuck with me over the past three years. It changed my understanding of what it means to comfort to others: to abide and to bear witness, instead of finding ways to “stop” the aching. It has also changed the way I view my own mourning and given me the grace of accepting and acknowledging the waves of grief, instead of trying to fight it or run away. Yes, there is vulnerability and even discomfort in watching another’s tears and in allowing oneself to cry, but as Washington Irving said:
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief… and unspeakable love.”
So, for my first baby’s 3 years and 3 months in heaven today, I created this printable from Dandiewinks:
Dear Calvin Phoenix, there are not enough tears in me to express how much I love you and your siblings. But so long as they flow, I welcome them; it is one of the few ways I have of offering my heart to you. Mommy and daddy love you so much.
This pregnancy has not been easy. From the fears of an ectopic pregnancy to worries about early miscarriage and dropping progesterone levels to fatal abnormalities to pre-term labor scares and multiple trips to L&D and more recently worries about high blood pressure and pre-eclampsia. This is a painfully difficult thing for me to admit, but there was a time in my first trimester when I was so overwhelmed by terror, especially before ultrasounds, that I would think to myself, “A miscarriage would be easier because then it would be over.” As hard as we tried with all the treatments and lifestyle changes and medication to see the positive pregnancy tests, that is how much my losses and infertility affected my anxiety. It was the fear of more heartache and devastation and the PTSD that comes with multiple losses.
Once we hit 24 weeks, viability, when doctors would try to save the baby should I go into pre-term labor, it was an amazing milestone. Then there was 28 weeks, then 30 weeks, then 32 weeks, then 34 weeks, then 37 weeks. Each week was a small victory and just a little bit more confidence, despite the spotting and contractions that sent me to the hospital the day before New Year’s Eve, then on Calvin’s 3rd birthday, then the day of my baby shower. At my last appointment, at 39 weeks 3 days, I told my CNM that my big goal was to reach 39 weeks, and she said that it was baby and mommy’s sheer willpower that got us that far. We had a conversation about induction, a consideration that is an odd blessing.
There is joy in this pregnancy, in the stretch marks that began to rise like flames announcing the growing miracle I carry, in the kicks and waves and bumps that let me know my son is alive, in the way my belly has stretched further than I thought possible and cause people to stare (sometimes, when I catch a woman looking, I wonder if she felt I like did seeing a mother round and huge with life as I longed for the babies I lost and for one to to keep). But this joy is quiet, tempered by everything that could go wrong, by everything that has gone wrong. That doesn’t make it any less sweet.
