We are tiptoeing towards five years since we lost Hadley or maybe I am stomping. I imagine if you were to brush up against me you would feel the bristle of my moods. As much as I want to be fluffy clouds and light, I am sandpaper and raw edges.
I sit at the table as my children hand me one doll after another. They are triplets and they do not cry and they go on the potty and will I babysit them? (Fluffy clouds, fluffy clouds I am telling myself.)
And of course I will babysit so I balance three plastic dolls while their “mommy” and “daddy” try to avoid the napkins in front of them, nectarine juice shining on their chins.
They are explaining, between chomps, which baby is Parker, which is McKenna, which is Hadley and, as there is with everything, there is debate over each namesake.
I am asked for the 10 millionth heart-splitting time where Hadley is and before I can finish saying she is in our hearts my son says wide-eyed, “is she dead?”
We do not use this word. Not for their sister. I can say she passed away or we lost her when she was an infant but I cannot say she is dead. I’m surprised I survived typing it.
I realize, in this moment, I must pull on my big-girl mom pants over my sandpapered skin and give answers free of gushing waterworks.
I am discussing death at my kitchen table at snack time with two four-year olds and there sister is the subject of every question, their sister.
And just when I thought that I really knew, that it had really hit me, that I had dealt with and pushed through and dug to the bottom of losing a child it struck me all over again.
I hunch carved out and hollow, fighting numbness and answering why she can’t come to our next tea party and what she would like if she could eat birthday cake.
The conversation turned to a debate over who could use the blue crayon and signaled my freedom. They are made of rubber I think, I would like to borrow some.
I push myself up to move through the rest of my day… appointments and dinner and bedtime but I am still there.
Emptied out, sitting at a kitchen table with too many chairs.
and that was just write
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I have a hard enough time answering my kids’ question about their dad and uncle. I absolutely can not imagine losing a child and then having to talk about it with the rest of the kids, who are so innocent and curious. I think it’s okay for the sandpaper to be there. Because you’ve got so much love and strength buried underneath. Maybe the rough stuff will shed eventually or maybe it won’t. But you’ll always do the best you can for them (all of them).
We have very similar conversations at my house – I am always fighting back the tears while our twins giggle about their baby brothers who do not grow.
I wish I had the perfect answers for us both – until then sending you hugs and hope. take care. xo
Oh Jessica, my heart aches for you. Such strength to be able to write this post.
Oh friend…
This sent chills…
I can’t fathom your pain. I can’t. But you are doing so well at helping those babes understand. They will get it in time.
So much love to you.
** I am sandpaper and raw edges.**
I mourn with you. I cry with you.
Sending you LOVE from Minnesota. Xxx
Jessica,
My heart breaks for you. I know the feeling of not being able to say the word. I still can’t say the word miscarriage. I remember having to call my husband and tell him from the hospital and the word got caught in my throat and almost choked me and I can’t even begin to say the word dead. I feel like if I say it out loud, then it is official.
I just want to hug you and cover you in the strongest rubber suit that I can find to protect your exposed heart. I know it hurts. Getting blind-sighted by little people who have no idea that what they are asking you is killing you. You are amazing. I would have had to run away and cried.
I did eventually hide and cry. The tears started coming while we were talking because they asked so many more questions than I answered here but in a way I think that is a good thing. I know they are confused about it all and maybe it’s okay for them to understand that it is a sad part of our life.
Oh Jessica. My heart just ached for you reading this post. Such impossible questions to answer and it’s so hard to pull on those mom pants.
I’d like to borrow some of their rubber too.
Oh I would gladly wear a rubber suit, we could make a fashion statement together.
Such ache in these honest words, Jessica. Here I am, ignorant on this heart-wrenching topic, admiring the truth you’ve put down here. The raw emotion so eloquently penned. And also? Praying that you get further from the sandpaper and closer to the fluffy clouds a little more each day.
I hope so too. There are definitely “fluffy cloud” days but sometimes they seem so far away.
You are so very strong, that it truly amazes me. Thinking of you, as always.
You are amazing. I think i would have become unavailable emotionally, period. And yet, you are so filled with love and with *feeling* that you continue to be there for, to give love to, to get past your own violent pain to offer explanations for your other children. Your family has been through big milestones this year (I say this thinking of the first day of school pictures) and I’m sure that would make it even harder. Don’t be impatient, it is what it is and there is not a ‘supposed to.’
Thanks so much Jessica, I have to admit I was completely drained after the conversation. I’m not sure I have recovered yet but yes, I do try to love on my kids even more when the days are tough.
Oh, the pain, pain, pain I have so carefully tucked away, and even as it comes rushing out, I know it is only a fraction of yours. I knew it was a bad day yesterday, but now I can picture it. I love you so.
Thanks mom, love you.
Thank you for writing, and for continuing to breath. I don’t know you, but I think you’re incredibly strong.
Sending a stranger’s love with an empathetic heart.
Thank you so much Danielle, for taking the time to read and for leaving such a sweet comment.
I just want to hug you. I am so, SO sorry, sweet friend. Love & Prayers…
I am so sorry for your loss and your pain. I pray that this gets easier and that you continue to find the will and the way to explain things…so very hard 🙁
It must be really hard for you, I really feel sorry about what has happened…You have to focus on your children and time will change the things..
I wish there were words to say that could help…. just hugs, my dear.
Yes. They are made of rubber. And years down the road, they will be mamas and daddies themselves, and they will look back and realize how very strong YOU were for them. Because you may be sandpaper, but they don’t feel that. They only feel the clouds. Sending strength for the upcoming days xoxo
Praying for you, friend. I can’t pretend to know what you feel. But, I do know that you are doing a great job (whether you believe it or not) in dealing with every parents worst nightmare. As the kids get older, they’ll start to understand. For now, I think you’re handling it beautifully. HUGS!
Big hugs, Jessica. You are so very strong for your children!
I go through this every January/February. Every year. I think what it would be like to have him here with us laughing and giggling and not in an urn tucked away in my bedroom…the years move too quickly and every year I find myself back in that uncomfortable zone living, knowing my child is not. Hugs, hugs, hugs.
And do you ever feel impatient with yourself? Like you should be doing better as the years pass? I think this year I am surprised at how hard it is, like I should be able to handle this better as time goes on.
I can just imagine how 5 years would be especially hard. And while you have to love their innocence, figuring out how to respond and cope in that moment must be so incredibly hard. Sending you hugs.
Oh, Jessica. Oh, dear. All the things I wish for you… And all I can do is send my prayers and hugs and love.
Thank you so much Christine, I will take it :).
What a beautiful post even though it’s hauntingly sad as well. I’m wishing you peace as you approach this tough anniversary.
Children know just how to pull a heart-wrenching topic in the most ordinary of moments. It is so tough trying to be tear-free in those times. I pray for your heart and your strength. Mostly I pray that you get through another day fluffy like a cloud.
Alita
My heart is hurting for you. I cannot imagine your pain. I can only offer you love, light and hugs. xo
Oh, my friend. My eyes are filling up with tears reading this, knowing there are no words of comfort I could dredge up, wishing I lived closer so I could give you my hugs for real instead of this silly one {{{hug}}} in cyberspace. As hard as it is, being real and honest and communicative with your children is a huge gift you are giving them, as much as it hurts your heart. And the words you make of your pain are so beautiful, even as we all wish for a different source for this beauty. More hugs, always.
I’m thinking of you and your beautiful children. You are keeping Hadley alive through the rest of your children.
My 5 year old will often ask me if someone’s dead. I’ll tell her yes, then she’ll ask when she can see them. She doesn’t understand why I don’t like her or her brother to pretend to be dead. They don’t get it, but the subject leaves us so raw and empty.
You are so strong Jessica. I admire you for the way you roll with these punches. I’m thinking of you and sending you big hugs.
Thanks so much Jaime, it’s so hard to explain things to them at this age. I don’t know if or when they will understand but right now I’ll just keep answering the questions as they come.
Oh my friend, I’m thinking and praying for you. Children are made out of rubber for a very long time. It’s something I miss once in awhile as well.
I would totally go for a rubber suit right now, I would even wear it over my clothes.