She wore the type of smile put on with morning lipstick. Something in a perky shade of red, rubbed off of glossy teeth and reapplied after coffee and lunch. Her questions began and I knew we were headed for trouble because my safely vague answers weren’t enough.
If my conversations with strangers had a soundtrack, somewhere during the opening number would be screeching tires or the whoosh of backpedaling. The moment I disclose we have lost a child rarely goes smoothly but I have to say it. I’ve tried leaving this fact out, leaving her out, but I can’t. I end those conversations scrubbing off guilt and hoping I never see that person again because how do you add something so important back in when you’ve already subtracted it? My history can’t be reshaped to fit someone else’s mold, so I am always honest.
When I answered her questions, explaining my two seven year-olds were actually triplets she barely let the tires screech before responding with more insistence that they are now twins and don’t I have my hands full! I barely nodded while moving on because I knew she needed a bow and I couldn’t give her one. There’s no bow to be put on the package of losing a child.
There’s nothing pretty about not watching your daughter grown up.
There’s no easy way to return a crib and a future.
There isn’t an agreeable box for unworn clothes and a baby book with only two pages complete.
Stuffed animals that have never been played with and dreams that never had a chance can’t be neatly wrapped. I’ve tried.
For seven years I’ve looked for ways to sugar coat conversations and acquiesce pearly white smiles but it can’t be done. Grief and loss are not pretty. There are romantic sayings about what happens to your heart and filtered photos of heavenly skies but they gloss over the work of grieving. The carrying with you of an emptiness that can’t be filled and the pushing through of awkward conversations and getting up some days.
I used to wish I could give this woman her wrapped package and bow but I don’t any longer. I’ve made peace with messy packaging. I’ve learned that surrounding myself with people who can sit next to it without rushing for a roll of tape or a gaudy ribbon is the most important thing I can do for myself.
Much more important than a bow someone else picked out.
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I love this post. I lost my son this May when I was eight months pregnant, and I also find these conversations very difficult…I just recently saw a friend I hadn’t seen in years and I told her I had two boys, and I immediately felt guilty and corrected myself. I could’ve told her that I only had e two boys and she’d never know differently, but I don’t want to pretend that my third son didn’t exist, even if it does make other people uncomfortable. It’s sad to know there are other people who know how this feels, but it comforting to know I’m not the only one.
Dear Jessica,
I have been reading your blog for a long time and have always liked your posts. This one really resonates with me as I was once on the other end.
I had met an old classmate whom I had not seen for at least 15 years and one of the first things she told me was that she had three children of whom one had died at 6 months old. I cannot remember what I have answered her and I do hope I haven’t hurt her feelings by trying to make a pretty bow, but the conversation has since then played through my mind countless times.
I could not understand why she wanted to tell me this, surely this was something you would share with people you trust and know better.
Now I understand, I can see that however ugly the conversation can turn, that baby needs to be included, it isn’t something you can switch on and off at will…
Thank you very much for making me understand!
Jess, this is breathtakingly honest, true, and vulnerably real–all of the things that are your gift. xoxo
Thank you so much Meredith for reading and for always being an amazing support.
This is by far one of my favorite things you’ve written. I can’t lie either and pretend Joey never existed; but I am mostly just met with a sorrowful, “Oh . . .” Well sorry I ruined YOUR day, but it’s my history and no, I can’t make it pretty.
Love this so much and love you so much, too.
That means SO much. This was one of those posts that, when I wrote it, I was worried that my message wouldn’t translate. I truly appreciate your kind words and the fact that you get it in ways so many can’t.
First of all I’m so sorry for your loss. I get the messy bow because I try to straighten it out more times than I want to. I’m a postpartum nurse, and when I see that the mom has 2 children written in her chart, and I ask, “Oh how old is your other one?” and I get a response like, ” She died of a brain tumor at 2 years old,” I’m pretty sure the screech of a record can be heard. I deal with this often and I still have not mastered a pretty wrapping job.
It has to be difficult to be on the other side of the conversation so often. For me, the best way to deal with the screeching tire is just to say I’m sorry or ask what her name was, something to recognize the loss before moving on to another subject.