Since she was born, I have not been back to my grief support group for motherless daughters. I am finally going next week, and not a moment too soon. I didn't stop going because I stopped needing it - it's the opposite of that. I need it more than ever. I've just not been sure how to manage a baby, and to disappear physically and emotionally into a group for 1.5hrs. More than that, however, I was not sure I could handle publicly what I've been struggling with internally.
Where would I even begin. With the 5-10 minutes or so that we each have to speak, I feel that maybe I would cover just some of my emotions associated with just the birth itself and the lack of her presence. That would be without mentioning the entirely different weight that motherhood brought upon me because of a sudden understanding and empathy I have for her life - and all too late. That would exclude the sheer horror I relive everyday, picturing how she must have felt when she lost custody of both of her children - something I couldn't really relate to before. That would exclude the terror that visits me every night when I can't get an image out of my head of her taking her last breath, fighting for air - not being able to call out for help. That excludes the times that I look at my daughter in disbelief at the similarity she has to me as a baby, now knowing the unmatched joy my mother experienced when she gazed upon me in those early weeks of my life. That excludes the desperate feelings I have when I want to call her and ask her questions about how she felt about one thing or another during this point in motherhood - how she dealt with the sudden shifts and challenges of being a new mother. How she dealt with colic. I picture the stories people told me at her funeral about how they used to rock miles in a rocking chair trying to get me to quit crying and that I would never stop. Did I also cry it out in a crib at night? What eventually happened or changed? How did she get through it? How different the feeling is that my mother's not just unavailable to ask or just not home, but that she's dead. And that I'll NEVER. Know.
I recently read a novel about two different women growing up in war-ridden Afghanistan - two women that didn't know each other but that come together after tragedy strikes their lives in different ways. The book was so incredibly well written that I felt every single twinge of emotion associated with each character. When I'd shut the book or would be interrupted by my baby crying or falling off my breast (I was often passing the breastfeeding time when I read - when else would I read?), that I would be shaken into reality after being lost somewhere deep in Kabul. But more than that, these women both had mothers that reminded me exactly of mine, and they both lost their mothers (in different ways). In case you ever read this book (which I hope you do), I won't relay the similarities or give more of the story away. But I will say that these women experience the same awakening and reckoning regarding their mothers that I have experienced - only able to understand things their mothers went through as they started to go through those things themselves. Feeling guilty, selfish and so un-empathetic for the things they couldn't have possibly understood about their mothers as girls.
I did not expect to relate to the characters in this novel in any way. I have not suffered the hardships of war or abuse or hopelessness the way these women had, and yet I could relate. And I was not ready to relate like that - I was taken completely off guard. At several points during the book, my mouth would drop open in disbelief at how accurately these particular emotions were described - emotions I had never seen in print nor had heard uttered, and yet they were my feelings exactly, laid out right there in front of me on a page. And I thought it so strange that I had not read a book from cover-to-cover like that in a long time (except for pregnancy books), and yet I randomly picked that book to read (and couldn't put it down). Because it was a hardback book, it had no description on the cover, and yet I picked it to read anyway without having any idea of what it was about.
No matter the decade, the race, the country, the socio-economic status - I believe that women can relate to each other over losing our mothers more than they can relate about almost anything else. Even if the relationships with our mothers differ from each other (good, bad), there's just a certain understanding that ensues - a certain emotion that takes over no matter the previous emotions. And though I can't speak for sure, I think it's probably different regarding women losing their fathers. Maybe women share similar emotions to each other when they experience the loss of a child. God help me, I hope I never know. But that might also be something that completely spans the kind of relationship that existed - you just want to die when it happens no matter what.
This is why I won't go the rest of this month without facing my pain head-on with the women who can support me most. I tried it without them and it doesn't work. They don't take the pain away by any means, but they listen in a way that says it all. When they nod their heads, there is an understanding that's communicated that isn't there when others nod their heads as they listen. While everyone means well, only someone that's lost their mother can truly know. It perplexes me that it means so much to be understood. Why does a roomful of simple nods mean so much when you've endured loss? It seems that general empathy from people who care about me should be enough, but it's just not.
It's also the case that, simply put, no one has asked me how I'm doing regarding my mother's death since my baby was born. No one. While people have commented that they hadn't asked because they didn't want to bring it up, they still didn't ask. Is that truly what I need, to be asked how I am? I guess I don't know since it hasn't happened. But there is one place where I know it will happen.
4 comments:
I'm so glad that you shared this. I haven't lost either of my parents (to death at least) and I can't imagine how difficult it would be to have your first child and not have your mother there. First time parenthood is difficult enough without coping with such a loss on top of it.
I think it's wonderful that you are making it back to your support group and that you are addressing how important it is to have one. I joined an infertility support group here and it is truly amazing how much it means to speak to people that have lived through it. At times the support group and my friends are the only things that keep me from falling into a deep depression.
So how are you? What are you doing to cope with this loss? And have you found someone to turn to when you need your mother and can't have her?
Of course - facing and coping with possible infertility has got to be the same as coping with the loss of a loved one. Infertility is a loss. And while I still reserve so much hope for you (only to keep positive thoughts flowing, not to minimize or deny what's actually going on), for those that know they are irreversibly infertile, they face one of the deepest losses of all, and the finality of it is what makes it such an impossible pill to swallow. I imagine infertility being even more frustrating and painful because there is often such an unknown that keeps hope alive, and it's devastating when that hope dies a slow death and has a resurrection OVER and OVER again. It's probably also similar to losing someone to cancer - fighting side-by-side with them and being hopeful all the while because there's always that question of hope, and then... I simply can't imagine. I won't even pretend to. Thank you for putting yourself out there with your comment. It means a lot to me.
And thank you for asking how I am. Honestly, some days I just don't know. On the surface, and even deep down, I am doing well. I am in love with my new daughter and my new purpose and my new life. But there is a deep, deep crack in my foundation. Not my stability, but my being - like it's incomplete. Sometimes I feel like I'm literally running through a maze of emotion only to find the dead end every time, as if I'm still in denial. And no, I haven't found anyone to talk to in place of my mother. I thought I could use my dad that way, but that thought could not have been more impossibly wrong. But I have found that actually being asked how I am doing is a great exercise in actually finding out myself. Thank you.
Thank you for sharing your feelings about this tough issue, and I am sorry that I haven't asked you how you are doing with it since the birth. It's hard for people who haven't experienced this kind of loss to know what to do, what to say, whether it's good to bring up your mom's passing during conversations about your new baby or whether it might hurt you. I am so, so glad that you have found a support group that is able to provide what other people in your life are not able to provide regarding this difficult experience.
I have been meaning to read A Thousand Splendid Suns and in fact have it in my Amazon shopping cart already. I was thinking of giving it to my sister for her birthday next month and then reading it after she is done. I will certainly read it with a new appreciation now.
Thanks again for sharing. Big hugs.
Thanks for responding. I didn't mean to imply that infertility is the same as losing your mother but it is the most current form of grief I've experienced. Thank you for the uplifting words, though. It is nice to know that people are still rooting for us :)
Seeing my own parents lose their parents, I have realized that it really doesn't matter at what point in your life you lose them (although I do imagine it would be particularly hard when you are just becoming a parent yourself). It will always leave a hole. And you're right, our society doesn't really know how to handle grief. We spend so much time and energy trying to cheat death that I think it can be extremely overwhelming when it actually happens to someone in your life. No one knows the proper reaction.
I have a good friend that had a miscarriage about 3 years ago and she let her friends know that she liked being asked about it and that the date that it occurred was an especially hard day for her. I think that's really helped everyone be more supportive. So I think writing about your grief, acknowledging it, and talking about having a support group really just opens the door for people to feel more comfortable giving you the support you need. Now they know it's ok to ask and to give you the room to grieve. It's a long journey but it seems like you are setting yourself up to deal with it as best as possible. Thank again for sharing.
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