Grief in Everyday Life

We were at our neighborhood pool recently, and I saw a very pregnant woman there with her family.  It occurred to me, "I was that woman last year!"  As I thought back to a year ago, I remembered how big I was in the summer.  I know all pregnant women claim they were huge when they were pregnant, but in my case, it was true.  I can back it up with facts: when I was 36 weeks pregnant, I was measuring 43 weeks pregnant!  A full term pregnancy is 40 weeks.  I was 4 weeks before my due date and measuring 3 weeks past my due date.  Mostly this was because I had polyhydramnios -- or too much amniotic fluid.  Pictures of me from last summer look downright uncomfortable.  I don't recall feeling uncomfortable, but I sure looked it.  As I thought about my pregnancy with Samuel and how, because of my enormous belly, my close friends would just laugh at me when they'd see me, it hit me: Samuel's first birthday is a mere 5 1/2 weeks away.  How is that possible?  I don't feel at all ready for his birthday.  How are we almost a year away from when he first came into the world?  It leaves me a little shaky when I think about how quickly this anniversary is approaching.


Last week I "visited" Samuel's grave for the second time.  Other than the burial, I had been there only one other time, and that was in September.  (On a side note, I think I hate the word visit in reference to a cemetary.  I'm not visiting Samuel.  And visit has such lighthearted, nonchalant connotation.  It feels all wrong for going to my baby's grave.)  I didn't really want to go, but we had an errand to run a mere three mintues from the gravesite.  I am never up that way, and it felt wrong to be around the corner and not go.  As we set out on our errands, Joel asked, "What errands do we have to do?"  I told him the list and then said, "And we might go see where Samuel is buried."  Joel immediately asked with joy in his voice, "We're going to Heaven?!"  I felt so bad that he was confused and tried to explain that we were going to his grave -- a place where we can go to remember Samuel.  We talked about the white box, and mostly I felt at a total loss about how to explain it so Joel could understand.  Caleb seemed to track with me from the beginning, and he tried to chime in and explain it to his little brother.

When we got out of the car, I was holding Joel in my arms and immediately started crying.  It was a sniffing kind of cry, and Joel asked without looking at me and recognizing my tears, "Mommy, what are you smelling?"  I choked out, "I'm sad, honey," and he said, "Sad about Samuel?"  We walked over to Samuel's grave and looked at the temporary marker.  I read it to the boys, and we stood there for awhile, me crying continually.  Joel squatted down and put his finger into the earth: "Samuel is in here under this dirt?"  I told him, "Joel, Samuel's body that didn't work is buried under this dirt.  His heart that didn't work and his lungs that didn't work and all of his body -- which wasn't healthy -- is in the white box under here.  But the part of Samuel that loved people or would have laughed or smiled or been sad or happy, that part is Samuel's soul.  And Samuel's soul is in Heaven with God and Jesus, and he's very happy there.  This is just a place where we can come to remember Samuel."  Joel looked pretty perplexed, but I didn't really know how else to explain it, so I hugged him close, and we stayed a little longer before heading out.  It was hard to go to the grave -- really hard, but it wasn't horrible, and it makes me think I could go back without so much dread and trembling beforehand.  And we're finally working on his headstone, so soon it will be a relief to know his permanent marker is there.  Maybe someday it will be a place I go to feel connected to my baby and to joyfully remember our time together. 

The last two Sundays at church, there has been a new lighting effect on the walls during worship.  The production crew uses some sort of screen to project what looks like branches of a tree with lots of extending twigs on the wall.  Bryan leaned over and told me, "I like that new effect," and I vigorously shook my head in disagreement.  When he asked why, I tearfully told him, "It reminds me of what the vasculature of Samuel's lungs should have looked like."  It still surprises me sometimes what sends me lurching back into grief and commences the onset of waves of sorrow.  I spent the rest of our singing time in tears.  There are painful reminders everywhere, and there is just no way to predict when they will assault me and when they will sit passively by and let me pass unaccosted. 

I have always thought that I would continue to record this journey of grief until the first year has passed, and grief has faded a little, and life resumes a more normal rhythm, but I am realizing again how I keep imposing a time table on myself.  I keep expecting grief to operate on some sort of calendar where predictable markers come into play.  But as we approach Samuel's first birthday, I am almost dumbfounded by how real and hard grief still is.  I feel like the last three or four months of grief have been fairly similar -- a steady sorrow in the midst of continuing and mostly joyful life.  It's an undercurrent most of the time, but it's always there, and it's very, very real.  There are no signs of it fading anymore than it already has anytime soon.  I am realizing how foolish I was to think a year of grief would mark any significant ability to leave this blog behind and quit documenting what I'm feeling and experiencing.  It continues to be a healing and truly helpful part of my grief journey, and so I think I'm going to ditch my pre-set plan of blogging for one year.  Whenever it seems right to stop, I will.  But until then, this place will continue to be where I come to emote and to find a little peace after I finally jot down my emotions and the latest parts of my journey.  So, I guess I will blog on. 

And on that note, I will call this entry done because I haven't the slightest idea how else to end it.  :)