Reflections On a Year
Today is our son Nathaniel’s first birthday. It also marks
one year from the day he died. It seems like a lifetime ago and it feels like
yesterday. Much has changed in the past year and yet I feel as though I have
lost a year of my life.
An outside observer might not notice how different our lives
are since his birth/death. We haven’t moved or changed jobs. We haven’t shaved
our heads or joined a cult. Our day-to-day routine is a lot like it was before.
We are much like the busy people we were prior to his death: we run errands, we
go places, we make plans, and we even smile and laugh. The differences,
however, are vast. Our social circle is smaller. Our words and actions are more
deliberate. There is purpose and meaning behind much of what we do. There isn’t
a single aspect of our lives, our personalities, our perspectives, nor a single
one of our relationships that remains unchanged.
How do you grieve for a child? You love them still even
though they are dead. You think about them every day although they are not here
with you. Their body may be gone but they are never far from your thoughts-
just like any living child. You do things to honor their memory. You live your
own life in such a way that makes it worth living. You live your life because
they lost theirs. You take nothing for granted, ever. You re-evaluate every
relationship in your life: not because you want to, but because their death has
thrust this burden upon you as well. The hardest part of grief for many parents
is the changes that simultaneously occur in their social lives after the death
of their child. They are surprised by who is truly there for them and who is
not. Most people feel too awkward to be around them or to talk about the baby;
they don’t know what to do or how to react and so they say or do nothing at
all. You lose relationships because of this; some of these people don’t even realize
the relationship is lost. You meet new friends who are more valuable than the
ones you lost. You learn the true meaning of the word empathy. You have more
grace for that rude person in the supermarket because you realize that you have
no way of knowing what’s going on in their world- today might be the worst day
of their life. They may have just received terrible news; they may be grieving
someone. You become much more comfortable talking about death. You are better
able to comfort others. You worry less what others think about you. You
complain less. You have a real appreciation for the blessings in your life,
since there is no way to really know value until you have lost something
valuable. Everything else in your life suddenly is easy; because you’ve already
done the hardest thing there is to do- bury your child.
Our son’s life may have been short, but he lived. His brief
existence has impacted our lives more than some people we have known for many
years. In the words of John DeFrain:
“Life
cannot be measured by years, but by impact. With impact as a yardstick, the
life of a baby, even though stillborn is as long, as rich, and as meaningful as
any life the world has ever witnessed.”
A year ago, while swallowed by my grief, I could not have foreseen
how Nathaniel’s life and death would change me. The emotions were too raw for
months to feel anything but despair. But now, with a year’s space since the
only time I held him, I can see the gifts he has given me. Do not confuse this
with finding “positives” in his death. There is nothing positive that has or
will ever come from my son’s death. There is no way to “look on the bright
side” of his passing. There is no bright side in losing a baby.
I can, however, see the ways in which I have changed and
recognize that I’m a better person for his existence. I have more empathy; I
have more grace for others. I have perspective; I have stamina. I know what is
truly important in life. I have clarity in my relationships and in my
priorities. I have more joy and gratitude for what is truly good; I have less
bullshit in my life. I can truly just “be” in the moment and not be thinking
about what comes next.
I do not want to be told I’m strong or inspiring. I am just
living my life, coping, and playing the cards that have been dealt to me.
Parents who survive the death of a baby are not “strong”; they continue to live
their lives as best they can because the other option is to simply curl up and
die. I do not want to be pitied. I want people to remember my son and that he
lived; not just that he died.
Even if we are one day blessed with another child, we will
always have an empty space in our family. Someone will forever be missing from
our family photos. No child can replace the son we lost. You may argue that a
future child may not have been born had he not died, but that doesn’t make his
death okay. It doesn’t mean that “something good” came from it. It simply means
that there were two children: one lived and one died. It just “is”. Having a
surviving or subsequent child does not erase the pain of having lost another. Most
parents get to keep all of their
children.
You never “get over” the loss of a baby. There are situations
and words that may always bother me that I never even thought about before.
There are phrases that I will never say and questions that I will never ask
anyone again, because I now know better. I will always see children that are
the age he would’ve been had he lived and it will be an ongoing, concrete
reminder of what I lost. You don’t “move on” from your child’s death but you
can learn to move forward and you carry them with you. The pain doesn’t lessen
or go away, you just make room for it.
