Bomb dropping during fondue

Last night I met some ladies from church (80% of whom I have known for several years) out for fondue. As usual, the couple of days before our outing, I was filled with mostly mild anxiety about it. I actually considered backing out at the last minute and then finally reassured myself that everything would be fine, and that I should make an attempt to be social.

There were about 12 of us sitting around a long-ish table with 4 pots of cheese... and ultimately chocolate. Somehow, I ended up sitting near two young, newly married women, both of whom I'd never met. Wouldn't you know, the conversation somehow veered to "those women who don't even know they are pregnant until they have their baby" and "golly gee, some women say that pregnancy and birth are so awful and others say it's a breeze" and "it would just really stink to be pregnant in the summer - I better plan for that". By the time we were in the thick of this miserable conversation, I was avoiding it at all costs -- reading my blackberry as if several new and exciting emails had just come in. I was stuck... mainly as a result of my non-strategic seating selection upon arriving at our table. Then, one of the curious young ladies starts asking a couple of us about our experience(s) as it relates to pregnancy and birth. The woman across the table, who knows me and knows of both of my boys, looked at me with a pained look and then answered for herself, keeping her response relatively short and sweet. Even with all of my dodging and extremely rude blackberry usage, the young woman then posed the question to me. Taking in a deep breath, I dropped my bomb. I told her/them that I actually have 2 boys -- 2 pregnancies and 2 births -- and that B.W. died (was born still) in 2006. I think I did an decent job of keeping it together and then answered their extremely naive and somewhat insensitive follow-up questions (you might know the kind I'm talking about here). In the course of the exchange, one of them said she was sorry. The other changed the subject. And then they were all laughing and having fun again. My heart was racing, my blood boiling and I wanted to leave the table and run for my car. This is one of the many examples, that I seem to face on a regular basis, which make me want to hibernate and avoid all social gatherings and groups.

I won't even write here what I wanted to say in response to the original question or to the ridiculous line of questioning I faced when they learned of my dead son. I was glad to leave, emotionally exhausted, end of story. Good thing the food was nice and the martini was scrumptious. I would not have made it through otherwise.

I have almost no memory of my former self. Please tell me I was not as naive, presumptuous and self-righteous as these ladies. It's hard to accept that I must now live in a world filled with so many of them.

New me disappointment

I am almost certain that anyone who has lost a child would agree he/she is permanently changed in several ways -- some dramatic and obvious and others so subtle they go virtually unnoticed by even the closest of friends and family. I've been thinking about those more subtle changes in myself... especially now that I'm supposed to be truly living my "new normal" life without my firstborn. This is the new me, right? I'm supposed to really like and be proud of who I have become as a result of my precious boy. And, truly, although I would say TO HELL with the changes in my life if I could have another day with my B.W., I do view most of my metamorphosis as positive. Problem is - some of these subtle changes just really stink.

One of those invisible changes that has bothered me for some time is my ability or lack thereof to cope with large-ish or new-ish social situations, big groups of friends (close and otherwise) and crowds. Before B.W.'s death, I was always up for getting together with a big group, no matter the occasion. I could make conversation, from small talk to intimate/intense discussion, rather easily and comfortably with anyone. It really didn't matter if it was a room of friends or a party where I hardly knew anyone. I prided myself on being a good and quick read on the character of a person. I made friends easily with those I deemed character-worthy, and tried to listen and patiently interact as authentically as possible even with those people I disliked or deemed character-less (for lack of a better term). At least one of those friendships made casually has turned into one of the closest and most authentic relationships I have today.

Immediately after B.W.'s death, like many bereaved mothers, I retreated from social gatherings and interactions. I literally couldn't participate. And when I tried, I failed miserably. I learned quickly that this was normal for someone enduring the tragic death of a child and came to accept that I was going to dislike crowds, parties, social situations, even getting together with groups of friends, for a while.

Unfortunately, for me, "a while" has become indefinitely. Now let me clarify... for those people who are going to assume that I'm not healing appropriately, or that my time table for that healing is much too slow, or whatever... (Actually, I don't think many people are actually reading this blog, and the readers are mostly bereaved mothers, so I probably have nothing to worry about.) I no longer retreat like I did in the year following B.W.'s death. I do participate in social interactions and gatherings more. I do try to enjoy myself and am sometimes successful at it. And, almost always, I am able to put on a really good front (which might actually be unhealthy in itself), but I still really dread this stuff.

Why? I don't know, but it's clear it's virtually always related to B.W.'s death. Sometimes I dread seeing someone who has never acknowledged B.W.'s short life and death and the obviously tragic loss for our family. Sometimes it's because I know there will be shock and awe on peoples' faces when they hear I have a dead son (as the topic of family/children inevitably comes up in conversation) and then their avoidance of me after they hear our story. Other times it's because I don't have the energy to try and avoid the topic of my dead child by dodging people or keeping my conversation at a very surface level. Sometimes I know I won't be able to stand the small talk or the blissful ignorance of the people we will see and interact with. The list really goes on and on, but it's usually related to B.W. or my new life/world view -- the new me -- as a result of his death.

This is a change that I am not particularly excited about for a few reasons. First, it means I am worrying too much about what others think as it relates to my deceased son (I guess that's the protective mother in me). Second, I am not enjoying social and group interactions much anymore... and perhaps never will in the same way I was capable of before B.W.'s death. I am also not allowing new, potentially great friendships the opportunity to grow through these interactions.

Just another element of my former self to mourn, I suppose. It's not the end of the world. I bet hardly anyone notices. It's just I didn't expect, at least at the onset of my life without B.W., this aspect of my life to be so permanently different.

Motherhood

Last week, I got one of those questions from a colleague I see maybe 3-4 times a year. A question that most mothers are delighted to hear. A question that I'm 100% sure he intended as harmless. In fact, I think he was genuinely interested to hear my response. Fully unaware that the words can still send me spinning a bit. That my heart still breaks a little to hear them, though they're simply conversational to him.

"So, how is motherhood?" (with a wink and a bit of a wise-guy dad-of-3 grin)

Not an unusual question to ask a "new" mom. I guess that is what he considers me - new to my role of mother, new to the job and daily act of mothering.

For him, looking from the outside-in, it's as if B.W. never existed. Or that because he died, that motherhood was somehow postponed for me. Or that since he died back in 2006, it's been so long and so much has transpired that you might as well forget that I was a mother before C.T. was born. Truly, I didn't expect that this colleague would ask "so, how is mothering your dead child these days... what's his name again?" That he would allude to how I'm doing with his absence 2 years and 3 months later. That just socially doesn't happen. And, I really do like when people take an interest in C.T. and what he's doing. It's just that I'm proud of the mothering I do for both of my boys. When someone asks about my "motherhood", I think of my two sons - equally. I'm just not allowed to talk about it in public.

So, I played nice, like I always do. I obliged and filled my colleague in on C.T.'s latest tricks, the plan for his first birthday party, the wonder in his eyes at Christmas time. I smiled and laughed and truly enjoyed a moment to talk about my sweet boy, pretending, right along with him, that C.T. encompasses the totality of my motherhood. If only I could have added that it's been bittersweet. That while C.T. has brought so much joy, B.W. was missed so much this holiday season. That this marked our third Christmas without our firstborn. That I continue to "mother" B.W. in so many ways...

This, for bereaved parents all over the globe, is just one of a thousand often painful questions/comments that come up in day-to-day conversation. I can probably spout off 100 of them off the top of my head. Which are your most un-favorite(s)? Have you built up your callous to them or do some still send you reeling?