What Should Have Beens

The last 3 months and 2 days I have operated in the ‘what should have been’ frame of mind.  It is a dangerous place to go.  It usually involves a lot of tears and sadness for a few days.  It is near impossible not to do at this point, as there is a rarely a moment of a day that I do not think of Jack.  And while it makes me sad, it allows me to continue on with the dreams I had had for him all along.

Occasionally, like this past weekend, the ‘what should have been’ scenarios don’t hurt so badly.  There are still plenty of tears but it’s with a smile, or appreciation of a situation or reminder.  Sean, Kennedy and I made a quick trip to Long Island for my nephew Mason’s first birthday.  Leading up to the party, as I helped my sister prepare, it was tough.  I love planning parties.  With Kennedy, I often get ridiculously carried away; hearing endlessly, “don’t go overboard, she’s only….” I was happy to help, it kept me busy, but while I was making a centerpiece, magnets, baking cupcakes, I couldn’t help thinking that I would never get to do this for my own little boy.  But, I decided that we were going to go and celebrate Mason, the beautiful little boy that allows me to hug him just a little too tightly and will rest his little head on my shoulder, as if he knows in his little heart that I need that.

Mason and my cousin’s baby Kallahan are laid back little dudes.  They are content to hang out and take in the rest of the chaos that a family party often brings.  As I watched them together, I thought to myself, they would have taken good care of their little cousin Jack.  He would most likely have had to work harder to keep up with the rest of the cousins, and I really feel like those little boys would have stayed back with him, following his pace, being true friends.  I may have been able to imagine that because the parents of these little boys have essentially “stayed behind” with me as I try to keep up with everyone else lately, but I really do believe that they will instill that in their kids as well. 

The “happy birthday” moment was a little rougher than I had anticipated, but I made it through with a quick pit-stop in the bathroom and my sister by my side to help me cry my eyes out and get back to the party.  I just kept thinking we would have been here before we knew it; time goes that fast with babies.

Back at my parent’s house we watched a one year old decide which were the “best” presents.  Kennedy and Mason’s brother, Cooper, trying to open everything (“we’re helping him!!”) had to be confined to another room so the poor kid could take his time with the tissue paper and actually enjoy the first big opening of presents he’s had. 

Yesterday morning, we all walked over to the park, Nana and Gramps, Sara and her family, and even little uncle Al came.  The kids loved it! Kennedy, Cooper and Mason had some fun too (we couldn’t help ourselves). 

Having been prepared to parent a child with special needs I’ve started noticing accessibility features in public more; shopping carts, those kinds of things.  At this particular state park they have 2 swings intended for children with special needs, both larger and smaller children that would offer more body support.  It made me feel both sad and grateful to see them.  It made me think about how there would have been a place for Jack at the park too, able to play with his cousins and sister.  

Watching Kennedy and Cooper play together and help each other to both fun and equally dangerous things, I laughed to myself and though he wouldn’t have been slowed down one iota; these little dare devils would have helps him find a way to do it all with them.  I love them even more for these happy reminders they give me of the little boy missing from this picture.   

So while I navigate my way through the ‘what should have beens’ I am trying my best to make sure I stop and appreciate the ‘what still is’.  As sad as I am, I have never lost sight of all that I have right in front of me, and they too serve as a happy reminder of Jack Holden Doyle.

The Common Thread

I’ve never been good at being part of a group.  As a kid I was involved in a lot of different clubs and teams and organizations.  I played sports, I danced, I did girl scouts, you name it, and I’ve probably done it at some point.  I think it’s invaluable for kids to be part of something.  I met some great people and made good friends doing all of those things but I always felt uneasy “committing” to any of them.  I think I always worried I would be designated to one of them; placed in a box, so to speak, and I’d get stuck there, not free to move about where I wanted and with whom I wanted. 

When I was still at CHOP after Jack died we were talking with one of the psychologists on staff.  She was great; so great.  She was suggesting some of things we could do in an attempt to begin healing after this terrible loss.  One of things she suggested was a group for people who’d experienced something similar to us.  I remember, so poignantly, saying, “I don’t want to be part of the dead babies club.”  I know that sounds awful to say, I still feel a bit embarrassed that I lacked the filter at the time to not something so insensitive.  But the truth of the matter is, I didn’t.  I don’t.  But, like it or not, I am.

One of the worst parts of going through losing Jack has been the feeling of isolation or loneliness.  Not because I’m not around people, because if I haven’t been, it’s been my choice; there have been so many offers for visits that I’ve avoided because I just haven’t been ready for it.  It’s the feeling of knowing that regardless of the love we share, history we have, and things we have in common, most of the people in my life just have no idea what this feels like.  Don’t get me wrong, a huge part of me is grateful for that.  I would hate knowing that people I care about would feel like Sean and I feel; I would never want that for anyone. 

My mom’s best friend, who really is family in every sense of the word, lost a child too.  She had a heart condition and passed away as a young teenager.  As a kid, I thought it was terrible.  As a mother, I thought it was unimaginable.  And now as someone who has lost a child of her own, it’s far worse.  She was really one of the only people I had wanted to talk to right after Jack died.  I wanted to hear her say it was going to be okay and that I’d feel better soon.  She didn’t say that.  Instead, she was honest with me.  And I loved her even more for that.  She gave me the honest truth; that it took a long time before she felt even a little better.  She told me that I had to be patient with myself.  Gentle.  When I asked her why this had to happen to us, her response it something I will never in my life forget: “We were chosen.  I don’t know why it was us, but we were chosen.”  I think about that a lot.

I’ve encountered other people, whether by phone, email, letter or family members of friend or other family members that have reached out to let me know, they too know these feelings all to well.  Their words are personal, and heartbreaking, and beautiful.  More than anything, they are appreciated.  To know we are really not alone in this, offers a comfort so few can give us anymore.  Another family member hugged me the first time I saw her after losing Jack and while that wasn't so different from any other time we’ve ever seen each other, this hug said more.  It said, “I know,” but without speaking a word, because she knew all too well there is no words that can make it right.  And, please, don’t get me wrong; I do not fault anyone for trying to ease our broken hearts.  If I were in the same position I would probably try anything to bring a smile to the face of someone that looked as sad as I do most days.  It’s just one of the awful truths of losing a child; nothing can ever make it right or hurt less.

When I was given information about a local support group for people who have lost their babies I balked.  Most of the people that I just mentioned suggested I give it a try.  I didn’t want to be part of it.  I didn’t want to have this in common with anyone.  It just seemed too sad for me; and it is too sad.  I didn’t want to be relegated to being part of a collection of broken souls.  But, again, I am.

And so, last night I went.   I didn’t plan on speaking my first time there, but I did.  I spoke Jack’s name to strangers.  It felt good.  I told our story.  They cried with me.  They cried the tears of people who know what this pain feels like.  And they listened; they didn’t squirm as I spoke or look elsewhere because they felt uncomfortable with what I was saying.  And for the first time in a long time, I felt connected to people again.  I wish that it was under better circumstances and I wish it were because of something else, like scrapbooking or a book club.  But this is where I am in my life right now, sometimes struggling to feel connected, to feel part of something rather than standing on the peripheral of life watching everyone else live it. 

Here I am; part of this "group", this "club".  No matter what I do, I can’t quit, bow out, or have my mom call and say I'm no longer interested in participating .  A common thread connects me with these people.  This thread is frayed and worn and the color has faded from it a bit.  Some people may look at it and think that it’s too far beyond repair.  But it is a thread that was once part of something beautiful and loved and wanted. And so maybe, with time and a careful needle, it can be sewn into something new. 

Measuring Up

The sun is clearly good for the soul.  Our house was desperate for a healthy dose of vitamin-D after these last few months so we’ve welcomed the longer, lighter days with wide-open arms. 

Taking advantage of the gorgeous weather we’ve had as of late found me and Kennedy at the park a few times these last few days.  Watching my brave girl master the jungle gym as if she’s being doing it for years is bittersweet.  I’m amazed by the courage she shows at barely 3 and nearly brought to tears at how fast the time as gone.  I don’t know what it is about the park and me but I always seem to think too much while I’m there.  In any case, watching her climb up things that looked way too high and whip down slides that seemed way too big, I found myself wondering what kind of parent I’m shaping up to be.  I wanted to keep reminding her to be careful and go slow, yet at the same time tried to remain silent and fully appreciate the look of accomplishment on her little face when she’d reach the bottom of the slide, exhilarated.  I allowed myself to take a bit of pride in the fact that she already has such confidence and hoped it had something to do with how we’re raising her.

I know it’s almost impossible to ever really know if you’ve done a good job as a parent but I think we’re thrown hints every once and again; maybe an act of mercy from Someone who knows better.  When I hear Kennedy say excuse me to people in the grocery store when she realizes she’s twirled her way right in front of their cart, or when people passing by our table at the diner will tell us she was being well-behaved, those are times I think we’re doing an okay job.  Really though, that’s just good training.  Manners are great; seriously, I think they get you farther in this world than most people realize.  But for me, I’ll be looking for more than pleases and thank-yous.

I know how this probably sounds and don’t worry I’m not going all tiger-mom on my kid.  Trust me, the pressure for this lies on the shoulders of Sean and I.  So how will I measure this, you ask?  I have no idea.  If there is one thing I’m learning about parenting it’s that there is so much you don’t ever know and the art of mastering a good poker face.  I do know this though.  I want Kennedy to be kind.  I want her to be brave.  I want her to be smart.  I say smart and not intelligent because intelligence isn’t controlled but I believe being smart is.  I want her to love but know that love is rare and so to respect it. I want her to be able to recognize when she is happy in life and, perhaps more importantly, recognize when she isn’t so she can ask for help to get back to a place of peace.  I hope she will love her father and I and forgive us easily and often.  I hope she will be able remember me as a woman that smiled freely and not the one that has sadness in her eyes too often.  I hope she will look at her daddy for the rest of her life the way she looks at him now.

I think with Jack gone, I sometimes falter with what my purpose as a parent is now.  I had so many plans and goals for him.  I know I would have had no clue what I was doing most of the time, but I do know I would have fought like hell for him; to make sure he was getting the best out of this world that it could offer him.  But then I think to myself, nothing has changed in terms of that purpose.  Yes, he is not here, but his sister is and I will do the same things for her.  That fight is still in me.  Somewhere. 

So this is what I want and hope for her.  I suppose though, these things will only matter if they are what she wants for herself.  Maybe that should be the true measure for one’s success as a parent:  did your kid get out of life everything they wanted?  Not in the materialistic sense, but did they have it in themselves to know what they wanted in this world and the courage and drive to take it?  Kennedy got to go to the park, she got to have ice cream, we blew bubbles for hours, and she got the football out of the dollar bin at Target she’s been begging for the last 3 weeks; so measured against the wants of an almost 3 year old, I guess we’re doing alright; this week anyway.

I need to stop going to the park.  

Chasing Smiles

I lied. 

Well, lied may be a harsh word to use.  I misrepresented a situation.  I told myself when I started this whole blog-thing I would as honest as I could.  About everything.  Otherwise, what would be the point?  I try to be real.  I like real.

And so from the second I posted Sunday’s post, I’ve felt a bit guilty.  I painted a picture of a sunny day at the park filled with smiles and enjoyment.  To some extent that was true.  Kennedy had a great time.  She was happy.  And deep down I was happy that she was enjoying herself.  But it seemed way deep down. 

I got some tough news that day while I was driving.  I wanted to just turn the car around and go home but I didn’t want to punish Kennedy for my bad mood.  So I drove, with her happily chatting in the back seat, me half-listening.  When we got to park I found myself telling her before we even got out of the car that we weren’t staying long, when I said it was time to go she’d better be a good listener, blah blah blah; a real fun sponge.  I considered just leaving my camera in the car but I figured it would keep me distracted and cover my face to hide any rogue tears that often find their way out of my eyes at inopportune times. 

As we entered the playground, I immediately wanted to leave.  Smiling women everywhere.  I wanted to knock their teeth out.  Seriously.  I found myself wondering what the hell they were so happy about.  Mocking them in my head, trivializing their “happiness”.  I know I sound ridiculous but it’s the truth.  When I feel bad these days, other people smiling seems so out of place in my world.  For a person that used to be so effortlessly empathetic, I struggle to be able to understand the feelings of other people.  Really, who knows if they were actually happy or what their smiles were masking.  But that’s what grief does.  It warps your point of view.  Gives you blinders of sorts. 

So as these women, who, by the way, all seemed to be wearing their perfectly matched running clothes (guess I didn’t get the memo?), smiled and talking about who-knows-what, I tried to focus on the only smile I really care about.  Kennedy does not smile.  Not on command anyway.  If you ask for one, she will either pout at you or offer a cheesy, teeth gritted one that can barely be considered a symbol or fun or happiness (picture what a teenager gives their parents on a family vacation they don’t want to be on- yes, I know we’re in for it).  So, you have to capture it covertly.  I probably looked crazy, running around trying to come around to the slide just as she was coming down.  I chase smiles.  Hers and my own too, I guess.  

I wondered, there and for days after, what I must have looked like to anyone that noticed.  They had to have been wondering what this woman’s problem was: You’re at the park with your happy little girl, try not to look so miserable, lady; smile, enjoy yourself, these moments are over and done with so quickly- you’re going to miss them.  The thing is, to me, it seems likes I wear the Scarlet Letter “G” on my chest.  Sometimes I think it would make it easier if I did.  If people knew maybe they could see my miserable face and understand it.  More than likely, I am over-analyzing the situation, and no one even noticed me, but this is how it goes for me lately.  I think far too much.

Something I also failed to share earlier in the week was the profound moment of awe I felt for my little girl while we were at the park.  She, like most kids, is terrified to walk over drain grates.  She’ll stop in her tracks, yell too loudly, “I’m gonna FALL”, and make you pick her up or walk around it, giving it an extra-wide berth.  It’s understandable really.  As an adult I have a brief moment of panic, what-if-it’s-loose-kind-of-thoughts.  Anyway, as I was still thinking about a million other things, she stopped.  She went through the whole ‘I’m gonna fall thing’ but she just stood there, looking down.  Instead of walking around it, avoiding it, she forged onward.  She walked, ever so slowly, step-by-step, over something that scared the life out her.  She kept looking nervously over at me for encouragement but never stopped.  I watched her, snapping pictures to capture this brave moment of hers.  More than that, I was smiling.  A real, honest-to-God smile.

She showed me something I’m so thankful I didn’t miss.  I was able to get out of my own head long enough for my almost-3 year old to teach me something.  I can’t be afraid.  I can’t “walk around” things or people or avoid them.  It may be scary, but step-by-step, I can do this.