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.
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