Monday, August 6, 2012

"Normal"

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Since Eve died, I have not felt normal.  And by "not normal," I mean that I have not felt like myself (which is probably good, because how can you stay the same after something so life-shattering?).  I mean that I do not seem to fit.

At times, I haven't felt like a woman.  I haven't even felt like a real person.  I failed -- or something failed within me, or within her -- in this very basic act of procreation, and as a result I've often felt like I was expelled from the human race on the day I birthed my daughter's body.

It's been lonely, even though I know that I am not alone.

But.

Lately I've been starting to feel more normal.  I don't even know what "normal" means now, only that it is different from what normal was before, and that it feels good.

It started with watermelon.

They showed up in the grocery store as summer's heat descended, and I couldn't resist.  We began buying watermelon regularly, and as soon as we got home from the store I'd set about slicing, nibbling while I cut the fruit into chunks.

There's something about cutting up watermelon that has felt very soothing to me, very healing.  Very normal.  Perhaps because it is methodical and physical, the same motions again and again.  When I am cutting up watermelon, I somehow feel more strongly than at any other time that I am providing for my family, performing this very mundane act of love for my husband, my body, and the baby boy growing within. 

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Until watermelon came into season, I have not felt very normal.  But with the fruit's advent, I could look forward to this handful of minutes each week, hands sticky with juice, and glory in the calm.  No fear, no anxiety, and minimal sadness.  Just being.

Over the last few weeks, however, these periods of normalcy have extended beyond the realm of watermelon dissection.  They come upon me without warning, and in situations where I would not think to expect them:

Rocking a friend's sweet baby.  Washing one of my children's clothes for the first time in my life.  Enjoying burgers and conversation and deliciously silly games with more friends.  Posing for maternity photos in the gleaming light of evening. 

Had I considered these in advance (and for some of them I did), I would have expected each of these situations to make me feel more other, less normal.  But instead they had the opposite effect.  They made me feel like a person again.  Like a woman, and like a mother.  Like more than a shell.  They made me feel loved, valued. 

I feel like I fit again. 

I am so grateful.  Unspeakably so.  It's hard to muster up and keep mustering up the energy to go on breathing when you feel like the air is wasted on something like you.  It's hard to hold out for healing when you can't feel the hope of it.

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But (again).

There is another side to these feelings of normalcy that scares me a little.

Because the feelings of not-normal, as horrible as they are, connect me to my daughter.  My grief is all that I get to have of her in this life.  So I wonder -- as the birth of our second baby draws closer and the joy looms large, will I forget her?  Will I pack her mementos away to make room for the living, the grief eclipsed by the exhilaration and terror of life with a newborn?  And if I do, what does that say of me?

If grief is love, what does it mean when the only tears shed are tears of gratitude and joy?  If I've found a place to fit, is there room enough for her?  How can I be a mother to a dead child and a living child at the same time? 

I have no answers. 

No, that's not true.  I have one -- that I love my children, both of them, with an excruciating, beautiful love that I never knew existed until I saw my daughter's face for the first time.

Somehow, that will have to be answer enough. 

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12 comments:

  1. You have so much more of Eve here then just grief. You have all the time you carried her, be it not long enough, you have all that precious time. Time that no one else on Earth can understand because the two of you were one. You have the moment you found out you were pregnant, hearing her heartbeat for the first time and all the times after, and so much more.

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  2. Oh Beth I have felt that panic at the weeks turn to months how will hold on to Jonathan. I to have experienced normal moments and they scare me a little, sometime they make the sad moments so intense also. Well we are getting through I guess living and loving which is certainty what Jonathan and Eve would want us to do. That watermelon looks incredible, I hope it has cooled off for you my friend.

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  3. Yes, exactly. I find myself grieving less and less, which is good but makes me fear that one day Alexander will vanish. I know that isn't true but the fear is there.

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  4. "If grief is love, what does it mean when the only tears shed are tears of gratitude and joy? If I've found a place to fit, is there room enough for her? How can I be a mother to a dead child and a living child at the same time?"

    Oh, how I wrestled and quaked with these questions, Beth! And in the wrestling and quaking--which in your case seems more like rocking and swaying--the answers came. At the right time.

    You *living* and breathing and eating and delighting, this, my friend, this connects you inextricably to your precious Eve. Because she lives and breathes and eats and delights in perfect harmony with the One who gives you all these things. She is closer than you know. And so is the One who surrounds you both.

    So much love to you...

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    1. You said: "You *living* and breathing and eating and delighting, this, my friend, this connects you inextricably to your precious Eve. Because she lives and breathes and eats and delights in perfect harmony with the One who gives you all these things. She is closer than you know. And so is the One who surrounds you both."

      This is amazing, Angie. Just perfect. It took my breath away and brought tears to my eyes (in a very good way). Thank you.

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  5. Beth, you have put into such beautiful words what we babyloss Moms feel. How do you merge the past and the future? How do you start to feel "normal" again while remembering what "normal" was before and even during the storm, and not tucking all of that away? These questions constantly run through my mind. I am glad that you are finding a place to fit for now. I have to say that I am still here :

    "At times, I haven't felt like a woman. I haven't even felt like a real person. I failed -- or something failed within me, or within her -- in this very basic act of procreation, and as a result I've often felt like I was expelled from the human race on the day I birthed my daughter's body. It's been lonely, even though I know that I am not alone."

    But I know that as the days pass, I am one step closer to figuring out how to carry-on, even if life will never be how it used to be for me. Your words are always what I need to read, Beth...ALWAYS!

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  6. I wish I could write as eloquently as you, and express these feelings as well as you. I always find myself pondering these difficult questions. Especially if I was to conceive again, would I be able to connect with the new baby despite the fear of loss, and if I do connect with a living child, will I forget my son who is dead. It's a hard thing to live with, no doubt, but you seem to be doing amazingly well at balancing the two. Somehow we get through, and I hope that someday I am able to feel 'normal' again too.

    Lots of love,
    Lisa
    http://dear-finley.blogspot.com

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  7. You may never have all the answers but the one answer you have is quite powerful. Hugs to you~

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  8. she is always with you - she was part of you and something that was meant to happen even though horrible and life shattering...your love for each other is eternal! it's ok if you lose yourself in a newborn and joyous moments-she wants you to let go of the pain xoxoxoxxoxo

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  9. Beth,

    Your words are always so beautiful! You are beautiful...a beautiful mother....a beautiful woman. I know I only know you in blogland but your sweet spirit shines in your words. So glad to hear you have experienced some simple everyday normal.

    Kim

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  10. I think there will always be room enough for her. Your love for her will never go. We lost our baby sister many years ago and her memory and love for her has never gone and has a special place in our hearts. She has *always* been part of our family. I am happy to see you find a piece of normal with this watermelon. ((hugs))

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"I am glad you are here with me."
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King