Tonight we’ll take our children to the graveyard, we’ll talk about what might have been, perhaps shed a tear or two, and then we’ll go out for ice cream to celebrate a life that changed us.
It’s what we do every year on this day. Every year for eleven years.
Today is the eleventh anniversary of the day my son died.
I woke up that morning, eleven years ago, to find out that his heart had stopped during the night. Hours later, he was born. Lifeless. Still. But so very real.
Today is the day that changed my definition of motherhood. Today is the day that I birthed pain and lived to tell the story. Today is the day my breasts filled with the milk of anticipation only to dry out days later when there was no-one to suckle them.
Today is the day I shook my fist at God, and yet turned in the same direction when I needed comfort.
Eleven years in, pain has become my companion, my friend. It doesn’t stab me with raw and brittle edges like it once did. Instead it curls up in a smooth and familiar ball inside my chest, tightening my throat now and then, but mostly gently reminding me that I am alive, that I am well, and that I have a story to share with other wanderers along this path.
Pain is my teacher, guiding me along the path, deepening my experiences and enriching my relationships.
Pain is my gift. It helps me paint the world with richer colours and more honest shapes. It helps me write with truth and courage.
Pain is my story. It frames the world for me and urges me to enjoy the depths of beauty and joy within the frame.
I am forever grateful for the gift that is my son, Matthew. Never let it be said that he did not live a full life.
Sending so much love…
Thanks Christine! I feel the love. đ
Blessings and love to you and your family, dear friend.
Thank you Katharine!
J’ai visionnĂ© la vidĂ©o : quel effet !Les gens qui ont peur on leur fait faire n’importe quoi.« je ne suis pas entourĂ© d’un halo de suspicion d&Ăi;uoqantisr©mstisme ou de racisme » (- manipulations politiques et religieuses, c’est pas nouveau)Que l’on soit de droite de gauche la Justice est pour tous en principe.
love to you, Heather.
Thanks Lisa!
A beautiful tribute to a beautiful child. Blessings to you.
Thank you Linda!
A heartfelt story, honest and beautiful. Thank you.
Thank you Carolyn!
Such courage and such hope too in the midst of unbearable pain and heartache. A beautifully moving tribute, Heather. Thank you.
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Thank you Jo!
I’ve given a lot of thought to the the difference between “remembering” and “ruminating”… this is such a lovely example of remembering.
Ruminating makes us constrict and defend and live smaller lives. It leads to bitterness, anger, separation and more loss and pain. It doesn’t allow space for our story to grow and evolve – it’s just a repetition of the same painful story. And it gets more constricted and painful over time because it locks the light out.
Remembering opens us to expanding our lives instead, and to letting the love, joy, peace, meaning, creativity in alongside the pain. Remembering facilitates an ever-evolving story and community conversation. Remembering is very much a creative, living, growing relationship – a relationship that’s different each year and which offers us new gifts and wisdoms each year. In that sense, you have a very alive relationship with your son and he continues to live and have an increasingly full and meaningful life, even after his biological death.
Thank you for remembering Matthew with us, and for sharing your story with us. When you mine the wisdom and gifts from your relationship with Matthew and share them with us, we benefit too. Some of the gifts I’m blessed with through getting to know you this year and through reading this today are:
– A real-life, living example (you!) to remind me that we can survive trauma, pain and loss, and that it’s possible to live whole-heartedly after loss. You get how important this is, as far as inspiring my courage to live wholeheartedly, right?
– Social permission for me to grieve and remember in whatever way feels right for me. Thank you for that gift of liberation. Publicly remembering children that others didn’t get to meet is still a fairly unusual practice in the “modern” world. Thank you for being at least 1 other “weirdo”(edge-walker?)doing and being what you love even though it goes against conventions. There you go inspiring my courage again.
– The gift of connection and knowing I’m not alone in my experience. Feeling alone and “picked on” exponentially increases the pain. Thank you for being one of the people who, by sharing your story, has protected me from ever getting to that place.
– The gift of what Brene Brown calls “shame resilience” – your shame-less ownership of your experiences, losses and reactions to your losses is a powerful inoculation against shame for me. Your example reminds me that love and loss are 2 sides of the same coin, that pain can enlarge your heart and make more room for love and compassion, that pain can be the raw material for creating beautiful things, that the way that your pain changes you can be worth celebrating rather than hiding.
Thank you to you, Matthew and the rest of your family for being the bearers of all of these gifts for us.
big love,
Cath
Cath – your words are such a beautiful reminder of why I continue to share this story.
One of the added bonuses of sharing our painful stories is that it leads us to new friends. I am forever grateful that my story and yours intertwined and that we had the privilege of walking 100 km. in honour of our two beautiful babies.
Thank you for introducing me to Mathew and for your courage to share his and your story.
I am honored by your gift. My thoughts are with you.
Kathy
Heather…I am crying. Not just tears, but crying. Like you, I wanted to wait, to find the “right” words to offer…something poetic or helpful or at the very least, meaningful. But I can’t. I just keep envisioning you then, you now…your family. My heart is open, wide open, for you.
Hugs.
Heather,
Your words are a beacon for those of us who have lost children prior to childbirth. The are warm, and comforting and filled with hope.
Thank you for helping me remember my child who was much too small to hold. The brief connection we had will last forever.
Debbie