Guest post by Sharon
He lived. We held him and told him we loved him. Those are the three facts I recite to myself like a mantra, over and over.
It’s the little things you find comfort in that amaze me. How when you’ve chosen to live, to really live life after the tragedy of infant loss, you rely on any connection you can to survive. Because I believe we all have to make that choice, whether we’re going to live in the hurt and pain and darkness of our tragedy or whether we’re going to live our lives for ourselves and for the piece of our soul that now belongs to someone else.
I’ve chosen to live for me and for my son. It doesn’t mean I don’t have bad moments, days, or weeks, but it simply means that I make every possible effort to survive. Part of how I do that is by honouring him. For some bereaved parents, who are years out from their losses, honouring their babies can mean something pretty spectacular such as starting a foundation or counselling other people in our community, but even for those of us who are just starting to come out of the fog, beginning to make those small steps forward, it’s amazing how the little acts of remembering can bring so much comfort to us. The things we do and tell ourselves in order to live from day to day may seem silly or inconsequential to others but they can be a lifeline to a bereaved parent.
As stated above, I was able to hold my son, if only for two hours. While I lived that brief moment of parental bliss, a remarkable nurse was quietly snapping photographs of our little family. Several months after our loss, I found the courage to take those photos to a photography shop and have them digitally scanned. I compiled them with photos I had taken of everything we had that related to our son. When I picked up the photobook I created with these mementos I felt like I had accomplished something huge. Just like any mother would, I had a photobook of my son. Though it will be the only one I will ever make of him, the act of creating it fulfilled the ever present longing I feel to do something, to do anything, for the baby that I cannot nurture, protect or hold in my arms.
A close friend asked me how having my baby’s urn on my dresser brought me any comfort. I was surprised because to me that was the most natural place on earth to put it. If our son had lived, he’d be sleeping in a bassinet beside our bed, wouldn’t he? Because there are so few physical reminders of my baby, just having his urn visible in our bedroom is the ultimate reminder that he is real, that he lived and that this overwhelming bubble of love I carry around inside of me exists for him.
Another friend could not understand why I kept my son’s empty crib visible in our home, wouldn’t it be a constant reminder of my pain? Well the truth is that I live the reality of my son’s death every moment of my life. There are no reminders of him; there is only him. He is in every breath I take. He is in every smile and every tear. My life is his now. Seeing his empty crib is a reminder of him yes, but I am able to separate my memories of him from my memories of his loss. I owe him that. When I see his crib I am reminded of happy hours spent with his loving father comparing and choosing. I am reminded of seeing his father and grandfather assembling it for him, full of pride and love. I am reminded of all the excitement, anticipation and joy that was, is and will forever be my son.
Grieving for and honouring my son has been the most arduous task of my life. Learning how to parent a child that isn’t here is a learn as you go endeavour. Some might wonder why we bother to do it. Wouldn’t it just be easier to mourn and move on? Maybe. But as usual, I’ve decided to take the more difficult route, hoping for a better pay off. Every decision we made was a difficult one, and there were plenty of them. But we did it all in the hopes of surviving his loss. After all, we must survive so that we may honour his memory: he’s well worth it.
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