Four and a half years ago I walked out of the hospital with only one of my twin sons. I had just handed over my other twin son’s body to his nurse, after we made the difficult decision to take him off of life support at 35 days old. He died from complications due to a congenital diaphragmatic hernia (CDH). Mainly, his lungs were just too small and underdeveloped for him to live.
The next day I laid in bed crying and nursing my newly twinless twin and listened to my husband and my mother pack up all of our ‘twin’ stuff. The extra swing, bouncer, clothes, car seat, double stroller . . . . the list could go on forever. We literally owned two of everything because we were more than ready and excited to be parents of twins.
My grief has changed and morphed over the years. I feel like I have experienced so many pieces of what it means to live without your child.
But now we are moving into a new form of grief that I don’t feel quite prepared for.
This Christmas we visited my parents in Chicago, along with my sisters, their significant others and my nephew. There were 11 people in a small house, and the kids, ages 1, 3, and 4 were all tired from driving long ways and being in a house not their own place. Will especially seemed to have a bad attitude, but I chalked it up to nothing more than sleep deprivation and overstimulation.
Then I put him to bed.
And his words were ‘Mommy, I’ve been bad today because I’m angry that MJ is not here. And I love him more than you do.’ I was left sort of speechless and I just held him and told him that it was okay to be angry and that yes, he probably did love MJ more than me.
For me, almost five years later my grief is what I am ‘used to’. I have managed to find ways to live through daily life and even the unexpected waves of grief I have figured out how to manage by now. I am comfortable in my grief.
But this–my son’s grief–is completely new territory for us. At four years old he is just figuring out what is means that his brother has died. We’ve always let Will lead the way when it comes to MJ. I have been especially careful to not push MJ on Will, and let him talk about his brother as much, or as little, as he wants to. The questions are more frequent lately, and this is the first time he has expressed anger that his twin has died.
I’ve never known what to expect in this part of grief. To be honest I thought that Will would probably take it with a grain of salt and maybe enjoy the work we do in MJ’s memory. I more prepared myself for Will to show no interest in his brother, than to grieve for his brother. So this path was quite a surprise to me, especially with Will so young. I probably should have known better.
I just don’t know. And I second guess myself all the time to if we are doing it right. I know it’s better for Will to know all about MJ. But there is still are no instructions on how to help your son deal with his twin’s death. It’s hard enough trying to figure out how I deal with death.
Knowing, or guessing rather, what is means to lose a twin has broken my heart in an entirely new way. I can guess and question all the time why I’ve been given this path, but it hurts even more knowing this has also been thrust upon my children. My firstborn son has lost his twin brother and the bond that only a twin can know. My second born son endured three surgeries over 35 days and ultimately died in my arms.
Sometimes I want to curl up in a ball and shake my firsts and yell, “WHY, WHY MY CHILDREN?!”
As a parent, my overarching needs are to protect my children. This I cannot protect Will from. I have to let him grieve and give him what he needs. But I don’t know what he needs. I don’t know what he feels. I don’t know how to parent this side of grief.
I’ll never be able to bring MJ back to life. And I’ll never be able to fix Will’s grief.
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