I remember standing in front of the church, just after Samuel’s funeral. I was surrounded by friends, all looking at me with tears in their eyes and faces full of concern. “Now what do I do?” I asked, not really to them, but more just out in to the universe.
It felt like we’d just finished the last thing I could do for him. I had carried him. I had birthed him. We had said our goodbyes, and gathered to honor his life with family and friends. “Now what?” was all l I could think. I had so much love to give and no one to give it to. I had milk to feed a hungry baby, but he was gone. I had stories and lessons to share, but no one to hear. I had fun and creativity to share as my son played and explored the new world, but that could never happen. I had done what everyone does to have a family, but somehow my dreams didn’t deserve to come true. So, as I stood there, empty and broken in ways I never thought possible, my heart and soul just cried out: Now what?
What do you do when your baby has died? How do you keep on living? How can life keep going when nothing makes any sense? How was it possible that MY baby had died, while so many undeserving parents were holding their perfectly healthy babies in their arms? How will my marriage survive when our family is forever ruined?
All these questions and so many more were wrapped up in those two words. Now what?
Honestly, there is no great answer to that question. The only real answer is that you just keep on going. You take one breath, then another, then another. Somehow, an hour passes. Then a day, then a week. Somehow, you learn to take an hour at a time instead of just a breath. Somehow, you survive when you don’t think survival is possible. You learn what helps and what hurts. As much as you want people to be supportive and understanding, you quickly realize that’s just never going to happen for some people. So you cut ties with people who no longer have a place in your life. And it hurts. But it also helps. You surround yourself with people who know your life is never going to be the same again. You find ways to parent your child even after death. And it helps. But it also hurts because it’s not how it should be.
On April 14th, 2014, Samuel will turn two in heaven. Somehow, we’ve kept on going. Somehow, we’ve survived these two years. And although the days are father apart now than previously, I still often find my heart asking that same question: Now what?
You see, no matter how much I do for him, no matter how much I write, or give back in his name, or buy special memorial items for him, or anything else, nothing does the one thing I really want. Nothing brings him back. Nothing un-does what’s been done. So I sit here, empty, just like that day I asked it the first time.
I guess somewhere inside I believed I would get to be done with this mess by now.
That’s what life is like after your baby dies. Time moves on. People move on. Life continues and you heal in some ways. You learn how to survive. You learn how to live again. But it’s never like it should be. That hole is always there. The future is always uncertain.
In a way, that makes me want to just stop trying to do anything. It seems so pointless at times. But I’ve learned these last two years that survival depends on doing those things for your baby that give your parenting heart purpose. Those things that help you focus on your baby and remember the joy and love their existence created. When I hurt the most, it’s usually after some time has passed where Samuel and my grief were not getting the attention they deserved. When I feel most at peace, it’s because I’ve put my mothering effort into remembering and honoring his life.
This past weekend, we gathered together with family and friends to celebrate Samuel’s birthday. We purposely held his birthday party prior to his actual birthday, so we can have time alone on his special day to do whatever we need to do to make it through.
We remembered him. We celebrated him. We grieved for him. It was beautiful and sad, but he’s worth the effort. I’m glad we did it. And at the same time, I sit here again; the party things cleaned up and put away, the thank you notes in the mail, the house put back in order, and my arms still empty. And in the all too familiar quietness of our home that’s missing a little guy’s constant noise, my heart once again cries out, now what?
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