When we lost Thomas, I knew we had suffered an enormous loss. A loss that I cannot adequately describe in the English language. I didn’t yet know that we would never be the same, that life would never be the same. Things are forever divided, in my mind and heart, as “before Thomas” and “after Thomas”. That is the emotional calendar of my heart.
Before we lost Thomas, like most dutiful children, I spent Mother’s Day with my mother. There would be gifts, cards – be they funny or sappy – and a family meal. Likewise, I spent Father’s Day with my Father, at his annual bbq, him busy by the grill, and lots of people enjoying a summer’s day.
The first Mother’s Day after Thomas died; I hid. I didn’t see my family. I tried to survive that awful, painful, miserable day. I wept and I sighed with relief when the clock struck midnight. Never again have I celebrated Mother’s Day with my family. I can’t. It’s too painful. I can’t watch my sister and my niece on that day – it hurts. I can’t watch my mother with her only living grandchild on that day, it is just too painful, too hard, on that specific day. At first, my mother didn’t understand this was forever. At first, I think she was surprised and possibly hurt – but she now understands the awfulness and respects whatever way I need to handle that day. I’m very grateful for that.
This year, my father is grappling with the foreverness. I have forced myself to attend Father’s Day. I have tried to numb myself, to bury to the pain. I have tried to not notice that every other father there has living children. I have tried to pretend that I could be there. But I can’t do it anymore. Every person there has living children. You can watch the generations chat and play. I sit there and feel horribly alone. I wish my father was acknowledged as a grandfather of two, not one. I sit beside my husband and wish with every fibre of my being that I could re-write history. I wish that our should-be 4 year old were here. I wish that he got a card, that he got acknowledged as a Dad. Instead, it is included at my top 6 most painful days of the year. Instead of sticky fingers and hugs, he got ashes. To make matters worse, Father’s Day always falls on my husband’s birthday. It’s a back to back blow…two major family occasions, both within 48 hours, with one gaping, 4-year-old size hole.
Why am I airing all of my laundry to you? Sometimes as Still Mothers and Still Fathers we have to make difficult decisions. Sometimes, we can’t make everybody happy. We need to make choices to protect our hearts, to practice self-care and self-love. I’m showing self-care when I can openly and honestly tell my family the steps I need to take to survive these holidays. They may not always like my choices, and their disapproval is something that weights heavily on me, but ultimately – to protect my heart, my husband’s heart – these are the choices I’ve made. I know my father doesn’t understand and I know it’s unlikely he will. As he has never lost a child, he is free from knowing what it feels like to be a Still Father. It is hard to navigate life as a Still Mother. There seem to be a lot of ways to stumble and I still can’t find the guide book that will give me a detailed road map for this life.
Every holiday we, as loss parents struggle. I see it in various social media support groups. We struggle to maintain other’s expectations of our behaviour and the emotional consequences of living our lives to please someone else. This year, I am choosing to be brave. I am choosing to be honest. I am choosing to protect myself and my husband. My behaviour does not need to be identical to everyone else because my situation is far from identical. I know this may not be understood by many; I also know that every Still Mother or Still Father who is reading this, understands far too well.
I hope you all have a gentle Father’s Day, however you choose to observe it, if you choose to observe it. I hope you get through a day full of emotional pitfalls. I hope your loved ones surround you with empathy and kindness. Know you are not experiencing this alone; I will be thinking of all Still Parents that day, I will be lighting a candle and holding space for all of you, in my heart.
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You speak so beautifully from your heart