The holiday momentum started in mid October. I could feel it coming on. I fantasize about all of the things Jasper may have dressed up as for Halloween, the foods he would have liked or disliked at Thanksgiving and the gifts we would have carefully picked for him for Christmas. The feeling is not joyous and happy. It’s bitter, cold and downright angry. I resent seeing happy families, all together, smiling. I resented the Halloween costumes, and the trick-or-treating pictures. I resented the irritating hand-print turkeys. I resented the pictures of all of their cute little living children with Santa. I resented the “Merry Christmas!!” text messages.
I wanted to close my eyes and not open them up until all of the holiday irritation has ended. Then I remember what that would mean: January. The New Year.
People consider a new year to be full of hope and adventure; a fresh palette and canvas with which we can paint whatever we wish. There are so many opportunities; so many more chances to take. Things can be better than last year. A rich, new, exciting array of opportunity awaits us.
That is not what January or a new year mean to me. It means going through everything all over again; over and over and over again. It means that the clock keeps rolling. Someone, in spite of me, continues to rip the pages off of the calendar. Time keeps coming. It means that I have another year to face without my son.
This is our 4th New Year without Jasper. The outsiders may think that each year has brought me experience and strength. Certainly, I should be feeling much better now. I am a loss mom pro now, right? The sting is not so bad anymore, right? It’s safe to talk to me now, right? I’m normal again, right?
Nope.
On the outside, you may no longer see my tears. That’s because I’ve simply run out. It might look like I can smile again. That’s because I’ve made this mask that fits my miserable face so perfectly that you would never know unless I showed you. Perhaps I have forgotten about my baby? No. That could never happen. It is impossible.
As that unforgiving clock keeps turning, many people are made to feel rushed in their grief, sometimes by their own selves. I know that I have had my own struggles with progress and how I should be feeling at times. I sometimes let my mind wander to years or decades ahead and wonder if I’ll still feel this gaping hole in my chest. I wonder if I’ll still feel like I would like to fall asleep and never wake up. I wonder if I will ever feel like my old self again.
Sometimes, the outsiders may rush the grieving as well. It is not easy to witness grief from the outside, to be fair. It can be quite agonizing to see someone hurting so much and not be able to help them. We always want to help people fix things and make everything better. Then, there are the people that really can’t relate to the grief at all and do not give it any value. (If you are one of those people, and you are reading this, slap —nay, punch— yourself right in the face.)
Ok, so maybe that was sort of bleak and a bit doom and gloom. I can only speak honestly and from my own experience. That said, I want to make 2017 a little different for myself. Normal people like resolutions, right? I’ll give that a shot.
In 2017, I am going to look out for myself. I am going to give myself a break. I will speak about my son whenever and with whom I like. I will not protect everyone else’s feelings or comfort. I will give myself the same slack and support that I have provided many other loss mothers over the last couple years. I will continue to learn as much as I can and raise awareness about stillbirth, pregnancy and infant loss. I will continue to advocate and work with bereaved parents. That is Jasper’s legacy.
Fellow loss parents, be kind and gentle to yourself this new year. You are not crazy. You are not doing it wrong. You are not alone. I’m Jasper’s mom. Trust me. I get you. We’ll get through this together, one day at a time.
They knew they wanted more children and have since suffered many early miscarriages during the process of multiple IVF and IUI cycles which have left them with broken hearts.Feeling defeated and alone, the bereaved parents moved to Connecticut in search of a much needed new start.
Amber was inspired to work towards becoming a therapist during her process of trying to find support after her loss. She is currently a freelance graphic designer, artist and marriage and family therapy graduate student. She takes comfort in the idea that their son was a driving force for her to help other people through a time that she and her husband felt so alone.
- On Being Too Sad To Support Me In Celebrating My Son. - April 9, 2018
- Therapeutic Endeavors III: The Letter - January 26, 2018
- Therapeutic Endeavors Part II - January 24, 2018
Thank you Mama. You took the words right out of my mouth. The “mask” resonates most with me because that’s what I have learned to do. We lost our Grayson at 26 weeks gestation due to a uterine rupture in September 2013. Thanks for the “New Years Resolution” which encourages me to speak about my son and how I miss and love him unapologetically, regardless of how it makes someone else feel.
It’s always nice to hear from a still loss mom who gets what I’m going through at that moment and know that I’m not alone.