I saw this and thought of the families I met in the pregnancy loss group. Of the issues that they shared that I had never thought of before--like how regularly this occurs; how there are charities that take pictures for the family; how important it is to be given some kind of legal recognition of the occurrence, like a death certificate. But mostly of the trauma and the grief. Made worse by so many other people's inability to acknowledge that sometimes women lose their babies and it's no one's fault, it's just unfair, and the grief is intense.
I know that my loss is different. The multiple early losses; the way it resembles the grief of infertility but not quite; the way it resonates with others who hear "there's no heartbeat," but not quite. Recurrent miscarriage is its own unique type of loss. I'm grateful to have met other grieving parents who've shared their losses with me; I think of them when I feel the sharp pain of seeing a very pregnant woman or a baby or when I hear of other people expressing the hubris of being able to plan out their lives and trust that plan will happen. I think of them because I feel so much compassion for them, and I know they'd understand why it hurts for me; and then I feel less alone. Grieving, but not alone in the grief. I draw on the memory of feeling understood and being allowed to be antisocial, resentful, angry, miserable at the sight of something that brings others happiness.
Speaking of which. Father's Day sucked. Really, does everyone have to post pictures of their "wonderful" dads on instagram and Facebook? Every single person? The childhood, old scanned-in photos are the ones that hurt the most. I have an idea: how about I send a picture of me and MFP on Valentine's day to every single one of my single friends! "I'm celebrating how lucky I am today! What a great Valentine's Day this is for me!" Yes, I am angry and resentful about this too. I know people with shit childhoods. Abusive fathers, abandoning fathers, alcoholic fathers, people who spent time in foster care. Yet, many of these people have found renewed meaning in "Father's Day" because of their own children. MFP teared up yesterday remembering that he had really hoped this would have been his first Father's Day. Either with a six-month-old or a baby about to be born. How desperately I wanted that too. What an absolutely, banner award winning, completely and utterly fantastic father MFP would have been. He's so kind, caring, empathetic, supportive, giving, nurturing, solicitous, thoughtful, funny, playful, smart, self-examining; all while being careful not to be intrusive or self-denying. Amazing. I get to benefit from that love now, and so does our dog. I remember the first OB visit from pregnancy #1. The nurse asked us all kinds of questions and gave us some now totally useless packet about health in pregnancy. She called MFP "Dad" when asking family history questions. At first we were confused--our dads aren't here. Then we realized "Dad" was MFP and we were thrilled. We loved the sound of it. That was MFP's one and only moment of being "Dad." And you know what? Despite knowing about the loss that would come an hour later, and then six months later again, that moment was fucking amazing. For a moment, MFP was a "Dad." I was caring for a baby I loved absolutely and utterly. I was sacrificing for it--puking and avoiding soft cheeses. MFP was researching the foods richest in vitamins to cook for us--he was being a "dad" then too.
And it's gone. And I have no pictures. And even I would scoff to claim that he was a "father," that I was a "mother." Not like a stillbirth parent. We didn't even ever make it past twelve weeks of pregnancy. I have a loss that was not a loss. Two of them. I think about the pain of women I know who suffer in fertility. How that too, is a loss that is not a loss. A terrible loss. The same and different, like many griefs.
I've written about my mother here, but that's just because that's easier than writing about my father, who is the primary cause of much of the inability of my mother and I to have a relationship. He is both dead--making Father's Day suck twice--and he was not at all worth honoring--thrice suckage. Unlike some fathers, he made a mockery of fatherhood: playing the role of the good father, yet only to inflict terror and tyranny. I married a man who is absolutely and utterly unlike him in every way; unlike in every way my mother too. I myself have struggled hard for years to be very much unlike either of them. That means splashing in the pool yesterday, swaying with MFP to "At Last" on the Dinah Washington Pandora station. A life of love, safety, and as much joy and peace as we can muster. My father was blessed with many living children, a blessing he abused and squandered. MFP has loved two children he never got to carry or see, snuffed before they were even more than zygotes. And that makes him a better father than many. Yet I had nothing to celebrate Sunday, only encomiums to block out.
I am adamant that we should do away with Mother's Day and Father's Day and all the pain they cause to benefit the greeting card companies that invented them. Instead, or at least in addition, we should have Children's Day. Everyone was once a child worth celebrating. Honor the children, not thy parents. Honor the vulnerable, not the powerful. Thank the children for trusting us, don't thank us for bringing them into the world when they had no choice in the matter. Even if our childhoods were shitty, we deserve a day to honor the innocent, vulnerable part of ourselves that was once a child, and still deserves to experience carefree joy and the feeling of safety. To play. And honor the children of today by being kind to them, being patient, listening to them.
Last bit: I came across this yesterday from Anne Bradstreet, a seventeenth-century Puritan poet, and it comforted me so much. Especially after reading Hilary Mantel on Thomas Cromwell and Henry VIII, and how brutally he tossed off his wives in part for having suffered multiple miscarriages and stillbirths and infant deaths (why in the HELL did I do that; there should be a surgeon general's warning on those books). Here was a woman living in the following century who reflects, later in life, after all eight (!) of her children reached adulthood, how painful were the five years spent trying to become a mother:
It pleased God to keep me a long time without a child, which was a great grief to me and cost me many prayers and tears before I obtained one, and after him gave me many more of whom I now take care."A long time without a child"... "A great grief to me and cost me many prayers and tears before I obtained one." And this, a grandmother looking back on her life, remembering that suffering. A lot more was riding on her having a kid than me, but still. It's comforting to know my grief is neither new nor unique, yet also very real.
No comments:
Post a Comment