I often struggle to describe what I am thinking and feeling. There are so many contradicting layers and conflicting emotions occupying the same space in my mind. It is difficult even for me to understand how I feel, or to make sense of why I feel the way I do. It's no wonder I am constantly afraid of being misinterpreted.
Luck is one of the things that leaves me so conflicted, and one of the feelings that seems so impossible to accurately describe and easy for people to misunderstand. It seems backwards to say I feel lucky about anything right now. Lucky would be bringing a baby home from the hospital. Lucky would be hearing him laugh for the first time. Lucky would be not having to avoid the baby shower at work next month on the day he would turn four months old, or dreading his five month birthday, which also happens to be Mother's Day this year. And, yes, in those moments and so many others, I feel distinctly unlucky.
But Marc and I have also come to realize the many ways it could have been worse. We've heard many tragic stories from other grieving parents that have made us so grateful for what we had with Reed. We were lucky to have four wonderful days with him, instead of none. We were lucky to have such compassionate, understanding nurses, who helped us make the most of our time. We were lucky we got to hold him, kiss him, and fall asleep listening to his sweet little baby sounds. We are lucky to have so many photos to look back on. We are lucky to be surrounded by supportive friends. We are lucky to have each other as anchors when the storm gets really rough. Mostly, though, we are lucky to be his parents.
That doesn't quite make sense, I know. How can I feel so lucky to call this boy my son, instead of one who lived? And yet...there it is. Perhaps it is this, the "wondrous curiosity of being a young mother" that Simone de Beauvoir wrote about. This feeling of pure joy and pride and admiration over him. In this way, I am like any normal mother. I look at my son and truly see nothing but perfection. I believe he is the most beautiful boy ever born and that he is uniquely special. Put simply, I just feel so incredibly lucky to be his mother. I wish he was here, in my arms. But I'd rather be his mother, this way, than to have any other little boy call me mama.
When I think about Reed, there are so many things to be proud of. The stubborn bravery that allowed him to fight long enough for us to meet him and take care of him. The profound lessons he has taught us. How unbelievably cute he was (as my four year old niece says when you call her cute, "But I'm not as cute as Baby Reed!).
What most people forget about grieving parents is that we are just parents. Marc and I are brand new parents. We are every bit as proud and enamored of our first son as any other brand new parent would be. The difference is...we don't get to share it the same way. When we talk about him, or lovingly show off his picture, people freeze. They feel uncomfortable. They pity us. They don't understand how much stronger the love and joy and pride often is than the sadness. I didn't, either, when I stood on the other side of grief. Back when I was a spectator, rather than a starting player.
I know I worry too much about what other people think. I worry they look at Reed and see a sick little boy, instead of the beautiful, perfect, brave person I see. I worry they think I didn't love him as deeply as a mother who gets to watch her son grow up. I worry they may see me smile and think I have moved on (impossible, for the record). I worry I will wake up one morning and realize I have slowly transformed back into the person I was before, unchanged by what happened. Part of learning to live in this new reality is understanding these fears are probably ridiculous, but fearing them anyway. So when I catch myself worrying about being misinterpreted or misunderstood, I try to remember the most important lesson Reed taught me: worry less.
One of the many aspects of my life I cannot fully capture is the importance of this sentiment, or the suddenness with which it overtook me once Reed was born. I spent so much of the last few weeks of my pregnancy terrified. I worried about a million things that might happen or change once the baby was born. Then...he was here, and there was suddenly so much to worry about, and yet...I didn't. I realized how pointless all that worrying had been, how short our time with Reed would be, how important it was to just sit in the moment and simply soak in the joy and happiness he brought us. I was shocked at how easy it was not to worry, and so incredibly grateful that my son had managed to teach me this lesson - exactly the one I needed - within hours of his birth. Now, when I catch my worries mounting, I think of him. I acknowledge my fears, and I try to let them go. Sometimes I am able to. Other times...I'm not. But I'm trying, because that's one of the things he taught me to do.
And I am so lucky he did.
Beautiful. Brave. Amazing.