Wednesday, November 21, 2012Tonight's picture was taken in November of 2002. Mattie was seven months old and that was his first Fall. This happens to be one of my favorite pictures. I loved that puppy dog hat on Mattie, and we both loved the beautiful oak tree in the background. That oak tree's leaves later served as the food for all of Mattie's tent moth caterpillars which we housed in containers and we released when they transformed into moths. Now when I see our oak tree turn colors in the Fall, it always reminds me of this picture taken the year Mattie was born.
Quote of the day: In time, in time they tell me, I'll not feel so bad. I don't want time to heal me. There's a reason I'm like this. I want time to set me ugly and knotted with loss of you, marking me. I won't smooth you away. I can't say goodbye. ~ China Miéville
Mieville's quote may sound very depressing or even disturbing, but to a mom who lost a child to cancer, there is great truth in what he is saying. I have mentioned it before on the blog, surviving the death of a child produces great guilt. It simply isn't natural or how life is expected to be. Yet this is what Peter and I are facing day after day without Mattie. I certainly know time doesn't heal all wounds, but I would say Mieville is correct, I don't want "time to heal me" either. Somehow healing me implies that I would be forgetting Mattie, which is disrespectful and only compounds the guilt. I am not sure what the answer is to finding a way back to the land of the living, I am still in search of these answers. Yet holiday times cause us to reflect on what is missing in our lives, which can lead to resentment, jealousy, and anger. Not the greatest emotions to be filled with on Thanksgiving.
Over the past several days I have had an email exchange with a mental health professional who attended the palliative care seminar Peter and I presented at last Friday. This woman wrote to me because she was touched by what we spoke about and also wanted me to know that it evoked many feelings for her, since her child is a cancer survivor. One of the things she spoke to me about is the love between a child and his/her parent. This of course is a special bond and therefore when your child dies, the grief is beyond overwhelming. In a way, she was saying that the death of a child is one of the hardest losses to live with. I remember hearing this while I was in graduate school, and naturally made a mental note of it, but never thought I would experience it first hand. It is a type of grief that is so intense at times that it can make you feel like you are going crazy, that no one else can possibly understand you, and the list goes on. Yet when I receive emails like the one today it does cause me to pause and acknowledge that others do get it or want to get it. At this same palliative care conference, I also connected with a dad who lost an only child to cancer. This dad basically told me that he was happy he met me because parents who lost an only child to cancer are rare. In many ways we instantly connected and understood each other because we both had raised a male only child. It is hard when your only child dies because your identity as a parent also dies. I am not suggesting that parents with multiple children have an easier time grieving over the loss of a child. In fact, I know several sad scenarios in which parents who lost a child to cancer could no longer parent their other children. But I am saying that losing an only child changes family dynamics and one's identity in a very profound way.
As tomorrow is Thanksgiving, I want to pause and thank our readers for your steadfast support, for checking in with us, and for your care and concern. For you we are very grateful!
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