My Empty Space

I see you running through the corridors of my mind. Quick flashes of a dark pigtail turning the corner, a swish of a green dress, an infectious giggle that echoes and fades into the emptiness before it registers. You're both there and not there. I've learned the hard way not to chase you. You're too fast, unencumbered by body. I can't keep up and I often just end up missing you more. My darling girl who only grows inside my mind, I can merely imagine who you would be. A spunky toddler quick on her feet with a wide, toothy smile and hair as sleek as a raven's wing. I try to imagine more, but every missing piece serves only to slice my heart. I want to give you a life full of detail, but I can't. You are a ghost running through the abandoned places of my mind. You are my empty space.
Loving you is like trying to hold smoke. I feel your heat in the absence of fire. You fill my lungs. And I am sometimes so filled with you, I can't breathe. My hands are rough and gritty from soot, but you are not here. Only remnants of you. Only flashes of what should have been - flickering through my thoughts like a broken filmstrip. I hear you whisper my name and I lean in, searching my brain for traces of you. For your entire life, we shared the same space in the universe, and sometimes my heart forgets to beat without you. And in that skip, that jump of irregularity, I feel you. That is your home - that pause between beats - miniscule and infinite at the same time. That gap where you grow up in flickers and flashes. You are my empty space.
You are the hesitation between the question "Is she your first?" and my response. You are my moment of readjustment when I see two sisters walking together, the brief shimmering of a tear I don't let go. You are the seconds of darkness before I fall asleep and the fuzzy grayness of the world as I am waking up. You are the rise between inhale and exhale, and the dip between the reverse. You are the moments before the moments. Always and forever. You are my empty space.

St Augustine

Our nation's oldest city holds a special place in my heart.  When Mike and I first started dating, we visited often.   He loves the history.    I love Luli's Cupcakes...and sure, the history too.  We got engaged in St Augustine.  On top of the lighthouse at moonrise on the Winter Solstice, thankyouverymuch.   We took our engagement photos around the city.   We got married in a garden across the street from the Oldest House.   It's come to be a city that represents who we are as a couple.   

With Mike working nights lately and Piper taking up a great deal of our free time, there hasn't been a lot of time for Us.   Because of this, and unbeknownst to the other, both of us planned a trip to St. Augustine.  I gave Mike a night in the Bed and Breakfast we stayed in when we got engaged for Father's Day, and he gave me a weekend there during the 450th Birthday Celebration in September for our anniversary.   Both of us recognized we needed some couple time and both of us had a similar solution.   I think that's kind of hilarious.  

I tried to make it a surprise.   So he wouldn't make any plans, he knew we were going somewhere, but not the exact location.  I arranged for my mom to come that afternoon to watch Piper for the night, stashed an overnight bag in the car, and headed out when he was up for the day.  Of course, as soon as I veered onto 95 North, he knew exactly where we were going.   

My trip for Mike was as close as I could get it to the trip we took when he proposed.  I stayed in the same Bed and Breakfast and we went to the Floridian for dinner.  Granted, we always go to the Floridian, but whatever...it's delicious!   I wanted to try to book a trip to the Lighthouse, but it so happened they didn't have any night time events going on and MIke only really has about 1 1/2 days off because of how night shift is scheduled.  I also wanted to keep our options open because his schedule doesn't always allow him to be home right after his shift and I wasn't sure how much sleep he would have received that day.    

That night, after a delicious dinner of shrimp and grits for me and steak and potatoes for Mike, we walked through the cobblestoned streets, holding hands and people watching.  The summer air was thick and heavy with warmth, and the walking ghost tours were just gearing up for the night.   We had no plans and nowhere to be.   It was then that I realized just why I needed to come back to this city.  Why I needed to plan a trip here as opposed to date night anywhere else.  

St. Augustine represents who we were.  Before life turned cruel.  Before we knew what was in store for us.   When I think of St. Augustine, I think of the carefree couple getting engaged on top of a lighthouse, bundled up in warm coats for the Winter Solstice.   I think of the soft, green shirt I wore for our engagement shoots.  The "Save the Date" sign I made. The cannon we sat on.  The smiles we gave each other.   I think of our wedding day.  Seeing his face as I turned the corner of the garden to walk down the aisle.  Binding our hands with ribbons.  Dancing the night away with my friends, my family, and my love.   I think of the me I used to be...the "we" we used to be.   I miss her.  I miss them.   

Everyone's life changes.   Everyone goes through stages where parts of their own life seem like another timeline completely.   Everyone used to be someone they might never be again.   But, I think there is something in child loss that makes that line more pronounced, more definite, and more severe. Mike and I have talked often about how different we are than we were.   We are lucky we haven't let those changes divide us.   

As I walked through the night with my husband, I told him I knew we would never be those people again.  We are so far removed from them, they often seem like strangers.  But, every so often, we can visit them.  We can remind ourselves of a different time, when our hearts were whole and our hopes intact.   That is what St. Augustine is to me.   It is a reminder of the light and innocence I used to know, of days before heartbreak.   I think everyone needs a place like that.  A place where you can go to feel a little like who you used to be.   A place that makes you think of joy and love and happiness, untarnished by life's experiences.   

No matter where life takes us, we will always find our way back to the Ancient City.   To remember what it felt like to not be so heavy.    To reconnect as a couple in love, and to remind ourselves that we are more than a parent, more than a bereaved parent, more than a griever and a diaper changer and a trash taker-outer.  (That's a word, I swear)   We are so much more than life has pigeon-holed us to be.  All of us are.  

Sometimes, I just need to go back and remember the person I used to be.  To say hello.  To tell her I miss her.   To let her know I'm still doing the best I can.

The city of St. Augustine is full of ghosts, including mine.   

What Do I Say?

You may or may not have seen this article circling through your newsfeed. I shared it. Many of my loss friends shared it. It actually came to my attention because someone thought of me and tagged me in the link, which I think is great because it means people are paying attention to what I am saying and how important talking about our children is to Mothers of Loss.

In case you don't have time to read the entire article, it is basically a Loss Mom's letter to another woman who sat in awkward silence after asking about her children and learning her first born son had died. The mom said she didn't really care that she made the woman uncomfortable because she's not about to deny the existence of her child. I am right there with her, although I do hate the sad eyes and downward glances. I think, as a society, we push all pain out of the public eye. I think a big part of why baby loss is so taboo is because people are just so uncomfortable with death and grief in general. Add to that the loss of a human that had yet to begun to live, and we're talking serious silences and seat squirming.

I'm one of those people that when one of my statuses is shared, I like to click over and see what was said about it. When one person shared it, one of their friends commented that they really don't know what to say. A similar situation had happened to them and they weren't really sure what to do. That's perfectly understandable and quite admirable to admit and want help with. I imagine a lot of people outside the loss community might feel the same way.

So, here's a typical scenerio and how you might respond:
You: Is she your oldest/ only child?
Her: No. She has an older sister who was stillborn.
You: I am so sorry for your loss. (smile, while asking...) What was her name?
Her:  Her name was ________
You:  That's a beautiful name.  Optional: If you'd like to tell me about her, I'd love to listen.

That's it. That's all you have to do. She's already brought up her child. She is already letting you know she is comfortable talking about her...or at least that she wants to. She wants you to know that the child you see isn't the only child she has. Asking the name lets her know you acknowledge her baby as important and loved. Most likely, she will glow in telling you the name. She might get misty eyed, but you didn't make her sad. Bringing up her loss didn't make her sad. Living in a world without her child makes her sad, but she's not on the edge of sadness all the time. She finds joy in her life, she does. Losing her child broke her heart, but it didn't break her.

When you talk to her, don't think how horrible everything must be for her. She can see that in your eyes. She can tell that you are feeling sorry for her. Don't. She doesn't want your sympathy. You don't have to comfort or console her. She probably already has a grief counselor. She just wants someone else in this world to know her child existed. You might think it's morbid to be discussing her dead child with her, but she doesn't. She's happy someone is willing to listen. To her, there is no difference between her children other than the fact she can hold one and not the other.
Most likely, she will steer the conversation into what she's comfortable with. She might volunteer what happened to her child and she might not. If she doesn't though, don't ask. Other than that, talk to her like you would any other mother talking about her children.

I think a lot of people might get uncomfortable in this situation because they think the conversation is going to be all about death. Honestly, we don't really want to hash out all the details of our child's death with a stranger. We don't want to tell you our hospital horror story. We don't want to relive those terrible moments with you. We just want to include all of our children in a conversation when someone asks. That's it.

Be honored she is willing to share her child with you. She fully understands how you might react, and she is still willing to put herself in a vulnerable situation with a complete stranger. That is how much she loves her child. That is how important talking about her baby is to her. She's not concerned with your uncomfortableness because you were the one who asked. She didn't come racing up to you to say, "hey...guess what....my child died."

If you're friendly enough to bring up a woman's children in casual conversation, then you have enough people skills to handle this. You do. One out of four women experience the loss of a child either in pregnancy or in early infancy. One in four. The baby loss community is getting stronger and more outspoken. More and more women are feeling comfortable talking publicly about their loss and their children. There is a good chance your casual conversation may take this turn.

Don't panic.
Don't feel sorry for her.
Don't change the subject or try to end the conversation

Just talk to her. Listen to what she has to say. You'd do it for any other mom on the playground. Do it for her too.