Labor

 


When women labor in birth, they sometimes become overwhelmed and say, "I don't want to do this any more." as if there is some choice in the matter. 

I never got to that place as I labored to birth my babies, but I find myself there now as I labor in his death. Fruitlessly I say, "I don't want to do this any more."

I don't want to dissolve into tears at my husband's loving and concerned expression.

I don't want to close my eyes for sleep and be flooded with the image of his cold, pale face in death.

I don't want to spin through the thousand things I might have done if only I'd known.

I don't want every announcement of 988 to echo with "too late, too late, too late."

I don't want my stomach to twist with the literally gut-wrenching pain of losing him. 

I don't want to wonder if January will forever be a desperate stretch between the holidays he isn't here for and the anniversary of his death in February.

I don't want my hold on normal life to diminish day by day, the loss drawing closer and closer to the surface until I finally give in and dive deep into the pain. Until I put pen to paper, tears falling on the page, pausing to rock and keen until I can come back tot he words, and eventually to the world. 

Birthing labor comes to and end, and most of the time there is a baby to celebrate. Family gathers. The joyful (and painful) work of parenting begins.

Does the labor of death come to an end? Does it leave something beautiful and rich when it goes? Time will tell. For now I know this much: I am forever changed, by his birth, by his life, and by his death. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

48 hours

48 hours ago I did not know that my son was lying cold in his bed. I did not yet know the gut-wrenching pain that restricts my chest, twists my insides and empties my bowels.  2 days ago I did not yet know that his pain had exceeded his tolerance or that he wasn't in pain any more.  The day before yesterday, I knew whether I wanted a cup of tea and what I would do tomorrow. I took pork out of the freezer for dinner and I knew what would become of the stack of frozen pizzas sitting next to it. Today I suspect that neither the pork nor the pizzas will ever be eaten by anyone. In the life before, time passed in a predictable way. Hours felt like hours and a day lasted 24. Now a minute can last for eons, an hour disappears like fairy dust and the day after tomorrow is an unimaginable mystery too distant to touch.  Tuesday I only knew his sweet face that so easily broke into the most infectious smile I've ever known. I hadn't yet seen it contorted in death. I only remembered t...
Read more

What's Next?

 For 18 years I've been thinking about what's next for this beautiful, challenging child. The next milestone, the next need, my next mothering task. The next ultrasound The next bottle His next nap A new toy A speech therapist The next exercise A more challenging puzzle His next birthday party Longer pants - again so soon The next Calvin and Hobbes to keep him reading Set up the sensory gym to keep him moving The next playdate  Prepare myself for the next tantrum Sign up for clay camp Find him a school Therapy exercises Foster a dog Gluten free baking Outdoor Adventures His next computer A new phone His driver permit, and practice times Look at colleges Make pancakes tomorrow Call 911 Answer the questions and questions and questions Call his dad, his sister, his grandma with the worst news of their lives. Choose a funeral home Wait for the coroner to call Take him an outfit Say a final goodbye Set a date for the service Plane tickets Rental car Fly Hug my daughter Ask for help...
Read more

About

I’ve been working for days on a website about my son, who chose to end his life last week. It feels like days. Grief time. It might actually be true that that site originated less than 24 hours ago. Either way, that’s the place I will share my memories of Ryan, celebrate his life, extoll his vibrant smile.  This space is for something different. This space is about grief, and about me, and about how I walk this journey that far too many have walked before me. A journey that is very much like all the others and also entirely unique to me.  I'm writing as a way to move through grief, not to the other side, but to the next part. It's a way to know what I'm thinking, to release what isn't useful, to remember what is precious. I'm sharing because it feels less alone, less pointless. I tell myself that maybe there is something in grief and the way I find to move through grief that might be helpful to someone else.  It's a story that is itself helpful to me.   I expect...
Read more