Not knowing what to say

Sometimes, when I complain about the inane things that people say, I am met with the following comment: "I guess sometimes people just don't know what to say."

Yes, I understand this.

There are some people who are in the beginning stages, and some who aren't, that it's really hard to talk to. I have tried my best to word things in a way that won't offend them and yet I've still had entire blog entries devoted to me and how I didn't say the right thing to them. I brush it off. I was there once myself. The people who make the innocent remarks really are trying to help and it's not their fault that the person they're talking to just isn't in that place yet.

However, there are some people whose comments are so inappropriate that they are never going to be okay, no matter how thick skinned the person in grief is. Comments like, "Just think of all the money you'll save on diapers now" or "At least he was just a baby so it's not like you got to know him or get attached to him" or "Are you still not over it?" are never appropriate. These go beyond not knowing what to say and verge on maliciousness.

There are some people that deserve a pass. I give a pass to those who tell me that Toby is with God or that he's in a better place, even if I don't believe it. Hey, it's what they believe and good for them. I might question it, but I also understand that they're trying to show comfort in the best way they can. I generally just accept this from strangers, though. If you know me and you start giving me a big religious speech then that's another story.

There are others that should not get that pass, though. They don't deserve the "they didn't know what else to say" card.

There have been times in my life when I didn't know what to say. I had no idea what to say to my friends last month who lost not one but two children in a fire. No idea. I don't know what to say to my friend who's going through problems with city council members and zoning stuff. So you know what I say? Nothing. Or, I say that I am sorry.

Losing a child is not a fixable problem. Nothing you say can make it better for the parent. Nothing you will say will give them comfort. Instead, listen. We don't always have to add our two cents to every situation, just because we don't know what to say. Sometimes, the best things are the things left unsaid.

Thanks Guys

Sometimes, when I feel like this blog has done more damage than good, I’ll get an e-mail or a comment or something that will remind me that I’m not alone out there and that other people agree with me. It’s not that I always feel like I need validation, but a simple “you got it” helps me. It makes me feel less crazy.

Then, I think about the people who this blog has made angry and it’s really just a minority (that I know of). Half a dozen at most and they’re all connected with each other. Some had chips on their shoulders long before I started writing this and I think they’ve used this blog as fuel for their anger, rather than the reason for their anger.

As Pete said when his “friend” came to visit us, if you’re expecting to see something bad then you’re probably going to find it.

Not using names or anything defining, here are some of the things that people have written to me regarding various blog posts.

“I love what you wrote, I agree on all counts.”

“I cannot agree more, you are right on target with everything.”

“you just wrote everything I feel but basically did not know how to say them. I think you are incredible for being able to say or vent this.”

“you said everything I feel.”

“ I wish you all the best and offer my friendship. Hugs :) “

On days when I am feeling like the worst person in the world and thinking that I should just keep a diary or something I wll get something like one of those and feel like maybe I’m not crazy or awful. I really don’t think I’m helping anyone out there, but I sure do feel like people are helping me.

Thank you. 

Scratching My Head

August 1, 2011

There have been many things that have perplexed me since losing Toby but one of the most head scratching things has been the number of people who have come to me with THEIR problems and expected me to either be completely understanding or to, God bless them, actually help them. Now, I could almost understand this a few months after the death and I also understand that, as a friend, I should really be there for mine-but that’s not the way it happened. No, I had people doing this before the funeral even occurred. Bizarre.

I have a couple of theories on this. Maybe some people felt like I would be more understanding than most since I was going through something myself (never mind that it wasn’t even remotely similar). Or in some cases I think it might have been guilt. I know that sounds weird, but I recall that the night before the funeral someone wrote me an almost belligerent and forceful e-mail, telling me not to be angry that they couldn’t attend the funeral and then gave me a laundry list of reasons why. (Like I even cared at that point. Sorry, but I didn’t.) I had another friend who wrote me nearly every day after Toby’s death, badgering me about her problems at work, with her boss, with her family, etc. I don’t hear from her anymore. I guess I wasn’t helpful enough.

Now, it’s happening again. There’s a person whom I haven’t heard from in years who has recently started writing me again. They wrote (maybe) once after Toby died. I think. It wasn’t an actual e-mail, but just a post on my Facebook wall. Now, though, they are writing me on a daily basis, telling me all about their problems that they are currently going through. To be fair, it is a sticky situation but it’s very superficial to m e at this point and they’re badgering the hell out of me. And it’s one of those situations where they never ask how I am, how my family is doing, or even if the timing of the conversation is convenient. They just jump right in and start chatting and if I don’t reply within minutes then they start badgering me with other questions like “Is everything okay?”  No, it’s not!

I know I haven’t been a great friend this past year. I know this because a) I feel it and b) people have said as much. But I’m not even remotely ready to deal with playing psychologist to someone. Even if I hadn’t been dealing with everything that’s happened this year, I have a newborn in the house and the few minutes that I get to sit down at the computer should be dedicated to work so that I can pay bills. I am actually resenting the time that I am spending trying to “fix” someone else when they certainly weren’t there to hold MY hand through any tough times.

Anyway, I know that’s not a general rant and I’ve probably garnered myself another Facebook block, but really…Really?

Even Your Child Can Hurt Your Feelings

March 30, 2011

I’ve now spent about five days on bed rest and it’s really boring. We have a little sitting room in our bedroom with an entertainment center, love seat, and balcony and that’s nice because it means that I can lie on the sofa and don’t necessarily have to stay in bed all day, but it still stinks. What’s especially hard is that until Mom or Pete comes back Sam has to stay in there with me. Thankfully, he’s been sleeping late so when he wakes up I just turn on the cartoons for him or he stays there on the bed with me and draws. It has to be boring for him, too, though.

Tonight he got upset with me because I couldn’t go downstairs and play with him. I know that he was bored because Mom was busy packing, Pete was on the computer, and I was upstairs. I wish he had someone to play with. But when I told him that I couldn’t come he told me that I “needed to die.” It really hurt my feelings and made me cry. It made him cry, too, and he told me that he was joking but it still hurt.

He’s been asking a lot about Toby lately and last night we watched “One Born Every Minute” and he was riveted. He loves seeing the babies and he asked me a lot of questions about “Baby Sister” and her upcoming birth. We’ve actually not talked about her a lot with him in case something happens but the closer we get, the more we share with him. I think he’s starting to get excited, but I know it’s still difficult for him. To him, a baby represents death and there’s just no way to change it at this point. Once she gets here and he sees that she’s not going to die I think things will get better.

I mostly don’t talk about these things to people because it’s hard and they don’t know what to say. And then they do say things and it just comes out wrong or harsh. I was talking to one of my aunts the other day, for instance, and when she asked how I was doing I told her that we were just trying to stop the labor at this point. To this she replied, “Well, it was probably that trip to Myrtle Beach that made this happen.” Well, gee, thanks. (And it wasn’t.)

I don’t want to get angry at people for trying to be optimistic and trying to make me feel better, but there’s a line between being optimistic and dismissing valid concerns, too. We’re going to start steroid shots at 30 weeks to help develop the lungs and our best goal is to make it to 32 weeks. If we can make it that far then we have scheduled a C-section at 37 weeks. Even 32 weeks, though, is kind of risky. I have a friend who delivered at 32 weeks and her son is doing okay now but it was touchy there in the beginning. I have another whose son was born at 36 weeks like Toby and he spent a month in the NICU. (We were lucky with Toby in that regard.) But just because things were okay for one person doesn’t mean that they will be okay for another. I understand this. But telling a person that things will be “fine” is kind of like saying, “What are you worrying about?” Sometimes I want to retort something like, “Yeah, things should be fine. But you put your children in bed every night and they wake up the next morning, too.” Once something bad like this has happened, you kind of lose your innocence about such things and it’s hard to go back to that again.

I guess what it's hard to explain to other people is that while they have been concerned about their children and worried about them, we've actually had the worst thing that could happen, happen. Once that has occurred, it's very very difficult to go back to believing that nothing bad can happen again.  And no amount of pep talks, statistics, or optimism can change that. 

When they told me last week that Iris might be born that night and live as long as a couple of hours I wanted details. Would they let me hold her? Could I give her a bath? Would she suffer? I thought about my camera in my hospital bag and was glad that I had brought it because I wanted to take pictures of her. I know that it sounds morbid, but it was better for me to be prepared then to have it happen and not use or take for granted the little opportunity that I had with her.  Obviously, I was glad that things didn’t turn out that way, but having a plan made me feel better. I thought about songs I could sing to her, a story I could tell, and what I would say to her. I thought it might be easier to think about those things beforehand then to wait until she was there and I was emotionally distraught and didn’t know what to do.

Other people said, “Oh, things aren’t going to be that bad! Everything will turn out fine!” But they didn’t know that. I didn’t know that. But I would have given anything to have had some advanced warning with Toby so that I could have held him longer, talked to him, done things to comfort him. I didn’t want to have regrets like that a second time. They let Mom hold him before they took him to Frankfort for the autopsy and at that point I had already said goodbye to him. I didn’t know that I was even allowed to hold him or I would have. So I am asking more questions this time.

I’m considering writing a book about my experience with grief. Titles I have considered are “My Kid Died and I’m a Little Bitter”, “You Can’t Be Selfish in Grief” and “Losing a Child and Trying to Survive Other People.”

Scary Illness vs Grief

January 25, 2011

In the doctor’s office today, I was reading this advice column and a woman had written in about her friend who had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. She wanted to know what she could say to her friend in response. The reply was a very good one and started out by saying something like, “Well, here’s a few things that you SHOULDN’T say to your friend…” I thought they were good things to avoid in grief, too.

1.      1. “I’m sure it will be fine.” Really? And how do you know? While most people think this is positive affirmation, it’s actually a subtle way of diminishing the other person’s fears and worries, not to mention diminishing the gravity of the situation. While you don’t want to retort with a horrified, “Oh my God, you’re going to die!” you don’t want to brush it off, either. This attitude frustrated me while I was pregnant with Toby and frustrates me now. Whenever something would go wrong people would say, “Oh, that happened to me-you’ll be okay.” And I wasn’t.

“Let me tell you about my aunt/mother/friend/cousin/co-worker who had the same thing…” This sounds like a good idea because it means that you’re trying to relate. Your friend doesn’t want to hear about all those people, though. They want to talk about their situation. When you start talking about yourself, or someone else, you’re taking the focus off your friend and they are telling you for a reason. I had a friend who, granted, was still very very upset about the death of their father from a couple of years before but every time I tried to talk about Toby with her she changed the subject to talk about her own experience. That might be fine now, but a week or two after his death it wasn’t. I wanted to talk about Toby. Obviously, she wanted to talk about her dad. We weren’t on the same wavelength. 

3.     “I know how you feel.” No, you don’t. Unless you have been in the same situation, you have no idea. In fact, you probably can’t even accurately imagine it.

What the article suggested that you do was to tell your friend that the situation stinks, that you’ll be there for them through the treatment and recovery, and that you’ll be on hand for any crappy movies that they want to watch or available to bring them any junk food or ice cream that they can eat.

I think that would be the most awesome reply every, myself.  

Mourning, Questions, and Dealing with People

December 2, 2010

“Things people say” tend to be a popular topic when you’re talking to other people that are grieving. I, myself, have learned that there are few things that you can really say to a person in this situation to make them feel better so instead I have resorted to “I’m sorry.” Because I am. Also, sometimes the person doesn’t always WANT to feel better. They just want to talk.

I remember not long after Toby died when I was trying to sort out the “whys” and whatnot, a well-meaning friend (and they’re ALWAYS well-meaning, which is one of the things that makes it difficult) tried to give me some advice. I told them that I couldn’t figure out why I had dreamed about Toby before he was born and saw him as a toddler, when it was now obvious that he would never reach that age.

Wait, I should explain something…My dreams are often prophetic. I’m not saying that I am psychic or anything at all. But I put a lot of stock into my dreams. They usually tend to be literal, too. For example, we were traveling in the Czech Republic one Christmas and I had a horrible dream in which my boyfriend at the time got a shotgun for Christmas and then chased me through a field, trying to kill me. The next day, I called my best friend back in the US and before I could even tell her about the dream she goes, “You don’t think he would ever try to hurt you, do you? Because I don’t trust him.” That came out of thin air. A few minutes later, I called him and he had good news-he had received a shotgun for Christmas. It wasn’t that long after that we broke up so I’ll never know about the rest of the dream.

As a kid, I had a recurring dream about my cousin, Nick, moving to an apartment that had a cliff next to it. There was water at the bottom and kids would play on the side of the cliff. One day, a kid fell in and drowned. Nick lived in Oklahoma at the time. When I was 7, he moved back to Kentucky and lived with us for awhile. Then they found a place in Sandy Hook. Not long after, we went over to visit and sure enough, there was the cliff next to his apartment building, and there was the creek below it. A kid DID fall, but only broke some bones.

I had many Sam-oriented dreams before he was born. I knew exactly what he would look like as a toddler and often heard his voice. Things he said to me in my dreams are things that he says to me now.

So, I was confused about the Toby dreams. I was telling my friend about this, and in trying to be helpful, they absolutely freaked me out. They said that maybe God has wishes for everyone and what he WANTS to happen and that what I was seeing in my dreams were some of God’s wishes for Toby. So why did this freak me out? Because, to me, it meant that he didn’t have to die. That things COULD have turned out differently. If only I had gotten to him sooner, if only Pete hadn’t fallen asleep, if only he had been born earlier and not been premature…yeah, you see where this is going. I don’t know about other people, but one of the only ways that I have been able to get through this is by telling myself that it was destined to happen and that NOTHING I could have done would have prevented it. If there is a slight chance that things could have worked out differently, or that I could have done something to prevent it, then I really think that would drive me insane.

Plus, I don’t exactly follow Christian ideology and doctrines and while I respect Christianity and people that do follow it; I have never found a lot of Christian beliefs very soothing. In fact, a lot of them scare the hell out of me. (No pun intended.)

 I wonder if other people feel this way, but sometimes I feel very guarded and protected about Toby. Once he died, it felt like a lot of people became involved. I don’t mean “involved” in the sense that they helped us out. Great, I know people are going to take this the wrong way. I mean emotionally involved. Like, they’re grieving, too. With the people that met Toby, I can understand that. Even with those that met him briefly. And it IS kind of funny that the people that spent the most time with him, outside of me, Mom, Pete, Uncle Ray, and Aunt Fran, were the people at the writer’s retreat in Southern Ohio.

But sometimes it makes me angry at the people who weren’t that connected to him that take the grief on as their own and then get sympathy from their own families and friends regarding his death. Sometimes I want to say things like, you weren’t there during my pregnancy! You weren’t there for the birth! You never met him at all! Don’t even try to tell me that you are mourning him more than I am…

And I get that sometimes guilt and wondering what could have been are strong motivators for guilt. My 19 year old niece was killed in a car accident on her way to get chocolate chip cookies in 2004. This was around the same time that I stated getting stalked by the crazy-ass chick that still rears her ugly head up every once in awhile. So on top of Christina getting killed, I had to deal with that nonsense, too. Anyway, I have to say that I was not close to Christina. In fact, I only ever met her a couple of times. I am not close to my sister at all. I’ve only met HER a couple of times. And twice have been at funerals. In fact, sometimes I even confuse myself because I’ve always referred to Robbie as my sister and occasionally it does come as a shocker even to me that I DO have a “blood sister” and two nieces and a nephew that I never see. So when Christina died it was really sad that I never got to know her, spend any time with her, or be an “aunt.” Plus, it was incredibly sad to be at a funeral of a beautiful 19 year old. I still kind of mourn that loss and I never even had it to begin with. So I can understand mourning things that you weren’t necessarily close to.

I think maybe the anger that I feel is tied in with the fact that Pete and I weren’t allowed to feel any grief by a lot of people in the early days. I never imagined in my wildest dreams that people would NOT be supportive after the death of a child. You almost never hear about that. It did occur to me that people might try to blame us, or expect that we must have done something wrong, but I never thought that people would be out and out rude.

I felt like I had to be completely perfect all the time. If Pete’s dad said something cruel or did something to hurt us, then we were told, “He just lost his wife. You need to treat him better.” He got an excuse. But if I did something that made someone mad it was like, “There’s Rebecca, causing problems.” It didn’t make any sense.

Nobody heard us, and that was infuriating.

I was also thinking about something else recently, too. I know, all of this is probably going to sound really random…anyway…it strikes me that there seems to be a big difference in having another child after a miscarriage or stillbirth and having another child after the loss of a live birth. Mom said I should do a whole blog entry about that. Let’s see how long this thought gets, first…

I have a lot of friends who have had stillbirths and miscarriages and one of the popular things that they find people saying to them is, “Don’t worry, you can have another one!” Not only is this incredibly insensitive, but it might not even be true. Without getting into their medical history, you have no idea if they can have another one or not. Not to mention the fact that it minimizes their grief to something as trivial as replacing a tire or buying a new memory card for your camera after losing the old one.

Still, there is no stigma attached to getting pregnant after that. In fact, a lot of people are relieved when they hear that the couple are pregnant again and they sometimes get the “I’m so happy for you” comments.

On the other hand, if Pete and I talk about having another baby, I have found that we get a lot of “Are you sure you want to?” “Is that such a good idea?” “Really? I don’t know…” and Simon’s speech about how we should wait a year and devote our attention to Sam (as if we are currently avoiding him) like it was any of his business. People fear for our mental health, our emotional stability, my physical health, and from what I gather-their own nerves. So it’s kind of taboo to have a baby after the loss of your live birth, yet encouraged after a stillbirth or miscarriage.

Well, the physical health won’t get any better until I can have the hysterectomy and I’m afraid that until there is a cure for epilepsy I’m stuck with that. I’m probably always going to be a little crazy, too. I’m also practical, though. I don’t want a 5, 6, or 7 year age gap between my kids. I don’t want to raise 2 only children. And I don’t want Sam to be in school and then start all over from scratch. I want my kids to play together, I want to be young enough to be able to play with them, and I want to be able to enjoy my retirement while they’re off in college.

On a similar note, there is always the “at least you have Sam” comment that always gets me. I know I’ve said that before. Yes, I am very glad that I have Sam. And yes, if something happened to him that would probably be the end of me. But Sam does not replace Toby. A new baby would not replace Toby. And while I am grateful that I have one, that does little to ease the grief of losing another.

I could only imagine going to my friend Chasity, who lost her mother, or Emily, who lost her father, and saying something like, “Well, at least you still have one living parent!” That would be absurd.

I have heard the “at least you have one child” bit a lot. And it’s not true. I have two children. It’s just that one is not here. Very difficult question to answer, though. I had to go to the hospital the other day for the gallstones and they asked me how many children I had. I answered that I’d had two live births and one living child. That seemed to suffice, but it was hard to say.

"Call if You Need Anything" article

An excellent article taken from the Silent Grief Website. The link to the article is: http://www.silentgrief.com/articles/index.cgi?view_records=1&Category=For+Friends&ID=75


One of the most used phrases following the death of a child is, “Call if you need anything.” Friends mean well, but it is a most generic way of backing away from a difficult, uncomfortable situation. Very few parents who are grieving the loss of a child will ever call for anything, even though the needs are many. They simply don’t have the strength needed to make the call.

Instead of leaving an open-ended statement such as, “Call if you need anything”, there are very specific things a friend can do to help a grieving parent that will be appreciated more than words can tell. Most parents need someone willing to listen. There is a need for every parent to tell the story of the death of their child, but very few people are willing to listen because hearing about the child’s death makes them feel too uneasy. By lending a listening ear, you can greatly help in the healing process. Parents will want to tell the story of their child’s death over and over again!

“Call if you need anything.” A parent will not call because grief leaves a heart broken and depleted of any strength. Sometimes it’s all a parent can do to get up in the morning, let alone find the strength to call a friend asking for some help. Instead of waiting for a call, a friend should take it upon himself to go visit the bereaved parents and offer to accompany them to the grocery store, the bank, and even to church for the first few times following the death of their child.

Often a parent will feel totally lost from the grief, and it is difficult to think straight enough to buy food items that complete a meal. Banking becomes ever so difficult. When grief overpowers a parent, any kind of organizational skills become difficult, so a simple bank deposit becomes a very complex undertaking for the bereaved parent.

Going to church for the first time following the death of a child can be the loneliest feeling of all. The songs in church will easily bring on a stream of tears. Seeing the empty seat once occupied by the child can be devastating to the parents. There is a desire to go to church, but grief can bring on an almost paralyzing fear. How much easier the first few attempts at church will be when accompanied by a friend!

Instead of saying “Call me if you need anything”, offer to accompany the bereaved parents to the cemetery. The first few visits there will be extremely difficult, and parents often need someone to help them through this lonely time. You can offer to stay in the car while the parents have some alone time at the actual gravesite of their child. Just knowing you are close by will be a comfort.

Remember that grief does not end for the parents whose child has died. Over time, the grief will soften, but it will never totally go away. Parents need caring, non-judgmental help during this time of grief.

A supportive friend will do much more than say “Call me if you need anything.” A caring friend will truly be there to help with the everyday activities of life until the grief subsides enough that the parents can move forward with some normalcy in their living. Parents need continued help and support following the death of a child. Most always, the little things mean the most. Don’t just offer to help. Go a step beyond, and be there with listening ears and hands willing to help!

Another Late Night

October 14, 2010

I have also updated my Travels and Rambles blog. The most recent post regards my thoughts about writers. You can find the link to that blog on this page as well.

Someone asked Mom the other day if things were getting “better” at our house and she didn’t know how to answer that. Is it better that time has gone by? Are we eating better? Sleeping better? It’s almost like we have to re-learn how to communicate with people.

Like today, I posted on FB about how now at this point Toby has been dead longer than he was alive and someone wrote in and said “But your memories will last forever.” Like it was a Hallmark Greeting card or something. And I KNOW that shouldn’t make me upset and that the person was honestly just trying to be helpful, yet I felt my blood rise. Why?

Maybe because it was such a simple, meaningless thing to say. Some offhand comment that could be said about anything, even in jest. And maybe because memories do last forever-even the bad ones. I will never forget the look of him after he died, once lividity had set in. When his cheeks and tongue were blue and the blood was pooling in his arms, leaving white splotches on his elbows and fingers. Or how that little line of blood trickled out of his mouth from where they had put the tube in and no matter how I kept wiping it away, it kept coming back. Those memories won’t go away either.

I need space from people, but I need to see people, too. I have so much anxiety that it’s unbelievable. Last night I went to a reading by an author I liked and in the middle of it I had a panic attack. I had the attack because a woman who had been at the Grailville retreat, where we had Toby with us, was in the audience and didn’t recognize me. She had no idea who I was, even though I had invited HER to the event last night and I even reminded her that I had been the one at the retreat with the baby. Still, not a trace of recognition.

The attacks come on slowly and coldly. I don’t think I’m having a heart attack and I don’t feel the walls closing in on me. But I do feel coldness and deepness and everything seems so big. The room feels big, the chair feels big-even I feel big. Maybe that’s why I like spending so much time in our pool room, because even though it’s the biggest room in the house, my sitting area with the couch is small and there is only one tiny window at the back of the room so it’s usually pretty dark. I can hunker on the couch, wrapped in blankets, and feel small. I can’t take the bigness.

We have Court Day this weekend and I am concerned about it. I don’t like being so far away from home and I don’t know about the crowds. A friend has invited us over afterwards and I don’t think I’ll be able to go. I get restless when I’m away and I’m not sure that I can handle being away all day and then, when we’re finished, not going straight home. After the event last night I very much felt the distance from our house and it bothered me and practically ate at me until we were on HWY 52 again, heading toward Irvine.

But yes, communication. It’s so difficult. I got in the car with my friend Melissa one day and just burst into tears. She carried like it was normal and drove to a store and bought me an Ale-8. She didn’t ask me if I needed it or wanted it or even ask me what was wrong and that was very helpful. I’m not being facetious-it really was helpful. Other people address it and want to talk about it or touch me and that just brings more attention to it and it makes me embarrassed.

I think about going to counseling and it worries me that my options here are limited. Some of the counselors have simple Psychology degrees and that would be like going to…Lynn. Good God. Then there’s the fact that I know a lot of the Comp. Care counselors because I used to work with them when I was on the other side of the fence. I need a good psychiatrist, not a counselor, but I haven’t found one. I am still going to do the group thing. Pete and I are planning on going to the session in November, if we don’t back out of it.

I wonder about things like Facebook and MySpace and my blog and how easy communication is on these things. How easy it is to send a virtual hug or a quick message or a simple text and then feel as though you’ve accomplished something and “reached out” to someone. I know I’m guilty of doing that myself. I have a whole stack of “thank you” cards to mail and I haven’t sent a single one, yet I’ve messaged people on FB and thanked them.

I wonder if I shut down all of my online access and turned off my phone if people would still come around. How much of an effort would be made then. Probably not much. I remember after Nana died that we had company for the first couple of weeks and then it slowly died down until we were rarely seeing anyone at all. People move on with their lives and when you can’t keep up with them, they just move on without you. I saw that when I was pregnant, too.

I’m not feeling particularly sad tonight. I’m just thinking about things in different ways. I slept for most of the day today because I had a bad night last night and stayed up all night. I was thinking about Pete’s friend Tom who apparently got “so upset” at something that he wrote that he “had to go for a run.” Yet I got so upset about what he and his girlfriend were writing to me and Pete that I cut my wrists. Perspective. And giving people too much power when they really don’t mean a damn to me. And when his girlfriend wrote that I was a “piece of work” and “couldn’t even blame it on grief” I took that badly. Hell, who wouldn’t? But then, I stopped and realized (okay, so this was weeks later) that she had written that to someone who had just lost their child. What kind of person does THAT? And what could she blame her ignorant immaturity on? Perspective. When one of my friends suggested that we go over and kick some British ass I laughed and said that I had met those people before and wasn’t impressed and that we should use our money instead to go to Spain because I had been there too and that was really something to see. The more I thought about it, and the more I thought about them, the more I realized that it was just words. Meaningless words written on a computer screen. There was no thought behind them, no idea of the harm they might be causing, of the long term effects that might be hindering. Just words. From people that are about as real to me as a character in a novel. Actually, I’ve read novels where the characters had more personality and were more drawn out.

Pete’s sister asked Pete how he dealt with it when people told him that he needed to move on and get on with his life. I know how I would deal with it. I would tell them to fuck off. Of course, I would do it publicly, in my blog, and cause a lot of trouble in the process. But of course, I’ve written that before. Still, it was worth repeating. It’s just words. Nobody can make you move on, regroup, or feel anything that you don’t already want to do or feel. When we stop giving people the power over us to make us feel things or act in a certain way then we can really start the process of dealing with our grief. But we can’t do that as long as we keep letting other people influence us.

I have learned that when it comes to a lot of things that people are saying or doing, it’s about them and not about us. When people tell us to move on it’s because they feel uncomfortable with our situation. When people tell us where Toby is right now (in heaven, floating around as an angel, reincarnated, or still in the house) it’s because their own beliefs are comforting to them. And that’s fine.

But I think this is a personal matter and it’s about me, too. So maybe I can grow from this and hopefully not be as resentful as I have been in the past. The astrologer told me and Pete that we might be going to England after Christmas and Pete said, “I hope not” at the same time that I said “I don’t think so.” Sometimes, in order to move forward you have to disconnect from the ones that are bringing you negativity. That I learned even before Toby died.

Pizza Hut Outing

October 4, 2010

So the other night we went to Pizza Hut and were met with several of the clichés that I have mentioned before. It went like this.

We walk in and the waitress (Okay, everyone in Irvine knows us. First of all, there aren't many British guys that live here, there are none that look like Pete, and Sam alone stands out.) anyway, the waitress looked at me and patted her stomach with a questioning look. Great, I thought, she doesn't know. She then asked where the baby was. When I told her she looked shocked, which is a pretty normal reaction when you just blurt out that your child died, but then from one it went into one cliché after another.

First, there was the: "Well, you know what happened, right? God just needed another angel."

We let that one go.

Then, when we told her that Pete's mom had passed away two weeks later she said, "Well, it's because she needed to be there to take care of the baby."

Of course, this is the comment that made me hostile. I don't know why, but that comment works me up the most. Maybe it's because I hear it the most. We even heard it when Alison was alive. Sure, make Pete feel better by letting him think that someone else he loves is going to die. Or there is always the fact that my dead friends and relatives don't count. Anyway, I don't think it works that way.

With these helpful remarks out of the way, she started giving up helpful tips on how he could have survived SIDS. "Did you have a fan in the room?" "Did you use a pacifier?" etc. etc.

When she saw that she wasn't getting anywhere with that she started asking us if blood came out of his nose and mouth. We said no. (Actually, a little came out of his mouth but that was hours later and attributed to the tube that they had put down his throat.) When she found out that there hadn't been any blood she said, "Oh, then he didn't suffocate."

People might find this hard to believe, but we actually followed all of the rules. No soft blankets in the crib with him, no bumper pad, a fan going, well ventilated room, slept with a pacifier…I think people want to believe that we must have done something wrong because they just can't fathom the fact that a baby can die even if you are doing all the right things.

Oh well.

The first night that Sam and Mom went to Pizza Hut Sam looked at the waiter and proclaimed, "My baby brother died." What else is there to say?