Our conversation around the table today is about the others: the online landscape populated with resources and refuges each of us have sought in our journey as bereaved parents. Some of these communications have been silent, others vocal and elaborate. But each space, each strand of communication, has had its own value.
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Over the next few weeks leading up to Glow’s 8th anniversary, we will be hosting a series of conversations here at the kitchen table. Each week we will reflect on a different aspect of this community: How did we get here? What else is out there that gives us support? What is it about Glow that fills a particular need in our lives? What is it like to write for Glow? What do we hope for Glow's future, and what do readers hope for?
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My eyes are still brown, deep-set like my grandmother’s, and I still have her upper lip, and chin. I never grew more than the five feet I reached in high school. I still prefer to dress in solid colors. Long pants almost year-round, since I still don’t like to shave my legs. I wear sensible shoes, brown or black. I’ve worn the same coat through more than a dozen winters now. So I wouldn’t blame anyone for thinking, from afar, that I am the same girl.
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I dreamed of houses. Houses we forgot we owned so the grass grew up tall, turned prickly and brown. Abandoned houses. Rundown, peeling paint, walls that fell away at a light touch. But wandering through those dream-rooms, some conscious neuron fired, and the realization slowly bloomed: Wait, we already have a house, a cozy life. How did we get here? What now?
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Under the table, I put one hand protectively over my own little seahorse swimming secretly in my womb. 'Humans are different,' I try to comfort them. 'Mammals take care of their babies. We don’t have as many, so we raise them as carefully as we can.'
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I held, not for the first or last time, this paradox of belief and disbelief. I believed that our friend had an experience with our son’s spirit. And I didn’t believe it could happened at all. But this is the way I want it. I am selfish. I want to hold both possibilities together as true.
Read MoreBereaved parents of lost babies and potential of all kinds: come here to share the technicolour, the vividness, the despair, the heart-broken-open, the compassion, and the other side of getting through this mess called grief.
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Parents of lost babies and potential of all kinds: come here to share the technicolour, the vividness, the despair, the heart-broken-open, the compassion we learn for others, having been through this mess — and see it reflected back at you, acknowledged and understood.
Thanks to photographer Xin Li and to artist Stephanie Sicore for their respective illustrations and photos.
: for one and all
: ttc | pregnancy | birth after loss
: not ttc | infertility after loss
: parenting after loss
: on the bookshelf
: how to stop lactation when there is no baby
: how to help a friend through babyloss
: how to plan a baby's funeral
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