Living on a different planet

Someone once told me about an article written about how a mother who loses a child through death lives on a different planet from that point on. Everyone lives on the planet you used to, and you can visit them - but they can't visit you (basically how I took it is not fully understand you) unless they have moved to that planet as well. I kind of liked that idea. And it can be put to any other world shattering situation as well. I don't particularly know why, but I felt like I wanted to let you all know what it feels like to live on that planet.

After nearly 8 years of missing my son, I've come to the conclusion that the pain will always be there. I've just gotten better at hiding it. I may have said that before - it's a good way to explain it. Another good way I've found to try and describe it is like having a scab. There has never really been enough time (maybe there never will be) for the scab to actually heal. Because either I pick at it (particularly around this time of year) or other times other people rip it off, and the pain is roaring at me again. At times when I'm feeling more emotionally stable, the pain is more bitter-sweet than crippling, but it ranges basically one way or the other depending on what I'm already going through in my life at the time.

The simplest things can rip the scab off. Someone asking me how many kids I have. I really really hate that question. I've resorted to different ways of answering depending on the situation. If I never expect to see the person again, I say two without reservation. If I've felt a small connection to them, I'll test them (horrible, I know) and say three. If they say "oh, what are their ages?" I'll answer. Most often from there, the conversation moves and they never have to think about how many I have again. Sometimes instead of saying "three" I'll say, "I've had three." Most often people won't pick up on the strangeness of that sentence. But if they do, I know from there that maybe I could have a close relationship to them. Sometimes when the ages are asked, I say "the oldest is # and the youngest is #" and leave it at that. Truthfully, it depends on how I feel about the person upon meeting them, the circumstances along when I met them, and how I'm feeling at the time. How much pain arrives when the scab is ripped off - bitter-sweet or crippling.

Examples:

Once at the dentist I had to bring my kids with me. I sat down in the chair as the kids stayed in the lobby and played with legos. The nurse brought them up.

"I didn't know you had kids."

"Yeah," I responded, "I've had three." I hadn't felt much pain at the topic and I responded that way without really thinking. But from that one sentence, I felt the dentist seem to tense up.

The nurse laughed, and before her brain turned on, she said, "Oh? Did you lose one?" (thinking, I'm assuming, that I left him in the car or some other such thing.)

"Yeah," I said.

The tension spiked. The dentist seemed to sit more ridged than normal. She paused. "No, really?"

"Yeah."

I'm sure she felt bad, I'm sure that she berated herself for joking about such a thing, but before I had a chance to lighten the mood, the dentist forced my mouth open and the tension hung in the air (both of them more silent than normal) for the rest of the appointment.

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Another time in a carpool, the subject of kids came up. I was comfortable with the couple in there with me and I said I had three kids.

The mom said, "I hope the transition to having three kids isn't as bad as people say."

I truthfully don't know if she was pregnant or not, though I think she was, and I knew they had two kids already.

"I wouldn't know," I said.

It was silent as she processed the obvious logic gap. Naturally I had to explain it fully when she tried to talk her way through it. That may have been an example of me ripping off my own scab.

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Meeting a friend's playgroup mothers at Village Inn. I was the odd woman out, so obviously they asked about my kids. I didn't think I would ever see any of them again, and I wasn't in the mood. I responded, "Two."

My friend poked me with a knife. I looked at her. "What? I'm not gonna talk about it here."

The women, seeing a subject of gossip basically pounced on me verbally. I shook my head and said, "I'm not talking about it."

I don't know what they thought of me, but they stopped pestering me about how many I have and we moved onto their ages and gender.

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There are some varying responses for that. Often, whenever the scab is torn off by someone else, just the question itself can make it happen. Other times I'm mostly expecting it and can prepare for it. It's a common question for meeting someone, so I can usually prepare my heart before hand. But there are other times, times that are somewhat more bitter-sweet rather than crippling. Because they come from my kids.

Examples:

Bug came home from church last Sunday with a paper chain made with five papers. After a small glance at them, I realized the papers were representing us. In order were Dad on the first chain, Mom the next, then the three boys' names. I picked it up and asked him what it was. He said he made it in class to show that we are all sealed together. I hung it with the other tribute things we have to remember Little Angel.

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Along the same lines, Bug came home once with a paper of a family tree. And he included Little Angel in that as well. I have that one hanging on the door. What was pretty adorable about that one was that he had drawn balloons to represent Little Angel rather than faces like he had for the rest of us.

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Yesterday I picked up Goof Ball from school early to go to a dentist appointment. We passed by the city graveyard and he astonished me. I can't quite remember how he started because I couldn't quite hear him, but he mentioned all the stones in the ground to show all the people that died. And I was like.... where did he hear that from? I hadn't talked to him about it much, so it really surprised me.

"I wonder how all the people died," he said.

"I don't know."

"Maybe because they stopped eating."

I laughed, because that's a subject of conversation in our house. (Me: "Bug, why do you keep growing! You need to stop that right now!" Bug: "But that means to stop eating, and if I stop eating, then I'll die!" Me: "Well... I wouldn't want that.")

"Maybe," I said. "But sometimes people just die because they got so old."

I hesitated after that, but decided it needed to be said.

"You have an older brother that died, you know."

"Yeah, I told my teacher that."

"What?"

From here, I had a hard time trying to understand what he was trying to say. But from what I got from it was that he wanted to tell the teacher that his brother died, but he couldn't remember his name, so he didn't. Or something. I couldn't quite get what he was trying to say, so the conversation kind of tapered off.

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I know when I plotted out what I wanted to say in this post, and by the time I started writing it I've forgotten how I was actually going to write it. Even though it was only 15-30 mins from idea hatched to execution. Despite that, I hope the point gets across the way I intended it.

A few other quirks that have arisen since that time 8 years ago:

I avoid babies like the plague. It doesn't matter how close I was to someone before they got pregnant or not. It doesn't matter how much I want to get to know them, or bond with them. Once a newborn is in the mix, I avoid them. If this happens to one of my readers, or had happened to people I was friends with in the past that happen upon this post: It isn't/wasn't personal.

It seems like everywhere I go there is a kid around (often a boy) that is the same age that Little Angel would be. My family, my husband's family, one of Bug's best friends... pretty much EVERYwhere I go, they are there. I haven't yet decided if this is a blessing in disguise (that I can "watch" my three boys interacting together) or a curse. I guess it will shift and change depending on my mood.

Family functions are difficult. Not just because of the little boys running around that represent my lost one. But because the knowledge that someone is missing, and will always be missing. This pain doesn't usually appear instantly. A day or two aren't really too bad. But once it gets to near a week or so, I start to remember and realize, and I find I want to always hide. The pain comes sooner if it's a family reunion.

Sometimes the subject around people that know me well turns to death, or babies, or.... something that brings Little Angel to mind again. And then the elephant that no one (including me) wants to talk about appears in the room. When that happens, I would probably usually leave the room. Truthfully, I never know what I want. Whether I want someone to mention it, talk about Little Angel for a little bit, or if I don't want them to talk about it. No way in hell that I'll bring the subject up. Not that any of us would have much to say. Two months of life doesn't really leave much room for reminiscing. This is one aspect of the whole situation that I'm still trying to navigate through. I really don't know when I'd want someone to mention him or not. My mood, I suppose. That's my go to answer for now. I've never had an experience when someone actually started talking about it. Not that I want to dampen the mood with my heartache. That isn't really the point. Little Angel is often one of the first things that comes to my mind when trials are mentioned, or when death is mentioned, or anything relating to my situation is mentioned at all. And when no one else mentions him, or puts an arm around me, or makes any acknowledgement that there is an elephant in the room - it pains me. Maybe I'm the only one unable to move on. I'm the only one who sees the elephant. Unable to ever be okay with the situation. At the same time, I don't want to bring it up. No one wants to bring it up. And so we go on living in our little lives of perceived happiness. I have come to loathe the mask of happiness. Shorinji Kempo has awaken in me the ability to be myself, mask free, in more places than I've ever had in my life. I hate the places where I feel like I have to put that mask back on. Don't get me wrong, I am happy more in this point of my life than I ever believe I was before - thanks once again, to Shorinji Kempo. But I hate feeling like I need to put on a happy face when I really just want to cry. When no one brings up the elephant in the room, then on goes the mask and I have to deal with the pain later. Alone. Again. ("Why don't you go to Pro Boxer?" you may ask? The same reason I don't want to bring the subject up - I don't want to dampen someone else's happiness.)

I suppose that paragraph may need translating. I'm still working through all this myself. I guess from looking through it all, I really do want someone to recognize my pain. But I don't because I don't want to dampen the happiness of others. So I don't say anything, and they don't say anything, and I cry later by myself, or punch my handy punching bag in my garage, or cope with it on my own once again. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Now that I think more about it, I have two good friends that are married. Occasionally the husband (we'll call him Sandpaper) will say something rather insensitive. Whether it's related to my childhood pain or Little Angel, he'll say it before thinking about it. Then the elephant appears and we all pause for just the slightest second. That slightest second of realization, of understanding, of remembrance is really all I need. Then the conversation often changes drastically. And I'm always kind of astonished at how I don't feel any pain. I don't have any upset feelings toward Sandpaper for his careless comment. Somehow, just the fact that knowing that the subject and pain wasn't completely ignored, that it came to everyone's mind - just that seems to be just enough for me. We don't have to say anything about it. The conversation shifts and laughter returns.

This is the life of a mother of a dead child. And as I said above, probably very similar to the life of many others who have had life-shattering experiences. Everyone needs love and understanding. Often the worst pain is the hidden pain that very few can see.