My grandmother passed away, in her home, after a long illness on Friday, May 13th. I had the fortune of spending the last 10 of her life with her and my grandfather, and attended her in death with the respect that she had earned in life. It was so sad to see how Honey spent her final weeks on Earth. She was just a shell of her real self. I tried to talk to those around me about how much I missed her and how I couldn't believe she was gone, but was met with the typical "she's in a better place", "her suffering is over", "you will see her again" platitudes that are thrown around after a person dies. They are all completely true, especially in her case. However, hearing those sentiments makes me feel like I shouldn't feel so sad and shouldn't grieve her passing so much. But I do. I miss her as she was months or even years ago. And that specific Grandma Honey has been gone for some time. But I long for that time and those memories.
Our family spends a week at Okoboji, Iowa each summer and we have always gone with our grandparents. The memories born of those trips are some of the very best of my entire life. Growing up my brothers and I would spend as much time at the lakes with Grandma and Grandpa as possible, and we are facing the reality that that time is passed. Grandma will not be at the lakes this summer walking around in 92 degree heat with long pants and a hoodie on while carrying her Styrofoam cup of steaming hot coffee. I know that, but knowing it will not make it any easier when we're pulling into Monarch Cove and not seeing her waving us in. There is already a hole in all of our lives now that she is gone, but her absence at the lakes will be a staggering blow. Most definitely, there will be times for the rest of my life where her loss will send fresh pangs of sorrow straight to my heart. Such is the ebb and flow of grief.
No two people grieve alike, and where feelings really wind up getting mixed up or hurt is when one person starts to tell another that they are not grieving properly. If you grieve for too long people are right there to tell you that you really should try to put it past you and move on with your life. The dreaded "Stop dwelling in the past" spiel. If, however, you manage to come through your period of mourning rather quickly people will question whether you truly cared at all in the first place. I read somewhere that a person's feeling of grief is like the tides of the ocean. Sometimes the water is high, other times it is low, but it never goes away.
That is how I feel about my son. He died almost exactly five years ago, and there are days that it feels like yesterday. Matt and I talk about how each time a picture of our family is taken we feel that pang knowing that there should be one other little boy in the photo. When we shop for Christmas presents for our 4 little men, we are sad that there isn't another name on the list. It is sad that he is not here to blow out the candles on his angel cake. We hurt when asked the ages of our boys and we say "6,5, 3, and 2" knowing that there should be a "4" in there too. What hurts both Matt and I the most is when people tell us that while it is sad that he is gone we should just focus on the children we do have. Without a doubt I do not believe anyone says this to intentionally be so insulting or hurtful, but it is. Missing our son does not mean that we are not there for our boys. In the same token, having four other children here with us does not make us miss Link any less, nor should it. Children are not interchangeable. Should we miss him less because he was stillborn? Is it supposed to hurt less that we didn't have him for a week, month, year, ten, twenty years before losing him? He was our child, and parents are not supposed to outlive their children.
I miss my son. I still have dreams where I replay his birth in vivid detail and wake up with arms that feel so empty they physically hurt. There is a hole in my heart that will not be filled until I see him again in Heaven. As I type this, my eyes sting with hot tears and a hard lump forms in my throat because the loss is still at times physically overwhelming.
Typically when parents have one child and are expecting another they wonder or even ask someone who has been there before how your heart can love two children equally. Parents of more than one child immediately respond that your heart makes room for all of your children, whether you have one or ten. Matt and I have the same love for Link as we do for Cooper, Wesley, Killian, and Murdoch. And that is how it should be. Because that love exists, and because he is not here for us to see him walk, ride a bike, steal cookies after dinner, play soccer, learn to drive, bicker with his brothers, go to Prom, graduate college, get married, and have his own children; we grieve.
When I went back to Ames, Iowa to stay with Grandma Honey until her time here was passed my mother handed me a piece of paper that had Honey's handwriting in the top left corner. It said "Give to Katy and Matt some day". The paper had a photocopied poem on it. This is the poem:
Lost Child
I didn't get to know you, darling
-silent witness of love-.
For you I could not knit
soft sweaters, pink,
to match your cheeks
or blue booties
to warm your tiny feet.
I didn't have the chance
to cradle you in my arms
or sing you a lullaby.
The sky is now your cradle
and two stars are your eyes.
When the wind blows,
it will be you
sending me kisses.
The angels will sing to you
and will wrap you
in warm blankets of clouds.
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