Difficult questions

For a lot of people, little questions like the following are no big deal: "Where are you from?" "How are you?" "How many kids do you have?"  That first one is a question complicated by having a father who liked to move us a lot, so I'm not sure what we're talking about.  The concept of a "hometown" is foreign, and, therefore, slightly painful because it reminds me of the core identity I lack.  But I can handle that question.  The other two are a little more complicated by child loss.  

"How are you?" can be easy or difficult, depending on whether or not we're nearing an angelversary or difficult birthday.  Most of the time, I can answer by the wrote and expected answer, "Fine."  Anything else seems to confuse and frustrate people.  It's not a question but a greeting, and there's a script to it.  If you actually give a real answer as if it were a real question, people aren't sure what to do about it.  You have to be careful around whom you answer something like, "I'm dying inside," because some people will look at you funny or edge away.  They don't seem to understand this is a trying and painful question for those who want to answer it truthfully in a way that would explore the pain inside.  It's a performance question that is not intended to hurt but often does through its insincerity.

Then there's the hardest one that can't help but hurt.  "How many kids do you have?" Most people would expect me to mention the two they could see.  But that seems a betrayal.  What about the third?  What about my Alamanda, who I held for four short months?  She's with me.  They just can't see her.  And often, that conversation will lead to how she died and the hell that I went through after.  But even three doesn't seem quite right.  I fully expect to hold my miscarried babies again, too.  But most people don't want to hear a lengthy explanation of my Alamanda and my fourteen miscarriages.  I don't need to let just everyone into my world and trauma.  But how do I answer that question without touching on it at all?  By its very nature, that question that seems so simple to those who have not lost babies suddenly becomes a reminder of pain to those of us who have lost.  But it's not like I'd want to put a tattoo on my forehead that says, "Please don't ask me how many kids I have."  It's just one of many constant reminders. Why do simple questions have to seem so complicated?

When Writing about Trauma

When writing about trauma, one must keep in mind one's audience.  When you're writing for yourself, you can get away with writing up every detail, every moment, every feeling.  It's a memory.  It can all be recorded.  If you want to share that later or not at all, that's fine.  You can even rip it up and throw it away.  For your healing's sake, just get it done.

But when you're writing for other people, keep in mind that people get tired of repetition, tragedy, woe, heartache, tears, etc.  Tears become ridiculous instead of heart-breaking when overdone.  One must write enough that the reader gets the sense of tragedy, both before the loss and after.  It's best if the reader really feels for the victim/survivor.  How much is too much?  

Keep the audience in mind.  to do that, one must get readers.  If those beta readers get tired of it, it's probably too much.  Time to trim and refocus.  What is most critical to write?  Whatever is most needful, that shall you write.  

On Tuesdays and Birthdays

It used to be that Tuesday was just another day of the week.  At least it's not Monday, right?  Everybody hates Mondays.  But Tuesdays have become more difficult for me, especially around that angelversary because six years ago, we lost her on a Tuesday.  Then my birthday came around two Tuesdays later.  It was a rough day.  Then the next couple of birthdays were painful since they were on or the day before miscarriages.  I officially became a member of the birthday haters club.

This year, my birthday occurs, once again, on a Tuesday just as the angelversary was on a Tuesday.  I don't love Tuesdays.  Each birthday comes around with an echo of pain, which makes birthdays troublesome, even when they end up being pleasant.  I'm sure tomorrow will be fine, that it will be pleasant enough that it won't even occur to me that it's THAT kind of Tuesday.  It's funny the things that change after loss.                  

Survived

I survived another angelversary.  The worst part was the day before when EVERYTHING hurt.  Every other thought hurt because every other thought was about her and about my loss.  The day of, we were so busy between visiting her grave, running errands, going to the temple, playing with cousins, and so many other things that I scarcely thought about the day at all.  So it didn't hurt as much as usual.

But I wonder if this is a good thing or a bad thing.  Surviving with less pain is good, right?  But did I do her justice on her day?  Does doing a lost one justice mean we have to hurt all day for him/her?  That's a hard one.  We remembered her by going to the temple and visiting her grave but missed going through her book because we were so busy.  Was it enough?

I know she wants me to be happy.  I know she hurts with my pain.  Mourning is an individual experience, so only I can decide if I'm doing it right.  But is there such a thing as "right" and "wrong" or is it just about remembering the lost one whether we are in pain over it or not?  I know that healing is about hurting less over the memories.  Does that mean I'm healing or blocking out the emotions?  I don't think there's an easy answer for that.