As I said last time, the fourteenth anniversary of my baby's death came and went at the end of June. We went to Vernal to be anywhere but home on that day because both of my living kids dig dinosaurs, and Vernal is a monument to the dinosaurs found there. It was a four-hour drive. Last year, the day passed by because we were so busy that it didn't even dawn on me that it was that dreadful day until the night came. I thought we were passing through the 28th, when it was really the 29th. This year, I knew it was the 29th, but my mind and heart were still numb. I cried a few tears over the signs on the wall in our lovely Air BnB three-bedroom house we were staying in that mentioned reunions and missing those we love.
But I had forgotten the baby book that punches through my numb haze of the day every year. The next day, I brought it out and shared it will child 2.0 and my husband. Child 2.0 usually passes on being there, but it was good, even if there was no response except in me. I cried, as I usually do.
But the real cleansing tears didn't strike me until the next day when a friend told me about someone she met who had just lost a baby under somewhat similar circumstances. My friend is what we call "a member of the club," the empty arms club. She has had two miscarriages.
The story really struck her because it made her contemplate what it would be to lose a child she had once held. She told me about her experience with something I haven't been through like she has. I had about 17 miscarriages (give or take--I've lost track), one before and the rest after my baby died. Alli was the only rainbow baby I ever had, the only baby I've carried to term after a loss. But she'd given up on hope. She was sure, even after the baby was born and had started to grow, that she was going to lose her at any time. That daughter has recently hit her 21st birthday, and most of that time, my friend was sure she'd lose her. It took me several more losses to accept when I was expecting, I was expecting a loss, not a baby. After my first miscarriage, I was confident my next baby would be born. She was. But Alli was the last one, and I lost her, too. My friend taught me that there's another level of loss I hadn't endured on that level. And it was good to cry together.
Loss takes several faces and has several effects on one's life and one's heart. I used to embrace the five stages of grief, a comforting uniformity of what one can expect after loss. But my own experience shows me otherwise. There is no uniformity, no predictable stages of grief. One can experience multiple emotions at once, or one can experience them in any order or skip several of them. There's no right or wrong way to experience grief, and it can be hurtful to try to force our own expectations on others' emotional responses. Grief is a nightmare, a pain, a wild and uncontrolled ride that takes us out of our regular path and leaves us feeling things we can't predict or expect. All we can do is be there for others and embrace those who are there for us.
