It’s Mother’s Day here in the US. The holiday comes with a lot of heavy and complex emotions for many of us. I was somewhat aware of it in the past, but after living through the death of my first child, as well as the death of my grandmother, I know the weight of this day intimately.
I’m hoping that, like with Oliver’s due date, the dread leading up to the day will be more painful than the actual day itself. I’m lucky to have an extremely amazing support system and communities that have made sure I feel extra supported and loved today.
I thought today would be the perfect day to share some photos from the grief photoshoot my talented friend Julie helped me bring to life this past week.
Shortly after I realized we’d never have a traditional newborn photoshoot with Oliver, I had some visions of grief-related images that portray life after perinatal loss. While it’s impossible to truly convey the depth, severity, and urgency of the emotions from this type of loss to those who haven’t experienced it, visual art can often captivate hearts more powerfully than words.
Interspersed with these, I wanted to share some tidbits that have been floating around my head and heart the last 6 months as I mourn Oliver. Writing about and sharing parts of my grief journey have helped me immensely. It makes me feel closer to him, and helps me honor our connection. So sharing more is one of the ways I want to celebrate him and myself this weekend.
One of the most difficult things about bereavement for me is that I’m not just grieving Oliver’s death.
I’m grieving the life that we envisioned with him, the life we spent 8 months rearranging ourselves (literally and figuratively) for.
I’m grieving the loss of the person I was before Oliver died; the person who wasn’t so bitter, who smiled at birth announcements instead of scrolling past as if my life depended on it. The person who delighted in the presence of babies rather than feeling discomfort. The person whose boobs were a size smaller, whose hips weren’t quite so wide, who was 15 pounds lighter, whose core strength wasn’t demolished.
I’m grieving the cognitive changes that often make it hard for me to focus, that leave me temperamental and moody.
I’m grieving the way that some of my relationships have weakened amidst the wreckage.
I’m grieving the naivete I’ll never again experience in future pregnancies.
But in spite of and amidst all of these powerful and often negative emotions, I still find pockets of light. It’s like when you look up at the night sky somewhere where there’s light pollution. You can’t see many stars right away, only a sea of dark. But the longer you stare at the sky, as your eyesight adjusts, the more stars you begin to see. That’s what my love for Oliver feels like.
In the early days, when my eyesight wasn’t adjusted and everything was fresh and raw and gaping, I felt so much anger, and bitterness, and resentment. I didn’t understand why I became pregnant in the first place for my baby to be torn from me right before he was set to formally arrive. I found myself wishing I could erase him from my past if he would never again be in my present, in my future. I shied away from the large collection of happy memories I experienced with and because of him because it made the pain feel too potent.
But the more time goes on, the more I am grateful for the short time that we were given. I am grateful for the capacity to love that being a mom has opened inside me.
One of the beautiful aspects of parenthood or helping raise a tiny human is that you get to see them experience everything for the first time. It re-invigorates this sense of wonder and awe at a world that many of us take for granted as we age and grow jaded. But being around children, especially your own, can remind you just how wild, crazy, beautiful, unfair, sad, inspiring the world can be if you stop to bask in the present.
Being Oliver’s mom still inspires that feeling in me even though he’s no longer Earthside. I imagine viewing the world through his eyes, however old he would be at any given time. I imagine him trying new flavors and textures and watching animals from the porch. Gazing at lights in awe. Letting every emotion, good or bad or neutral, flow through him unrestricted by analysis, shame, or guilt. I am grateful for this newfound sense of wonder.
I still experience plenty of darkness; days with so much cloud cover that the light is obliterated and I’m swallowed whole by all that I have lost. But the sun is there too, waiting to re-emerge until the next storm.
In some ways, the bad days are easier than the good days.
On the good days, I seem, and sometimes feel, like a mostly normal person. Like a woman who either has a living son or never had one in the first place. Externally, a lot of my habits and routines seem the same as before I was pregnant, unencumbered by the physical presence of a child.
But I am a woman who has a son, a son who’s dead. Aren’t I supposed to be falling down screaming, or unable to get out of bed for days in a row because I’m feeling too hopeless? Shackled to the nursery by crippling despair and misery? I have days like that, sure. But those feelings ebb and flow. There’s pockets of relative peace between the waves. Sometimes they last long enough that I start feeling guilty that I’ve suddenly gone 4 days in a row without crying.
Other mothers express their love every day through traditional acts of mothering: through comfort, nurture, care, guidance, acceptance. But I can’t do these things for Oliver. Grieving is how I mother Oliver now, how I experience and show my love for him, and if I’m not constantly displaying that grief then how can I call myself a mother?
I think the issue is that too many people understand grief to simply be an extreme form of sadness/despair. When you google what ‘grief’ means, you’re bombarded with an onslaught of articles containing words like sorrow, despair, suffering, sadness. And while these things are definitely a large part of grief, grief is an umbrella term for a wide array of emotions, often conflicting ones: longing, despair, joy, hope, bitterness, gratitude, stress, connection.
Because if grief is love, then we never truly stop grieving, because we never stop loving. And love is not purely negative, so neither is grief. So even if I don’t look or seem sad, even if I’m not sad in that moment, it doesn’t mean I am not grieving. Truthfully, we can’t experience the kind of despair that accompanies grief constantly; it would be impossible to function, to survive. The pockets of respite are crucial to survival, but our love doesn’t lessen when we’re in them.
I wanted to conclude these musings today by sharing a few ways I have come to mourn Oliver these last 6 months. I think that having an assortment of tools in your grief kit is so crucial to healing. This isn’t what grief looks like for everyone, even those experiencing a similar loss. My hope in sharing these is that it encourages others to expand their grief toolkit, and to understand that grief is unique to each of us.
Crying & Listening to Music
My first instinct when I feel a powerful emotion is usually to cry. There has definitely been a lot of that the last 6 months. Sometimes I can feel it coming for hours until it finally bubbles over; other times it hits me suddenly with no discernible trigger.
Then there are times when the feelings are just sort of.. stuck. Lodged in my chest, fogging up my day but unable to be processed. When this happens, I listen to music. I have been compiling a playlist of songs that remind me of Oliver, songs that have a way of strumming my heartstrings until the tears start streaming.
Oftentimes your feelings just need to be felt, seen, and acknowledged. Once that happens, they can begin to move through you.
Journaling and Writing
This shouldn’t come as a surprise to many, as I’ve been a chronic journaler for over 5 years now. Last year, in preparation of Oliver’s arrival, I started sketching out some spreads in one of my journals to make my own baby book / scrapbook to document and commemorate his first year of life. I was actually working on one of these pages when I suddenly became aware of his decreased movement, which prompted the hospital visit where they confirmed his death.
Those first few pages are still lightly penciled in, never inked into permanence. I’m not sure I’ll ever fill them in because it’s such a poetic metaphor for his existence. A beautiful idea, never fully realized. I’ve since decided to use the rest of the journal as my grief journal. The pages look different depending on the day. Sometimes it’s standard word vomiting. Sometimes it’s a collage, or quotes that resonate, or prompts from various sources. I plan on sharing another blog post in the future about how my grief journal has evolved and aided me.
I was also privileged to receive a copy of In Memory of You: A Guided Baby Memorial Journal, sent to me by Autumn, who created the book in memory of her son Bastion. This book is great for guided memorial journaling when I don’t have the headspace to journal from scratch.
Reading Books About Grief & Loss
Again, no big surprises here. Books have always been a source of comfort for me. I’m not going to get too in depth about these here because I share about them frequently on my Instagram page. I also plan on eventually dedicating a whole post to the books that have helped me the most during this process. But for now, you can browse the list of books I’ve most appreciated on Amazon or Bookshop.
Finding a Community of Loss Parents & Grief Literate Support People
I feel very confident in saying that social media is 98% of the reason I’ve come to know so many remarkable women and parents persevering through similar struggles. It’s one of the main reasons why I feel no shame or regret in being so open about my loss; it has introduced me to some beautiful new relationships and support that I wouldn’t have otherwise.
When you share about your own loss, it seems to give permission to others to disclose their own. It opens the door to this whole, much-huger-than-it-should-be community of other mothers and families who have lost their babies is suddenly unveiled.
Between my Stillbirth and Infant Loss group on Facebook, forums on Reddit (which also brought me my loss mama bestie Morgan) and the wide range of support I have in the Book & Journaling community on Instagram, I have received an outpouring of support and love from others attempting to ease the void of Oliver’s absence.
It has also been cathartic to offer support to others this way. For many people when they’re pregnant, their capacity to care for and nurture others starts starts swelling in preparation for the new life they will sustain. When your baby is no longer here to receive that care, it pools up. Pouring some of that care into others who know my pain has provided me a healthy outlet.
An Abundance of Sloths
Many of the loss parents I’ve interacted with have some sort of symbol they associate with their baby. It could be a color, a flower, an animal, or really anything.
Cora’s is flamingos.
Lou’s sister is daffodils.
Bryce’s is giraffes.
Baby G’s is forget-me-nots.
Beck’s is rocket ships.
Saylor’s is tulips.
For me and Dakota, it’s mostly sloths. A few weeks before Oliver died, we ordered him a weighted sloth stuffie from Warmies. It was delivered to our home while we were in the hospital to deliver him. It was waiting for us when I got home, and I started sleeping with it every night, and cuddling it in times of distress. It’s a way to slightly dull the aching emptiness in my arms.
When we went back home to Kansas for Christmas, my cousin Emily of Sew Funky had also made us a little sloth stuffed animal well before Oliver died. She told us that she still wanted us to have it, and I was so grateful that she gave it to us. It now sits in the corner of our bedroom with his urn and other momentos. Thus the sloth connection was cemented.
Now every time I come across a sloth in the wild (in the form of decor, photos, toys etc.) it feels like Oliver saying hello. It’s also an easy way for others to remember him with us. We’ve been slowly accumulating sloth things here and there for ourselves and from others, and I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it.
Whatever this day holds for you, I hope it is gentle and that you feel supported. Thanks for reading. Grateful for you.
