Anticipation, a grieving mother's enemy

You know how anticipation feels. There is that little flutter in your stomach, maybe the shaking of hands...adrenaline pumping, heart racing, voice shaking. I used to associate it with the excitement of an upcoming trip or the nervousness of a public speaking event. But now I have to add Ellie's birth and death dates, her original due date and Mother's Day to the list. My heart has been hurting as I anticipate another Mother's Day without all my children.

Last year, I posted a brief history of Mother's Day. Many don't know its true origins. We think of it now as a day to celebrate mothers, a justifiable celebration on the awesomeness of mommyhood. But it began as a day for bereaved mothers to mourn their lost children. Now there is a day for those like me called International Bereaved Mother's Day. It was last Sunday, May 6.

The week between these two special days mirrors my mood of late; transitioning between dark and light. One moment I am honoring and crying tears of pain for my first daughter, the next laughing and thanking my son and daughter while opening their early Mother's Day gift. The pain of Ellie's death and trauma of watching her last few hours still haunt me. I can smell, hear, and see everything when I close my eyes. I know the pain will never go away. These moments are sprinkled throughout my days in between the hugs and kisses given to Ellie's siblings.

Of course I am beyond thankful for my surviving children. I am tired of having that constant caveat. It's like I cannot grieve Ellie without saying I am thankful for what I have. "It could always be worse," right? But there is some truth to that. It could be worse. I know that. I don't even want to imagine what could happen to my loved ones. And as I have written many times in this blog, I don't ever want another child to suffer, be sick or die.

Sorry, I am getting off topic. This blog serves as one of my coping mechanisms and honestly helps me make it through the tough times. One thing my mind does when I am anxious is wonder. I can't seem to focus. All these thoughts and memories and what-ifs run through my head. But like most anticipated events, the time leading up to it are seemingly much worse than the actual event. I just have to keep telling myself that as I prepare for another day without Ellie.

On this, President's Day

A friend, and fellow bereaved mother, had the following posted as her facebook status today:

In the words of US President Dwight David "Ike" Eisenhower, writing about his son, Doug Dwight, "Icky," three years old, who died at Camp Mead, Maryland. In President Eisenhower’s autobiography written in 1969 (49 years after Icky died), he stated, "With his death a pall fell over the camp. When we started the long trip back to Denver for his burial, the entire command turned out in respect to Icky. We were completely crushed – it was a tragedy from which we never recovered. I do not know how others have felt when facing the same situation, but I have never known such a blow. Today when I think of it, even as I now write of it, the keenness of my loss comes back to me as fresh and terrible as it was in that long, dark day soon after Christmas, 1920."

It fits perfectly with my mood lately. Sometimes as a bereaved parent, you feel alone in your thoughts. When I am happy holding my four month old daughter, or loving on my 3.5 year old son, guilt sets in that Ellie isn't here. Of course I am lucky they are here and love them. Of course, I would never put them in Ellie's "shadow" as some have warned. But at night, when the kids are finally asleep and as I listen to my husband's deep, slow breaths, my thoughts return to Ellie. I will never be the same person I was before and I cannot simply "move on" or "get over it." It was recently suggested that I "move on" for the sake of my living children and that my grief may negatively affect them and/or our relationship. What a horrible thought. Can you imagine never mentioning your child again? When they go to college, is it out of sight, out of mind? When you go out for a date night, do you forget you have children? Yes, these are different situations, but the premise is the same. They are always with you, in your heart. I can't imagine internalizing this pain nor could I imagine life repressing my memories or Ellie's existence. I have given birth to three children and lost two before given that chance. I think my children will become more compassionate people knowing they had a sister who died. They will hopefully not take life for granted. They will know how much they were loved and wanted. They will see our tears and know it is because we love our children so very much. 

So, in honor of President's day, I thought I would do a little research on how these powerful people reacted to the death of their children. Even during a time when children died often to disease, they were in the public eye. How did they deal with their grief?

Martha Jefferson lost a child before marrying President Thomas Jefferson, and five of their seven children died before maturity. She died four months after the death of her last child. Very few documents remain in her handwriting, but one can attest to her pain of loss and hopes of seeing her children again. She quoted Laurence Sterne's Tristam Shandy:

Time wastes to fast; every letter

I trace tells me with what rapidity 

life follows my pen. The days and hours

of it are flying over our heads like

clouds of windy day never to return-

more. Every this presses on-

and every time I kiss thy hand to bid adieu, 

every absence which follows it

are preludes to that eternal separation which we are shortly to make!

I often see people chastising others on facebook for quoting people; the sayings having some importance on their lives. Amazingly 200 years ago, a bereaved mother couldn't sum up her pain and turned to the words of another, just as we still do today. 

Abraham Lincoln lost three of his four children (two before his assassination and one after). It is said his wife, Mary Todd, never regained her sanity. And it is reported that Abraham Lincoln, not traditionally a very religious man, came to God after the death of one of his sons. After his beloved "Eddie" died, an unsigned poem was published in the Illinois Daily Journal. the first stanza of "Little Eddie" reads:

Those midnight stars are sadly dimmed, 

that late so brightly shown. 

And the crimson tinge from cheek and lip,

With the heat's life form has flown.

The Angel of Death was hovering nigh, 

And the lovely boy was called to die.

Benjamin Franklin's son, Frankie, died of small pox at age four, prompting him to become one of the eras biggest proponents of inoculation (a lot more primitive way of receiving vaccines, obviously). Mr. Franklin took his tragedy and pain and made it one of the focal points of the rest of his life. Rumors that a failed inoculation led to the child's death may have led to his advocacy. Either way, the death of his child forever changed him and prompted him to help others.

While in office, John F. Kennedy's son, Patrick, was born prematurely and died two days later. After Patrick died, the Kennedy's spent many summer weekends at their Cape Cod residence. 

The list continues: John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Calvin Coolidge...Even recent presidential candidates including John Edwards, John Kerry, and Rick Santorum have lost young children. 

One of my favorite quotes is by Ms. Elizabeth Edwards, wife of presidential candidate, John Edwards. After her 16 year old son was killed in a car crash, she quit practicing law and turned to philanthropy. She so perfectly said, "If you know someone who has lost a child or lost anybody who's important to them, and you are afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died, they didn't forget they died. You're not reminding them. What you're reminding them of of is that you remember that they lived, and that's a great, great gift."

On this President's Day, I remember and say aloud the names of all those children I know that have gone too soon. And I scream, "Eleanor."

A Bereaved Mother in History

One thing I have been avoiding since Ellie died is cemeteries (even though she was cremated). I have been to a lot and have visited them as part of my job. I know there are children in them, and babies—in a much higher frequency than today. I couldn't avoid it a few months ago and broke down at the site of a child's grave. Well, I was reading a report at work today and some small, historic, family cemeteries were found. This is very typical of the time period, but here is what got me.

- Ms. Elizabeth Barnard had her first child in 1873 at the age of 17. He died at 20 years old (before she died).
- Next child, she was 20; a girl. The girl died at 26 along with her only child, a 2 year old (before Elizabeth died).
- Next child, she was 22; a boy that died at 7.
- Next child, she was 28; a boy that died at 4.
- Next child, she was 32, a boy that died at 8.
- Her husband died 14 years before her. So she suffered the loss of three children alone.
- She was just 52 when she died. She lost all five children, at least one grandchild and a husband before her death.

Her third child's grave site is the largest monument in the cemetery and has his age down to the day. Typically the largest is reserved for the patriarch, but not this time. It makes me think of how poor Ms. Elizabeth handled her grief in the 1800s. I doubt there was much support in the way there is now. As annoying as the self-help revolution has been, I think it has allowed people to publicly grieve…or at least people are less likely to be attacked for it now.

I've read historical accounts of women loosing children and they are in as much pain as I am today. I thought they would be ‘used’ to it since it was such an unfortunate, frequent occurrence. When Eleanor died, someone said, “Imagine how women felt a hundred years ago. They probably lost many children, if not their own lives during childbirth!” But I don’t think it was easier because it was more common then. In fact, I think it was probably harder on the mother. Everyone probably knew someone who had lost an infant or young child. Society would mourn, but would quickly move on because infant and child death happened…a lot. Stiff upper lip, right? But I cannot believe the bereaved mother would move on so quickly. Sure, people tended to keep their emotions more private then. But in my research of women’s writings in historical times, they suffered the same pain, grief, anger, guilt, and sadness that we bereaved mothers do today. They just suffered in silence.

Although it may have been taboo to continue to talk about a child that has passed back then (as it still is today in some circles), I think I will light a candle for Ms. Elizabeth Barnard and her children and grandchild tonight. I will remember them.