You know you are a an Angel Mummy when: You look at the family portrait or dinner table and always think, “But someone’s missing.” Your Facebook feed is full of grief support group posts and bereaved parent memes and you have a Pinterest board for child loss quotes. Old friends with living children stop calling and all your new friends belong to the sad club of “my child died too.” Your child’s birthday is spent tending to their grave instead of wrapping gifts and eating birthday cake. Someone wishes you a happy Mother’s Day and tears of anger and grief well in your eyes. You roll your eyes at other moms’ complaints about life’s little woes–such as sleepless nights and sibling fights during play dates–and you know that your average mommy club just isn’t a fit for you anymore. You use terms like ‘new normal’ and speak of your life in a separation of before and after the day your child died. There is a special box in your closet with cherished mementos, clothes and toys that your child did not grow out of but would be forever unworn. You visit this box from time to time and only rarely share its contents with a trusted few. On your dresser next to your jewelry box and picture of your partner you keep your child’s urn. You can’t answer the simple question, “How many children do you have?” from strangers without an awkward pause and downward glance, as you take a few seconds to ponder if you should tell the truth or lie while the inquisitor looks on and wonders what is wrong with this woman that she is taking so long to answer one simple question. Then you lie and say, “Just these,” so the situation doesn’t get any more uncomfortable for them. You have a piece of memorial jewelry you don’t take off. You begin and end the day with a conversation with your dead child, often asking him or her for advice or strength on how to get through this unbearable pain while in the shower each morning. You’re mesmerized by other children that are the age of what your child would be now and you stare in awe and wonder of who your child would have been. You are well known by your pediatrician’s office for being the overprotective mom who calls whenever one of your children sneezes because you worry your living children will die too. You have heard well-meaning, non-bereaved parents say, “Everything happens for a reason,” or “At least you have living children,” and you no longer care because you’ve come to a place of realization that they will never understand your strife. You find yourself finding a way to make it through each day not because you have to but because you want to in honor of your child that no longer can. Your child died and you still live.
Posted on: Tue, 03 Jun 2014 18:28:33 +0000
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