Conversations :: {Conclusion} And sometimes they get it right

Lest it be thought that people only ever said and did the wrong thing after my son died, I wanted to share some stories where people got it right (thanks for the idea, Michelle!).

After Ewan left us, we were told a lot, "If there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate." While genuinely moved by the offer for help (and more than willing to take people up on the offer), we were both so overwhelmed at the time, it was difficult to know what sorts of things would really be helpful to us. So while the stories below aren't meant to be a prescription for "how to help out grieving parent," these are things that did us both a world of good.

As far as this mama is concerned, a hug is never out of order!

Celebrating
I hardly need to recount for you how, after the initial diagnosis, James and I were devastated. We couldn’t talk about Ewan without weeping, grieving what we were losing (the normal and expected “we’re having a baby" experience) and the tremendous challenges we knew Ewan would face. I had imagined finding out the sex of our baby at the ultrasound, and then promptly running to the store to pick up a few gender-specific items of clothing to celebrate. That never happened.

But a weekend or two later, my parents came to visit for the weekend. Mom had picked out a little navy onesie with a striped orange, yellow, and brown tie appliquéd on the front. Dad had picked out a little blue stuffed dog. The tag read, “For our grandson, Ewan.” As devastated as they were about the diagnosis (and Ewan their first grandchild, too), they still found Ewan worth celebrating. He was still here, he was still alive, and diagnosis be darned -- we were still going to celebrate that baby. It was one of the best and most life-affirming feelings in the world.


Practical Help
When we were in the hospital and after Ewan died, several friends and church members brought meals to the hospital. They had a cafeteria there, but it didn’t take long at all to grow weary of the fare they served. And after Ewan’s death, it was a welcome relief not to have to go grocery shopping or worry about what to fix for dinner. I think we had meals coming to us most nights for a period of about six weeks or so. I didn’t even have to ask. Someone offered to organize it, and all I had to do was say yes, and the food was brought to our door. We felt incredibly loved and cared for (and had some incredible meals).

One of my friends told me she wasn't particularly confident as a cook, but still wanted to help. I remember at that point, going out and getting simple day-to-day things done seemed like too much. So she did our laundry and grocery shopping a few times. A few weeks later when she asked me if there was anything more she could do (and I was feeling up to rejoining the world outside again), I asked her if we could just spend some time together. It was exactly what I needed.


Identifying and Filling a Need
It didn't ever feel right for me to ask for money after Ewan died. I knew we were facing some incredible expenses, but something in me at the time couldn't stomach the thought of asking for that kind of help. Finally, someone approached me and said something like, "Listen. There are a lot of people who are asking how to help you out financially. At a time like this, the last thing they want you worrying about is how you're going to pay for things. So let me figure out an easy way for them to help you." And that was that. A webpage was set up where people could send donations electronically. The fact that someone else could identify that need and be so proactive in following through on an easy and practical way to do it was very helpful for us.


The UPS Man
It was just a few days after Ewan had died that our UPS man (the same one who had delivered many a baby gift to our door) came with another delivery. By then it was obvious that I was no longer pregnant. “Hey, you had your baby!” he said excitedly. “Where is he?” It was the first time I had to tell someone who didn’t already know what had happened. I blurted out something completely awkward like, “He was born with a heart defect, and he died.” His face instantly turned ashen and he said quite sincerely, “I am so deeply sorry for your loss. I have no idea of the grief you must be feeling right now.” He listened attentively as I told him briefly about Ewan, our hospital stay, and what the past several days had been like. He came back to our door at the end of his shift that same day to make a delivery of his own: flowers and a card from him and his wife. And in the card, he called Ewan by name. I don't think I understood how powerful it was to hear other people say his name and acknowledge his personhood in that way until that moment.


The Dentist
It was so interesting to watch how my family and James and I moved through our grief together. When my mom had seen the dentist (the same dentist I grew up with) at her last 6-month check-up before Ewan was born, we hadn’t gotten the diagnosis yet. By the time it came for her next check-up later in the fall, Ewan had been born and died. As they were catching up on all that had happened, Mom explained to him that I had had a baby boy and that he had later died due to complications from a serious heart defect. By then, Mom had been used to hearing, “I’m sorry,” only to have the other person promptly change the topic, assuming she wouldn’t want to talk about him. But our dentist asked, “What is his name?” and gave her leave to talk about what he was like. I remember her telling me, “He is my grandson. Of course I want to talk about him!” I knew I always liked that dentist.


Don’t underestimate the power of hugs and crying together
Honestly for me, one of the best and most healing things for me was those who, like me, found themselves without any words at all. They were devastated and stunned, and they were grieving, too. They knew there was nothing they could do to fix this. It was so powerful just for someone to hug me like they meant it, and cry with me. No apologies, no timeline, no excuses, no feeling of "when is this going to be over?" -- just grieving together instead of apart.


A final word
If there's anything I know about grief and loss, it is that while the devastation and types of emotions experienced by the bereaved are often shared in common, the way in which different people express and move through that grief is very different. People often shared with me after Ewan's death how brave it was that I was so transparent and open with it. The truth is, it didn't feel to me like I was being especially transparent or brave in talking and writing about it openly, because in my mind, I was simply working through my grief in the way that felt most natural to me. I found it both healing and incredibly cathartic.

There are many people I know who are much more private with their grief -- maybe they don't feel like talking openly about their loss, or perhaps they are not particularly fond of hugs. Grief is an intimate, intense, and deeply personal thing. Perhaps they feel the need to withdraw for awhile. And while that is not my particular bent, I definitely get this side of it, too. It seems that for many, it will take a lot of time to be able to open up and talk about it with anyone. For some, it may be something they process through privately in a journal or in the confines of their own minds.

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Conversation Time

I know this is delving into some deeply personal territory, so please only share if you feel completely comfortable and safe doing so.

If you've been in the position of grieving the death of someone you loved, what were the things that others said and did that you found helpful and/or honoring? 

Do you tend to be more expressive or private with how you experience your loss (or does it depend on the person asking, how you're feeling that day, the situation you're in, etc.)? 

What kinds of things worked best for you in working through the feelings of loss?

The conversation is happening in the Team Ewan community on Facebook. 

Conversations :: "Have you read Heaven is for Real?"

A new disclaimer: Time for a change of pace! This post is making it into the "Conversations" series not because I've had any awkward or strained conversations where this book is concerned, but because the topic has come up frequently in personal conversations since the book has gained popularity. I thought I'd answer it here and let you all know what my personal response was. The series will conclude tomorrow on  a more uplifting note with a post about the things people said and did right.

* * * * *

This was a title that was recommended to me multiple times by friends and family members (and most of the time with great enthusiasm), and not without good cause! If you’re not familiar with this title, Heaven is For Real is the account of a boy named Colton who, as three-year old, was near death with appendicitis. As he was in surgery, he reports leaving his body and going to heaven. He meets Jesus, St. Peter, angels, a sister lost to miscarriage, and a great-grandfather who died years before he was born. In the months and years following his experience, he recounts his experience in detail to his parents.

I have, in fact, read the book. I picked it up at Costco one afternoon shortly before making the Florida-bound drive and a few days later, curled up on the couch and read it in a single sitting. I agree with many that it would be well nigh impossible for a three-year-old to concoct tales of heaven with the level of detail that he did. He never knew about a miscarried sibling (who he says is a sister), nor would he have been able later to pick out his great-grandfather (a man who had died years before he was born) out of a family photo where he is a man in younger middle-age. That being said, it is also the case that I do have a hard time accepting certain elements of the story as legitimate. Even so, it reminds me of how God often uses the small and weak things of this world to humble the wise.

While it is true that I’m glad I read it, and that I believe this little boy’s testimony has encouraged and inspired many people, it was not quite the runaway hit with me as it has been with others. It didn't grab me, and it didn’t give me a hope I didn’t already possess. It didn’t make me believe anything for the first time. Please allow me to explain.

A son and his mama, confronting her hope in a dark place
(Photo by Mary Combs)

I’ve shared before that on the night Ewan died, I thought of the story in the Gospels where Jesus is speaking with Mary and Martha just before he raises Lazarus from the dead. He says pointedly to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life. Do you believe I can do this?” Martha answers in the affirmative. She believes Jesus has the power to raise her brother from the dead. It's one of those moments in the Gospels where, in the space of an instant, everything in the world pauses and everyone holds their breath waiting for the answer. I had a moment just like that in Ewan's hospital room.

After several hours of sitting in that quiet room with just James and my son, the machines barely making enough sound to be called a hum, I felt like Jesus was looking me in the eye and asking me the same question. Before all of this had happened, I had no reason to doubt that anything I had believed to be true was in fact true. I professed it every Sunday in the Creed.

In that moment, however, it was just me and Jesus, holding my hands and looking me straight and unblinking in the eyes and saying, “I am the resurrection and the life. Do you, Kirsten – do you believe I can do this?”

The question was not if I would affirm it on a Sunday. The question was not if I could recount the correct Sunday School answer. The question was if I -- standing alone in this moment with my dying child in my arms -- believed that He could raise my son from the dead.

I looked at my son and shut my eyes tight for a second. I had no doubts before this moment, honestly -- but as I was staring death in the face and getting ready to see what happened to him when the last machine was shut off, I had to answer that question for me and I had to answer for real. This wasn't theoretical. This wasn’t just a statement, no mere string of words. This was life and death, and it was personal. This was my son, my firstborn. I had to know for certain that there was a place called heaven where Ewan would go, and a someday that nobody knows when, when the body will be raised to life perfected. I looked at my son and wondered what he might be like with a perfect body raised to life with that beautiful soul of his.

And in a moment of tremendous grace, I told Jesus, “Yes. Yes, I believe you can do this.”

The only reason I was able to let them shut off any of those machines in that moment is because even when I was faced with the possibility of losing my son, I could give him up with the faith that this was not really the end.

And so while this little boy’s testimony about heaven is one that I, on the whole, believe happened (and like I said earlier, some particular elements excepted), it didn’t give me a hope I didn’t already have. That hope and I -- whose foundation had been slowly built upon for months and years before that moment -- stared each other down in a quiet room in Seattle Children's Hospital nearly a year ago. I may not have seen heaven myself, but I think I touched the edge of it that night as Ewan passed from this life and into the next. And I know for real that Ewan is there.

* * * * *

Conversation Time!

Given the diversity of backgrounds and experiences represented in the Team Ewan community on Facebook, I know there are going to be a variety of faith and personal beliefs represented. Feel free to answer without fear of discrimination or judgment. What I'd like to know from everyone is what has inspired you or given you hope in the face of personal catastrophe, loss, or ongoing challenges? What was that glimmer of light in a dark place for you? Whether or not it has to do with motherhood or your children is entirely up to you. 

Conversations :: "You shouldn't be sad because ..."

Losing a child makes for some potentially strained and awkward social interactions, especially when you’re meeting people for the first time. I thought I would spend some time this week talking about what some of those conversations have been and how we’ve chosen to handle them. These posts are intended to be descriptive (my explanation of what we have chosen to say or not say in these conversations) rather than prescriptive (this isn’t me saying: “this is how you do it”). I simply want to share what these conversations are, what has worked for me, and hopefully spark some discussion around what has worked for you if you’ve been a part of conversations like these as well.

* * * * *

You can have another baby
Perhaps the hardest thing for me to hear from others after Ewan died (and the most common) was, “Well, at least you can have another baby,” or some version thereof. I was still recovering from birth. The sod was still fresh on his grave. And they were talking about another baby as if that were a fitting salve for our loss.

I am acquainted with a number of other mothers who are familiar with what it is to lose a child, and I am fairly certain that at one point or another, we have all heard some version of this statement said to us.

I had a good friend remind me in those first weeks and months after Ewan’s death that people are doing the best they can. Losing anyone is a tremendous difficulty, and losing a child in particular is especially devastating in that it’s one of those things that just isn’t supposed to happen. It turns the right and natural order of things on its head. People want to say something because they want to acknowledge your loss and they want to help. There are very few words out there that are any good at all in moments like these and unfortunately, these are sometimes the ones that come out.

On those days I was feeling particularly resentful at having heard someone say this to me again, I thought, “Yeah, they are doing the best they can with a difficult situation. But I’m the one who buried my child here. I know it’s hard to find things to say, but on the other hand, should that really be my problem?”

I knew I could probably have more children. I was young and healthy and we had conceived Ewan with no real difficulty.

But I missed him. I wanted him. I was never going to be able to take the photographs of him that I had dreamed of taking. I was never going to get to give him a bath or dress him or read him a story. I was never going to see him smile or hear him laugh.

I missed him, and no number of additional pregnancies and healthy babies could or will change that fact.

What was it, I wondered, that made this such a common thing to say? Do people reason that because these children aren’t alive outside the womb for very long that the parents don’t get as attached? Is it supposed that because we missed out on so many normal types of parenting moments that we’re not able to develop the same type of loving relationship with our children? Do they think that we did not also cherish our pregnancies, laugh at our children’s in utero antics on display, or make plans for all the things we would do together? Or is it because we have a culture that increasingly sees children as disposable and as inconveniences rather than as unique human individuals?

James and I were talking about this one night. It was after Ewan had died and I was still on maternity leave. Someone else had said this to me and I wondered, what gives? Why do so many people say this? How do you make the point that while you may very well have the ability to have more children, you can never, ever replace the one you lost?

It was James that said something like, “You know, you would never tell a grieving widow, ‘At least you can get married again.’” She very well might be able to get married again, but she can never replace the spouse she lost. James was right. In almost any other situation where someone was grieving the death of someone she loved, it was not only unthinkable, but unheard of to imply that the relationship could be replaced.

So what did I say to people who said, “But you can have more children”? I said, “Perhaps, yes. But I miss him. I miss my Ewan. There will never be another one of him ever again.”

It’s been a long time since anyone has said that to me, and there are some I suppose who think that because I’ve got a healthy baby on the way, my grief has passed. But those words still ring as true now as they did then. Even as I exult over the new life inside, I still weep for the boy I didn’t get to hold nearly enough. There’s no one like him.


He's not suffering anymore
I was told on the day he died and many times after, "You should be glad that he isn't suffering anymore." I think it was also on that same day I even heard, "You should be happy. He's in heaven now."

I had given birth just over two weeks prior. The body of my newborn barely cold, and someone was telling me I had a good reason to be happy?

Believe me, watching your newborn endure open heart surgeries and other highly invasive procedures is no cakewalk. Being helpless to offer any real help as he fights as bacterial infection while also attempting to recover from all these things is more than enough to make you shake your fist at the universe and demand an answer for his pain, and for yours.

The truth is, I was glad he wasn't suffering anymore. I absolutely hated what he had been through, and I hated the thought of him facing anymore if he had survived all those things. But I was hardly happy about any of it. Nine months of anticipating and hoping and waiting for him, and months more before that of dreaming and praying and wanting him to come, and he was gone sixteen days after I met him face to face. I felt robbed. All around me, people who had done all the same things as me in preparing for their children were either holding their babies or anticipating their arrival without the complications of a severe heart defect.

Even a year later, the fact that Ewan isn't suffering anymore is hardly comforting. While it may be true and while I hated every minute of what he had to endure, what statements like these fail to recognize is the tension that exists between what we know and what we feel. I've written about this multiple times. I can be thankful that my son no longer suffers with a body that could not sustain his life, and at the same time, groan and weep and grieve that he is no longer here.

I suppose there is a kind of logic to thinking that the cessation of his suffering should mitigate my feelings of loss -- that one truth should answer the moans and wails of the other. But I have no interest the kind of logic that reasons that because his suffering has stopped, mine should also. It falls too far shy of human.

And so in these instances I say that "Yes, I am thankful that Ewan no longer suffers. It was an impossible thing to watch. But I still love my child, and he is not here with me as he should be." I will have a whole lifetime of pondering would-have-beens. "Ewan may no longer be suffering," I will say, "but this still isn't right."

There's a quote from the C. S. Lewis book A Grief Observed, which is a raw and emotional account of his journey through grief after the loss of his wife. It is fitting to add it here:

And poor C. quotes me, "Do not mourn like those that have no hope." It astonishes me, the way we are invited to apply to ourselves words so obviously addressed to our betters. What St. Paul says can comfort only those who love God better than the dead, and the dead better than themselves. If a mother is mourning not for what she has lost but for what her dead child has lost, it is a comfort to believe that the child has not lost the end for which it was created. And it is a comfort to believe that she herself, in losing her chief or only natural happiness, has not lost a greater thing, that she may still hope to "glorify God and enjoy Him forever." A comfort to the God-aimed, eternal spirit within her. But not to her motherhood. The specifically maternal happiness must be written off. Never, in any place or time, will she have her son on her knees, or bathe him, or tell him a story, or plan for his future, or see her grandchild.

* * * * *

Conversation Time!

I know there are a lot of you out there who have been in these shoes and have heard these words, too. Whether the child was your first (you can have more!), your last (at least you’ve got other healthy children!), or anywhere in between – what, if anything, have you said to those who tell you ‘you can have more “or that “at least you have more”? What reasons were you given for why you shouldn't be so sad? How have people responded to what you said? Was there anything someone said to you that was helpful?

For those of you who love and support parents who have lost children, what has been most difficult for you about watching your friends grieve? Was there anything you did or said that proved helpful for them?

Please discuss on the Team Ewan page on Facebook.

Conversations :: "What caused the heart defect was ..."

Losing a child makes for some potentially strained and awkward social interactions, especially when you’re meeting people for the first time. I thought I would spend some time this week talking about what some of those conversations have been and how we’ve chosen to handle them. These posts are intended to be descriptive (my explanation of what we have chosen to say or not say in these conversations) rather than prescriptive (this isn’t me saying: “this is how you do it”). I simply want to share what these conversations are, what has worked for me, and hopefully spark some discussion around what has worked for you if you’ve been a part of conversations like these as well.

* * * * *

Deep. Breath. Okay.

Before I explain what this conversation is, I have to admit up front that this one gets me to feeling like an angry tiger backed into a corner, or a boxer whose elbows are being pinned back against her will to the corner of the ring in order keep her from pummeling her opponent to death. This one makes me just plain angry, and I have little to no patience or understanding for those who feel compelled to say what they do in this regard. If it had happened just once, I probably wouldn't mention it. But it's happened at least four times now.

I'm talking about those "experts" who claim to know what caused Ewan's heart defect. The doctor who read our initial 20-week ultrasound blamed it on me not taking folic acid -- before he even thought to ask if I had been taking it before and during my pregnancy. He was shocked when I said I had been taking it, and well in advance of becoming pregnant. Someone else told me it could have been exposure to a particular processed food. Another claimed it could have been the anti-anxiety medication I took for a few months over ten years ago when I was in college. And a chiropractic physician (not the one I'm seeing now) said it was my poor spinal alignment at the time, causing poor nervous system health.

September 21, 2010 :: Ewan hangs on while he gets an echo

I hope I'm not completely off my rocker in reasoning that it's not a huge leap between 1) Someone saying to me that doing X (or not doing X) may cause congenital heart defects, and since your child was born with a heart defect, you must have done (or not done) X, and 2) Feeling accused of having caused it. These things are said by persons with little to no knowledge of my actual habits or medical history, and it has always been the case that they have no way of knowing the particulars of Ewan's case. These conversations took place primarily during my pregnancy, but also have occurred since Ewan's death.

I don't think it's a stretch to say that I have been blamed for causing my son's heart defect.

It is almost universally the case that I am too shocked at the not-so-subtle implication being made about me and my behavior to say anything in response at all. Just like anything else, I try to presume the best intentions of the person with whom I'm speaking (e.g., perhaps telling me this is meant to give me knowledge that may help me prevent a heart defect in my next pregnancy, their intent is not to accuse, etc.), but it's honestly difficult to assume the best of intentions from someone who appears to be assuming negligence on my part. Presumptions are made about what I have and have not done, and based on these presumptions, the would-be expert has the answer for how to prevent it "next time."

Next time? Why are we talking about "next time" when I'm more concerned about the child who is in my belly right now? And we already know he has a heart defect, so of what particular use is that information now?

What's ironic about these assumptions is that we actually do know from Ewan's doctors, surgeons, and a genetic counselor what caused Ewan's heart defect based on the tests that they ran. Statistically speaking, there is no known cause most of the time, but in our case, we were able to find out. If you don't remember me mentioning it, it's because I haven't -- too much was going on when we found out (the day he came out of surgery), and too much has happened since. It wasn't anything I could have prevented, even years in advance of becoming pregnant. It was not a medication, it was not a toxic exposure, it was not anything my diet, it was not a vitamin deficiency, it was not my spinal alignment, nor was it anything else we did or did not do. In other words, we had absolutely zero control over Ewan having a heart defect. That is we know for sure.

I know only too well how completely aggravating it is to have no control over this. I took the best possible care of myself, and my son still got a heart defect and died. So why this need to find an underlying reason for the random and inexplicable -- to identify a cause and relegate responsibility? Nothing on earth could have stopped this from happening. It was like winning the lottery everyone wants to lose.

I could respond with as much information to those who assign me with the responsibility of the defect. But knowing I'm talking to someone who is presuming upon my ignorance and/or negligence does not exactly induce me to be explicit with them. There is nothing I need to defend.

I don't know what else to say except, "We know with certainty that's not what it was," as firmly and as clearly as I can, and leave it at that (hands clasped calmly behind my back and not squeezed around any throats).

This one I don't have figured out to my satisfaction. It feels as though my hands are tied. I do not want to allow someone else's posture toward me to place me in a defensive position. But in not saying or doing anything more, it almost feels like I'm letting someone get away with something criminal. It is exasperating.

* * * * *

Conversation time!

Fellow parents, I'm looking to you. I'm guessing I'm not alone in this. Have you had an experience similar to any of these? What did you say or do? It doesn't have to be a heart defect -- any health issue your child faced where someone else said you were responsible for having caused it somehow. In retrospect, is there anything you wish you had said or done differently at the time?

Lace up your gloves and let the discussion begin on the Team Ewan page on Facebook.

Conversations :: "Just wait until ..."

Losing a child makes for some potentially strained and awkward social interactions, especially when you’re meeting people for the first time. I thought I would spend some time this week talking about what some of those conversations have been and how we’ve chosen to handle them. These posts are intended to be descriptive (my explanation of what we have chosen to say or not say in these conversations) rather than prescriptive (this isn’t me saying: “this is how you do it”). I simply want to share what these conversations are, what has worked for me, and hopefully spark some discussion around what has worked for you if you’ve been a part of conversations like these as well.

* * * * *

Like many expectant mothers, I'm eager to meet my baby. She already is evidencing some rather feisty and distinctive personality traits that I recognize in myself, or that remind me of things my mother told me about her pregnancy with me. She tends to be a night person like her daddy (and I am one who is infinitely better with mornings) and definitely responds to sounds coming from the world outside. I wonder who she is, what she will be like, and how she will exhibit these traits on the other side of the womb. I am so excited to meet her!

In conversations with other mothers, it is not at all uncommon for me to say something along those lines. It is also not uncommon for me to hear, "Just wait until ..." and from here you can fill in the blank with almost any of the typical challenges of mothering an infant: the baby is screaming at 3 am, you're so sleep deprived you can't see straight, you've got spit-up and poop all over you, you haven't showered in four days, and so on.

I call this my "what it feels like to have a baby in the NICU" photo.

Having missed out on all these things the first time around, phrases like these strike a bitter pang with me. Especially among those who know our story, I know that it's not the case that their intention is to point a finger at my inexperience with the dailiness of mothering and raising a child. But it almost always feels that way. I would have infinitely preferred diaper blowouts and spit up and 3 am feedings to open heart surgery, believe me -- but I was not offered the choice between the two. In fact, I hardly got to do anything for Ewan myself except on the night he died.

Depending on the particulars of the conversation, this is really where I have to bite my tongue. Just as I mentioned in the previous post, my goal is to acknowledge the truth without hitting people over the head with it. I could easily point out their inexperience with NICU waiting rooms, talking to surgeons about heart surgery on their infant, or making time-sensitive decisions on behalf of a child that are quite literally life or death. Pointing out these things would fall, in my mind, to the category of "whacking them over the head with it." I trust it isn't their goal to make me feel badly about my inexperience, but rather to demystify the idea that all new mothers are only ever completely besotted with their infants and basking in the glow of new motherhood. Instead, they're acknowledging openly the difficulty and sacrifices required of caring for someone so small and dependent.

Some of these interactions have occurred in online spaces like Facebook and e-mail. If the comment is made in an online medium, I tend to ignore it (no matter how strong the temptation to say something in response). The topic is sensitive and because it is too easy to misconstrue someone's true meaning when the comment lacks the advantages of in-person communication like tone of voice, gestures, and facial expressions, I tend to leave it alone. I might misread the actual intent behind what they are saying, and they might also miss my true meaning in responding to them. If I respond to what I read into their comment instead of what they actually meant, these assumptions could easily lead to a confusion and tension that never should have been there in the first place. Losing or straining relationships because of misunderstandings like these just isn't worth the risk for me.

When these types of conversations occur in person, I handle my response differently. I typically do say something, but I tread carefully here too because (I'm feeling like a broken record here, but it continues to be pertinent) I don't want to whack anyone over the head with it. I won't even say, "Do you know how lucky you are to be able to do that?" Guilt isn't the goal. Mothers already have plenty to deal with without me trying to heap guilt on top of it! What I will say is that the dailiness of motherhood is, in my mind, preferable to the alternative. Because these talks typically occur with someone who is already familiar with our story, they know what I mean, and no further explanation is required.

And here's the thing: I know I'm going to be so far beyond tired that I will forget my first name. And I know it's going to be difficult to give up my schedule, my body, and my the other things I want to do to the needs of a little person. I will find it difficult to smell constantly of breast milk and baby poop, and will (I don't think I'm going out on a limb here) not enjoy wearing spit-up anymore than the next person does. I know I don't know what these things are really like.

But I also know I'm up for the challenge. I'm eager to embrace these things, knowing full well ahead of time that they are going to more difficult than I can possibly anticipate. If there is anything being Ewan's mother has taught me, it's that as much as motherhood is about selflessness and service, it is also a privilege. And frankly, I'm not convinced that I'd feel so strongly about that fact if Ewan had been born healthy and whole. I can say with conviction that he made me a better mother than I possibly could have been without him.

Whether or not you are a mother that has a child in her arms does not alter the fact that the calling of motherhood is a difficult one. And trust me, I'm the last one you will find claiming that full-time infant care is a breeze. When I'm talking to someone where this is a topic of conversation, it is never my goal to dismiss the fact or to make anyone feel guilty for pointing to one of the many aspects of mothering I did not get to experience with my first child. I have a perspective now that no one would envy, and where I can, I will do my part to acknowledge that the dailiness of motherhood -- with all the poop and spit-up and fatigue it entails -- is, in fact, a very good thing.

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Conversation time!

If you're a parent, what did you find it most difficult to give up when your child arrived? Was there anything you expected to be difficult that you found wasn't so bad after all? What aspects of parenthood do you find rewarding? Are there any that took you completely by surprise?

If you're not a parent but know someone who is, how has parenthood changed your friends and your relationship with them? How do you perceive parenthood based on what you've observed?

The conversation is happening on the Team Ewan Facebook Page.

Conversations :: "Is this your first baby?"

Losing a child makes for some potentially strained and awkward social interactions, especially when you’re meeting people for the first time. I thought I would spend some time this week talking about what some of those conversations have been and how we’ve chosen to handle them. These posts are intended to be descriptive (my explanation of what we have chosen to say or not say in these conversations) rather than prescriptive (this isn’t me saying: “this is how you do it”). I simply want to share what these conversations are, what has worked for me, and hopefully spark some discussion around what has worked for you if you’ve been a part of conversations like these as well.

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“Is this your first baby?”

Since moving here, we get this question a lot -- though sometimes it’s not phrased as a question at all: “So, this must be your first baby.”

This is a question for which I was somewhat prepared when we moved. I knew that moving to a place where we knew almost no one and being obviously (by now) very pregnant, paired with the evidence (or lack thereof) strangers and acquaintances have in front of them, the question is a natural one.

When it comes to talking about Ewan, I really don’t mind if telling the truth makes people uncomfortable. Babies do, in fact, die sometimes -- falling squarely into the category of I-know-these-things-happen-but-now-I'm-confronted-with-it-personally, it is to be expected that answering this question honestly may make people squirm a little. I don’t want to ram it down anyone’s throat (and certain social situations do sometimes require some additional delicacy), but I do not want to shy away from acknowledging the truth about our firstborn and our story.

Though not every single conversation takes the same course, this is typically how it goes:

"First baby?"

I will respond, “No, this is our second.”

Then they will ask if our firstborn is a boy or a girl, and how old he is (for some reason, we almost always get the “how old is he?” question before asking what his name is).

I will tell them that our son Ewan would have been a year old now.

You would be surprised how many people either completely miss or ignore the “would have been.” If they do, I don’t jump right in and tell them that he died. There are neighbors here, for example, whom I’ve told “This is our second baby,” but in the more than two months we've lived here now, they’ve obviously never seen Ewan. And they haven’t asked. My goal really is not to beat them over the head with it, and if they’re not curious or interested enough to ask the question, I am not about to walk up to them after taking out the trash and say something like, "Hey, did you know our baby boy died?"

In some different social settings -- for example, I recently had this conversation a few times with other guests at a party an acquaintance of ours was having to celebrate her recent marriage -- I really will let it go at this point. It’s not my goal to steal attention or yank the spotlight so it’s shining on me. I’ve told them we have a son, that this is our second child, and if that’s all they care to know, then I’m not going to force it.

But like any proud and doting mother, you better believe I will share more if they ask!

If they do catch the “would have been” part (which most people do), they ask -- typically with worried or quizzical looks -- for an explanation. They want to know what "would have been" means. I tell them our son was born with a serious heart defect and lived for sixteen days. At this stage, I don’t go into a great level of detail, thinking that it's probably a lot to deal with meeting a couple for the first time, only to find out that when you innocently asked them about their children, they spring on you the information that their child has died.

People truly have surprised me with the generosity of their responses. They express their sadness, their sympathy, and typically tell me how very sorry they are for our loss. It is only natural that some people will feel particularly awkward about having posed the question -- as if bringing it up will cause me additional pain. Whether or not this is the case, I will add something to the effect of, “We are very excited that he is going to be a big brother, and that this little sister of his will have someone very special watching over her.”

I say it this way because it continues to acknowledges Ewan and attempts to communicate that it’s okay for me to talk about it and for them to ask about it if they want to. It’s the truth of our story and personally, I don't mind talking about it openly. Many times, this opens up conversations about their own losses, or stories of others they know who have lost children as well.

I’m no expert in holding these conversations, but I have found that this approach is what works for me. It’s important to me to acknowledge Ewan when people ask if (or assume) Austen is our first, and it really doesn’t bother me if the truth of our loss makes someone else feel a little awkward or uncomfortable for a little while -- but I also want to have enough tact to do it in a way that is not (as I stated earlier) akin to shoving it down their throats, whacking people over the head with it, or attempting to steal attention away from a new bride at her own party from people I will probably never see again.

I will admit, it can be difficult for me to let it go when people miss or don’t acknowledge the “would have been” part. I want to tell them about Ewan. I want to show them pictures and tell them how amazing he is, tell them how hard he fought. But because he is so sacred to me and because it’s so important to honor his memory, I’m not going to force him on anyone. If I do, I fear that’s the point at which I cross the line from it being about acknowledging and honoring him to it being about me getting attention.

And that is most definitely not the point.

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And now ... how about some conversation of our own?

If you’re a parent who has lost a child:

How have you chosen to handle these types of conversations? What have you learned from these interactions? Has anything about how you’ve handled them or what you've said changed as a result? How did the people you were speaking with respond?

If you’ve been the one on the outside asking the question:

How did that feel? How did the parent you were speaking with respond to your question? How did you respond when they told you?

Feel free to discuss on the Team Ewan page on Facebook. I’d love to learn from you about how you've navigated this dicey territory, and hear what you have to say.