The past few months have done a number on my identity. When I think back almost thirty years when I’d had a miscarriage, I remember feeling like motherhood had been stripped from me. From the time I knew I was pregnant, I was a mother, and then in an instant, I wasn’t. Doing the simplest of tasks, getting dressed, making a meal or vacuuming the floor took gargantuan effort. I didn’t understand the complexity of grief then, but I do now.
Everything is filtered through the lense of grief even ten months after the fact. Whether it’s a conversation, a decision of how, where, or with whom to spend my time, it’s all observed from an altered perspective. Like looking through the bottom of an old-fashioned pop bottle, everything is distorted. Nothing looks the same as it once did.
Another bereaved mother once told me that everyday is like groundhog day for a parent who’s lost a child, and it’s true. To others, my loss has becomes old news, “Oh, that was ten months ago.” For me though, it may as well have happened today. Grief is like a computer program that is constantly running in the background of my life. Different nuances of it emerge with a surfaced memory, a holiday or a song on the radio. I’m tired of the incessant pulse of it in my brain, so I frequently shut down. I put on a smile and say I’m fine when I’m not. I say I have a son when asked if I have kids. I don’t acknowledge the child I’ve lost because I don’t want to break down and I certainly don’t want to make others uncomfortable with my brutal honesty. It’s not from pure altruism that people are spared, I just don’t have the energy to deal.
A good day looks like waking up to sunshine and a blue sky. Sounds corny, but trust me on this. When all is dull and grey with your eyes opened or closed, the warmth of sunshine on your face under a blue sky is beautiful. And if you have the energy to leave your cave to enjoy it up close, it’s a freakin’ miracle, my friend.
There’s raspberries too. Popping one of these beautifully plump time capsules reminds me of being a kid in a limitless world. It’s like tasting innocence, when there wasn’t a care in the world. Raspberries remind me of a time when watching Aunt Sadie bake for an entire Saturday morning was considered pure entertainment, of days when I could ride my bike to the lake with my sisters, or lay on a blanket in the backyard with my nose in a book for an entire afternoon. Memories as sweet as those berries pulled from the bush.
I wonder what eight-year-old Monica would have said if someone told her what 2019 would look like. She probably would have headed across the field to the gigantic rock with a fistful of raspberries and had a good cry.
C’mon 2020. No pressure here, but…