I belong to some wonderful online groups that support parents who have lost children. In those early days and weeks after Molly died, I spent hours online reading and reading and scrolling and scrolling. There were so many stories that resonated with me. There were other moms new to the journey like me, and others that were years into it.
I had found “my people”.
In the nine years since Molly died my social life has transformed. It went away completely for a long time. Going out was all manner of impossible.
I would have to shower, something I did in the driveway at the time.
I would have to talk to people. While I could carry on simple conversations, most people couldn’t talk to me. They didn’t know what to say.
I would have to appear normal. “No one wants to see you upset” I was told repeatedly. Even Coach Luti would admonish me to maintain decorum. “Work all day, cry all night” he would tell me.
At nine years in, I go out in public a lot more than I once did. But it is still different. My social circle is completely different. And my social activities consist primarily of coaching, working out, going to school board meetings, and tap dancing.
I cannot remember the last time I was in a movie theater. I haven’t gone out for dinner here in Concord in forever. I have not gone to a bar with girlfriends for a drink since I don’t know when.
While I am as outgoing as ever, I am most comfortable with people who met me after Molly died. I do not have to try to be anything other than what or who I am. There is no expectation of me to return to the “old Barb”, or “the Barb I knew”.
She doesn’t exist anymore.
While new people are easier for me to interact with than longtime friends and family can be, the easiest people for me are the angel parents. The moms and dads who have lost children.
There are millions of us.
Some of our children died young. Others when older. Others as adults. None of these details matter. If you gave birth to them, or fathered them, or adopted them, they are your children and they are supposed to bury you.
This first week of April is a tough one for me. Molly was born on April 1st, 2003, so I have a string of memories, some of events that happened, and some of events I thought my life would have. These memories can drown me.
Enter the angel moms and dads.
I wrote in my email this week about Jess, a mom I met at the cemetery on Molly’s birthday. Her son died just eight months ago. She is fresh in it and feels utterly alone. I get it. She feels this way because she is utterly alone, even in a room full of people.
The day after Molly’s birthday I was sitting on my porch when the guy in the picture showed up. His name is Mike, and I have known him since I first started coaching in 1990. He coaches at a New Hampshire high school and is one of the most enthusiastic and positive people I know.
He lost his son two years ago. Jess’s son was 18. Mike’s son was 30. Neither parent could talk about their child without tears. Their breath catching in their throat, the words becoming jumbled.
I cried too.
In an unexplainable way the unjudged and free to flow tears are often the best part of these conversations. No one rushing to comfort us and wipe away evidence of our grief. We can be sad, angry, confused, scared, and even joyful at times. We share all manner of stories that cover all of our weird behaviors and nighttime terrors. We tell stories of our children and what we miss most about them. We share how we are managing day to day. We just talk.
We all feel better after these visits.
(Finally, we think…someone gets me, we think to ourselves)
For those of you reading this who have known me for a long time, please do not feel hurt by these words. There is a large measure of our lives that remain consistent.
I do not really mind that you wish the old Barb would come back. I miss her too. And I don’t want you to leave my life either. It is better with you in it.
But to Mikes and Jessicas of the world, thank you for (sadly) being able to understand what I am going through, and for being willing to not only share your story with me, but for listening to mine.
Community is community regardless of the commonalities that unite us.
So, to Lisa and Brandy, to E R and Cathy, to Melanie and Jenn, and Tricia and Sonja, to David and Jon, to all the moms and the dads who have children in heaven, thank you. I am profoundly glad to know you and equally sad that I have to know you.
I know that you get it.
I get it too.