Monday, July 20, 2009

Stormy

Almost every evening this summer, at around 5 o'clock, a thunderstorm has rolled in. Some of the storms have been pretty nasty but most are mild, relatively speaking--they're intense while they last but they're short-lived and often you can see the sun somewhere in the distance even while the storms are going on.

This apparently isn't the norm for Colorado summers, but it's all we know of this state so far, and really, it hasn't bothered us. It's a little annoying when it starts to rain right when we're planning to go to the dog park, but the storms are so short that it's usually worthwhile to go anyway and assume the rain will have cleared up by the time you get there.

Recently, the storms haven't been happening quite as often, and while I didn't miss them, when one started last night at around 7:30 in the evening, it felt good. It felt cleansing. I sat on the patio and watched the sky turn gray and the trees begin to sway, and the drops begin to fall. It felt right.

I've been having trouble coping with the death of our neighbors' baby, and it's hard for me to pinpoint the reason why, beyond the obvious, the horrible tragedy of the whole thing. It's not that I'm taking it personally, exactly--it's not like I'm envisioning that the same thing will happen to us someday. It's just that it's so sad, and it hits so close to home, literally and figuratively. Maybe because I'd related it so closely to the purchase of our home and our own future plans.

We had talked with our neighbors about how our oldest child might be only a couple years younger than their youngest. We had talked with them about the baby before we even made the offer on the house, when we were just chatting about the neighborhood while Torsten and I were making our final decision on whether or not we were sure this house was for us. Even then, even before we had made the offer on the house, we had planned to bring them dinner when the baby was born.

We made them dinner on Saturday. Torsten made lasagna and I baked a chocolate cake, and it was my first attempt at baking at high altitude, and the whole time I was making it I was so sad about the reason for it. And I kept thinking about how we'd planned to make them this exact dinner under totally different, and happier, circumstances.

I bought them a sympathy card and there were two other people crowded in front of the tiny sympathy section of the card aisle with me, and I felt so sad about all the sad things that were going on in the world that required sympathy cards. I thought about the congratulatory card we had planned to buy them when the baby was born, and I almost cried right there in the middle of Target.

We bought them flowers and I was totally flummoxed about what would be appropriate. I didn't want anything wildly bright and cheerful, and also nothing too incredibly funereal, and definitely not anything baby pink, or even baby blue. Finally I selected a bouquet of magenta snapdragons and a bouquet of white dendrobium orchids and explained the situation to the florist and asked her to combine the two. And she looked at me with huge sympathy and made a beautiful arrangement out of them. And I felt so sad.

When we brought over dinner they were so effusively thankful, as much as they could have been under the circumstances, and I felt so bad because it's such a small gesture and honestly, it probably does more for us than it does for them, because really, what could it do for them, what could anything do for them? Yes, it helps them get through the mechanics of their day and that's probably the most anybody can do for them right now. Because what can anyone do when your child has died?

And when we brought over dinner we talked with them briefly, and the father, who knows that Torsten and I look forward to having our own children eventually, made sure to tell us that this sort of thing is incredibly rare, that it's one in a million, that there is no reason to worry that it will ever happen to us. And I just looked at him, this man so struck by his own grief and yet still thoughtful enough to think about how it might affect others, and still able to reach out and comfort others even though it seems unlikely that anyone can reach out and comfort him. And I felt so sad.

I think what makes me so sad is that I know that the grief I am feeling for this child and for this family is only the tiniest sliver of the grief they themselves are feeling. I know that the plans we had in relation to this child--make a dinner, buy a card, bring a gift, maybe someday have our child play with her--were so minuscule compared to all the plans and dreams and hopes that this family had for this child. And I feel so sad just with my own tiny sliver of pain and grief, and I cannot imagine how huge and all-encompassing their own wells of pain and grief must be.

And yet they soldier on, and they are nice, and they are thoughtful, and they watch their older daughter in her first-ever camp play, and they soothe their younger daughter when she develops a fever, and they look for a grief counselor and they try to reconfigure their thoughts about their future--maybe they will work more than they had planned?--and sometimes they even smile and sometimes they even, sort of, laugh.

And the strength and the grace and the courage that they exhibit in doing all those things in the face of the unbearable pain they must be feeling... that's almost the worst part. Because they are trying to learn how to live with the inner storm, the storm going on inside that makes the storm outside look like a peaceful, sunny day. And they are slowly succeeding, and yet I imagine that they will never wholly succeed.

26 comments:

  1. :( I can hardly see through the tears.

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  2. One of the blessings in this horrible situation is they have two older children already. Not only do they know they are capable of having healthy babies and truly believe what they tell you (that it's a rare circumstance), but they have their children to force them to power through. Because if you don't have the strength to pull through for yourself, you hopefully do have the strength to pull through for your children. It's clear to me they do have strength and will pull through.

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  3. So, so sad. You guys are great friends to take care of them like that... it's the little things in times like these, I think.

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  4. Your post made me cry. You captured your own thoughts and what they must be feeling so perfectly. It's such a terrible, sad thing, and I'm so glad to hear that there is something you can do for them, even if it is something small. I'm sure it did mean something.

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  5. I love how you explain things.

    LOVE.

    You're such a good person :)

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  6. I know how you feel. Last year, a couple of good friends lost their 2 month old, and it was all I could do to keep myself together. I cried for about 3 days straight, but I couldn't imagine the pain that they were feeling themselves. There's not a lot one can say to someone going through this, but I will say that these people obviously have great friends in you and Torsten.

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  7. The flowers sound perfect. And I think there's a good reason that food is traditionally given to grieving/struggling families: it is so hard to manage the meals, and there are SO MANY OF THEM, especially when young children have to be fed.

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  8. It is a terrible situation. They're lucky to have each other. Also lucky to have a neighbor that brings food, because it gives them one less thing to worry about for a night.

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  9. We almost lost our second son on his second day of life. He lived, thank goodness, but the pain was nearly unbearable. The week we spent thinking we might have to go on with our lives without him in it, was the worst week of my life. A year later, I'm still scarred by this experience. And like you, I can't even fathom what the pain would feel like if he'd actually have died. I am thankful though, that I don't know.

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  10. So very sad. And so beautifully written.

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  11. This is really sad. I know how crushing it may be because I was supposed to have a sister after my first brother but she died when the pregnancy entered the 7th month. It may not be the same but I guess I can imagine. I'm glad you are there for them, I hope with time the pain will be less and less for them. :(

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  12. They have not left my mind since I read your post from last week. I am so, so sad for them. And I KNOW what you mean about taking it to heart, because how can you not? You're watching your own worst nightmare unfold before your eyes.

    I am glad you & Torsten are there for them. That sort of thing, the sympathy & caring & food, means more in a time of grief than most people realize.

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  13. I'm so sorry about all of this. It's incredibly sad. I can't even begin to imagine the grief this family must be dealing with right now. I think the best thing you can do in these situations is to be there for them and support them in any way they need... and it sounds like that's just what you and Torsten are doing.

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  14. This is beautiful and I echo what a lot of people are saying here--you two are good neighbors.

    I also want to say...this is awkward...but sometimes it seems like grief is almost harder the farther you are from the source. No, that's not right. That sounds like it's easy to be experiencing unbearable grief, and it's not. But to be IN it, to be in that spot where the worst thing possible has happened--you can kind of let go, a little. You can stop being afraid, maybe? For a while? Plus it's totally okay if you want to wander the house rending your garments and weeping. Whereas if you're on the outside of the grief you still feel it but can't own it.

    I'm not explaining it well. It sounds like I'm saying "losing a family member is a piece of cake!" Which, my god, no. But there's a certain kind of difficulty in dealing with grief that isn't "yours" but which still kind of knocks you flat on your back. There ought to be a word for it.

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  15. That father's comments? Killed me.

    I'm so sorry for your neighbor's loss. They are very lucky to have friends like you.

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  16. My goodness, Jess. You are what my father calls, "good people."

    Hang in there.

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  17. I have to admit- I've been trying not to think about any of this. Possibly because I'm at 34 weeks and the thought, the possibility that something like this can happen is devastating enough, that it actually happened is terrifying.
    My heart breaks for them- and I'm glad that you are there for them. I can imagine that getting through the normal routines of everyday is the toughest.

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  18. this is such a sad story. i can't imagine how your neighbors are feeling! it was very sweet of you to make them dinner and a cake and get the flowers. i'm sure that brightened their days as much as they could have been brightened. you and torsten are very thoughtful.

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  19. You are really sweet to be such a good neighbor/ friend. When a friend loses a loved one I am always at a loss as to what to do and what to say.

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  20. This is part of why I really don't know if I can have children. I cannot take the worry.

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  21. You seriously have to be the sweetest and most caring person, ever. Now I have to go sob into my pillow.

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  22. You are so sweet. The fact that you care so much and want to help them as much as possible is so kind. They are fortunate to know you.

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  23. This is heartbreaking. Thinking of this family and of you both.

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  24. This is a beautiful post. I'm sure that your act comforted this family more than you realize.

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  25. Thank you for this post. My younger sister and her husband just lost their first baby last week and I am at a loss for what to do. Yes, I lost a future niece or nephew, but they lost their child. This was beautiful and much needed.

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  26. A couple we know just lost their three-year-old last week. I just can't even begin to imagine what it must feel like to walk past that empty nursery.

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