Mother's Day

In the UK, Mother's Day is a complete non-event, because we have Mothering Sunday, which is some time in late March or early April (can't remember which now). So I completely forgot it was Mother's Day until a friend emailed to say she was thinking of me today. (Fortunately, after Zoe's death I sent all 3 of our mothers cards because I knew I would forget, so at least they weren't forgotten.)

At first, I thought she somehow knew what we did today, which was why she was thinking of us, but then later in her email she said something that reminded me it was Mother's Day and that she had no clue what today was for us.

The hospital organise memorial/ remembrance services twice a year for all the parents who have lost children, in the hospital chapel. The May service was this afternoon. (The other service is in December.) I wore the same outfit I wore to Zoe's funeral, and just putting it on brought tears to my eyes. My mom bought it for me. It's a lovely trouser suit in grey with white pin stripes. I love it, but I haven't had either the occasion to get dressed up, nor the inclination to wear this very special outfit.

It's been raining on and off for the past week. As I walked to church this morning, with Nellie asleep in the pram, I couldn't help but feel how appropriate it was that it was raining - a gentle soaking rain. One friend called it 'sweet rain from heaven', which reminds me of a line from a worship song about God's mercy.

So I took the back route, the quiet route, to appreciate the rain and to cry. I must have looked a sight - all dressed up, and sobbing my heart out silently so as not to wake Nellie, staggering a bit like a drunk because I couldn't see for tears.

The memorial service was lovely, as these things are. We were given a green 'leaf' to hang on a tree, on which we were invited to write a short message to Zoe. As I was writing it, I suddenly realised that as we'd come in, I'd put Janel's name on the list of names to be read out, instead of Zoe's. I don't know why I did that... I guess I'm just so used to giving Janel's name for things. The realisation was such a shock though that I promptly burst into tears. And proceeded to cry all the way through the service, which was both cathartic and very difficult because I wanted to howl, but didn't feel that would be helpful to the other parents there.

I was struck that we were the only ones (it seemed to me) who were crying. The other parents were very much in control of their emotions. I don't know whether they were just being British, or whether they are just that much further down the line than we are... but I was glad we were sitting upstairs away from most of them because being the only ones crying made me feel very exposed and vulnerable.

We had decided not to take Nellie for 2 reasons - firstly because we needed the time and space to be able to grieve without needing to care for her, and secondly because we thought it might be difficult for other parents to have her there. I was therefore struck by the number of children who did attend with their parents. While I applaud their parents' decision to include them in the grieving process, I found having them there an upsetting and difficult reminder that I should have several children now, and don't. One lady came with her newborn baby, which proceeded to cry for several long minutes....

Another difficult moment for me today was finding out that a woman at church, who is becoming a friend, is pregnant with her 3rd child. She hasn't told me she's pregnant, I found out from someone else. While I'm thrilled for her, I couldn't help but feel stung by the news. I caught myself feeling that she was being selfish - having 3 - when I only have 1. Jealousy raised it's ugly head again. It's completely ridiculous, I know, but grief does play with your mind in the most ridiculous ways.

Actually, writing that has made me realise what another childless friend must go through every time someone around her falls pregnant. For ages I've been thinking that there must come a point when she must simply accept that, until her circumstances change, she is not going to have children. She's been grieving this fact to the extent that I feel she is suffering from depression. I don't see how she can move beyond the depression until she faces the unpleasant facts. I've never said these things to her, because I know how hurtful they would be, and how unhelpful, but if I'm brutally honest, I've thought them... until just this very minute. At least I have the comfort of knowing (hopefully) that I can have another one, or that we are in a position to adopt if we can't (or shouldn't) have more. She isn't in that position. She doesn't have that hope.

I've been able to spend time with other people's babies because I have known the joy of children, and because at some gut level I know I will have more. This friend isolates herself from any friends who have children or are pregnant. Although I've understood at an intellectual level why she's chosen to do that, at a heart level I've found it hard to. On the one hand, I've been cross that she's chosen to put our friendship on hold without giving me a say in it. On the other, I've thought she was being ridiculously self-absorbed. But as she doesn't have the hope that I do, I guess I suddenly understand at a heart level how much she needs to protect herself.

Having said that, I know that, for me, the only way through the grief is to face the things that cause me the most pain head on. Hiding only makes them bigger. I hope that she's chosen the right path for dealing with her grief and that isolating herself isn't going to cause her more harm in the long run. And I hope that I can be a good friend to her and wait patiently until she feels she is able to resume our friendship.

To all of you women out there - to those with kids (or expecting them) and those without, to those who are far from their kids and to those who have lost their kids - Happy Mother's Day!