It was October of 2008. I felt like I was dying. I couldn’t go back. The pain wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t catch my breath. I railed against it. Begged to be told it was almost over. Cried out in fear. I felt out of control. I was taken over by a force that I had never met. My body was not my own. The whole world was wrong. I knew my life would never be the same. There was nothing else to do but surrender. I remember saying, “God got this wrong.” I was broken. Alone. Nobody could do this for me.
And then he was here. Earthside. My first son. My Noah.
My life was altered forever.
And there was grief waiting for me.
After the birth of my first son, I remember telling my sister that there needed to be a statute of limitations before I shared what happened during labor. I remember feeling like I was not prepared for what happened. That the support network in place for watershed events in life felt severely lacking. Yes I took the classes and read the books and did my homework, but transformation has to be felt, not researched.
Motherhood is a sacred dimension that has changed how I interact with the world. I’ve always been a sensitive person, meaning I feel things very deeply. I’m incredibly aware of how people feel. I walk into a room and feel it before I see it.
After Noah was born, my sensitivity increased 100-fold. I was even more tender to the vibration of the world. I looked at each and every person on the planet as a miracle. I had Noah (and my other two kiddos) at home and I felt so protective of our space. I didn’t want visitors. I wanted the curtains to remain closed. I wanted the temple that had been created by his birth to remain. I wanted to breathe him in and keep him close so the world wouldn’t spoil the magic. I had a hard time communicating my needs because the pace of the world demanded that I “bounce back.” To let other people in. To resume life as though nothing had happened.
The world was not sweet enough for him. Healthy enough for him. Kind enough for him. The pure love that coursed through his body didn’t match what the world had to offer and I was overcome with grief. How would I ever let him out into the world? How could I make “them” understand? How was I going to ever leave him? What was I thinking by bringing pure love into an environment that was not worthy of him?
I was also in a tremendous amount of physical pain. I was completely different. My body was no longer for me. This new creature demanded every ounce that I had. Even during pregnancy, my body still felt like my own. I was whole. Now my body was split in half. There was pain. And loss. And joy like I had never felt. Explaining how I felt required too much. I was only able to just FEEL. I had no idea how I would ever return to “normal” let alone be a successful business owner. Oh, and you want me to “wife” too. Dear God. Too much.
The wide range of emotions after Noah was born was incredibly disorienting for me. I watched other moms with envy. They seemed to take to motherhood effortlessly. I felt clumsy. Messy. Raw. Interrupted.
Birth is a course-changer.
As is death.
It was February 2012. I was in the hospital with my Grandma Lucy. She had just had a stroke. Her room was quiet. Filled with the buzz of fear from my family and the scent of lavender from the oils I brought with me. She was dying. Her 92-year old body was shutting down. I knew my life would never be the same. There was nothing left to do but surrender. She was there when I was born. And now it was my turn to be there as she passed. She was my dearest friend. My confidant. The one who KNEW me and LOVED me as me. I massaged her feet. Told her she was so free. Reassured her that we were okay. Wished her love and luck as she left her earthly body. I witnessed her transition to the mystery. It was one of the most joyful experiences of my life. And I was broken.
My life was altered forever.
And there was grief waiting for me.
Grief is like a kaleidoscope that changes how you look at life. The light is fractured. Colorful. Surreal.
The days and weeks after Lucy died were intense. And severely dissatisfying. Because my grandmother had “had a good long life” I didn’t feel like I could grieve her too loudly because this was how it was “supposed to go.” That’s another article. But it seems that there are varying degrees of what’s allowed in our culture.
I wanted to scream and wail and make someone understand. I wanted to be heard. I wanted my loss to be witnessed. I remember thinking: “I don’t need a casserole. I need a witness!” I wanted someone to acknowledge that it was different. That I was different. That our family was never going to be the same. We were fractured.
I wanted someone to sit with me in the reverence of the beauty in which we participate in momentarily. Please don’t require me to “go back to normal.” Please allow me to get to know myself in a new way. Please honor my humanity and my spirit by bearing witness to my transformation. Patiently. Uncomfortably.
It was a familiar experience. So much like Noah’s birth.
Noah and Lucy’s lives briefly intersected in time and space. Spending time with them both was like being wrapped up in the best of the best of love. She LOVED him. She called him “winsome” and was thoroughly bemused by him. Oh. I just loved it. Love it still.
His birth and her death were momentary passages of time that have altered the rest of my moments. The vibration of grief (and joy) that I still feel is like a colorful piece of silk that is woven into the daily minutiae of my life. At times it gets tugged so hard and I lose my breath. At other times, my lips curl up and happiness leaks out my eyes at my good fortune to be alive and to have known/know them.
We are complex beings with language and feelings, and pairing them can be challenging because we are talking about transformation. It’s ineffable. And fundamental. There’s a physiology to grief. A feeling like the bottom has dropped out. A breaking. A reminder that this is temporary and we are LOVE. A visceral recognition of being a part of the fabric of life itself.
Grief, joy, and transformation, if you’re willing, reveal you to yourself. Thank God.
