Grief plays funny tricks

I decided I needed to buy Baby Girl some flowers.  But honestly they were mostly for me, because I am desperate for spring, and because I needed something to remind me to rejoice.  A few hours after experiencing elation at the good news of our daughter's health I thought of Oliver, the ring with his fingerprints on my finger, and the helium began to seep out of me.  I began swirling down into a confusing mixture of grief, shame, sorrow, relief, and a host of other conflicting emotions.  And so I did what I always do when I feel something too intensely for comfort - I stuffed it all down and stopped feeling.  I was ashamed of my feelings, their intensity, and even the fact that I was experiencing them instead of just being happy.  

But I have been learning, in great part to my darling son, that this is not healthy and will cause me to eventually implode.  It is not a natural habit yet, but I am learning to combat these emotional black holes with truth.  It is the only thing that gives freedom from their gravity-like pull on my soul.  

So I force myself to weed through my emotions ask God to help me discern truth from lies.

I am relieved and thankful that our daughter is well.  I do not want to experience the challenges of the Oliver's life all over again.  But then my breath catches and it feels like ingratitude for the gift of our son and the wealth of blessing his life brought into ours.

It feels like I am betraying Oliver or valuing him less when I celebrate the Baby Girl's health, though I know that is not the case.  Celebrating a new life does not mean that he is forgotten.  The truth is that rejoicing that Baby Girl appears to have perfect health does not mean that I loved Oliver any less because of his sickness, or that he was any less perfect for the purpose for which he was created.

I am not one to quote popular TV shows, but I enjoy Julian Fellows' writing and resonate with how he and Penelope Wilton have portrayed Isobel Crawley's grieving her son Matthew's death on Downton Abbey.  Violet Crawley, the Dowager Countess (I confess I enjoy just about anything that involves Maggie Smith), invites Isobel to a dinner party and a private opera concert.  Isobel at first declines, explaining,

“Yes, but you see I have this feeling that when I laugh or read a book or hum a tune, that it means that I've forgotten him, just for a moment and it’s that, that I cannot bear.”

Yes, it feels like forgetting, but I know that it is not, so I tell my self the truth over and over and let it, word by word, verse by verse, fight the black hole feelings that come from shame and lies and accept those that remain in a felt paradox - I can and will rejoice with thanksgiving and remember with thanksgiving.  And the truth is that we can not possibly forget - we needed Oliver - we are changed forever because of him.

After reconsidering, attending the concert, and having a delightful evening, Isobel thanks the Countess and notes how grief can play funny tricks on your thinking.  Though I think her lines were more eloquent than that.

So here's a rosebud to celebrate our new little one.  We are thankful for you, Baby Girl.  And we rejoice that you are well, and I think your big brother does too.