Bereaved Mother, I See You

I was sitting at a red light on my way to pick up my kids from daycare when a little blue flicker pulled my eyes to the left. A balloon. Its round form bobbed in the air next to a large light post, glimmering as it touched pockets of air illuminated by the sun.

The stoplight in front of me turned green. I pushed down the petal and my car began to move. I was eager to see my children, but the cars in front of me apparently had nowhere to go on this temperamental afternoon. The balloon grew larger in my peripheral vision as my car crept forward. My hands drummed aimlessly on the steering wheel as I waited. The sun began peeling back the clouds, pulling my eyes again toward the balloon’s blue glint as its rays stretched through the gray. Without the car from the left-hand turn lane blocking my vision, I could see it was attached to a tiny wooden cross that was surrounded on both sides by fresh flowers. Daisies. They were yellow, blue and white; cheerful pockets of joy bringing life to loss, holding it up like the balloon on a string. I paused, tears filling the corners of my eyes as I turned back to the road, the cars in front of me picking up speed. The pain of loss. Even the smallest reminders seemed to bring Clara’s absence bubbling back to the surface.

I pushed down the petal harder, fighting tears. I looked back at the balloon, finding it necessary to say goodbye to our shared moment. I swiveled my head forward ready to go, moving so quickly that I almost missed her. A woman, sitting on the ground. She was so small huddled there with her knees drawn to her chest. One hand propped up her chin. The other strummed the petals on the daisies like a piano. I could see that her black hair was pulled back and covered in my rearview mirror. Her body was limp in acceptance beneath its weight. I nearly stopped. His mother. His beautiful mother. How many cars had passed by this balloon, this cross without seeing her? How many cars had driven back and forth like a lawnmower, spitting up gravel without seeing her?

Oh bereaved mother, I see you. How I see you. I see you loving the cross that marks the life of your child; your boy. I see you bringing flowers on the side of a busy road and sitting there, in your spot, loving him.

Bereaved mother, I see you leaving the hospital holding a bag of newborn baby clothes in one hand and no child in the other. I see you walking, tears streaming down your face, as you pass by the families in the waiting room, the questions painted on their faces. I see you in the middle of the night running down the hall to soothe your child, only to remember the cries are phantom cries. I see you hiding rolls of toilet paper behind your pillow. I see you in the car on the way to work, not sure how you will make it through another day at your desk, blinking back tears as you stare at your screen while people around you continue on as if life is normal.

Bereaved mother, I see you visiting your child’s gravesite in the gray stillness of the morning. I see dry eyes that want to cry but don’t know how to. I see the sweat rolling down your neck as the doctor tells you it’s time to leave your child. I see the old pregnancy test you stashed in the bottom of your vanity, a sacred sign of life. I see the IVF babies that only you and your husband know about. I see the tiny clothes you can’t bear to look at, hidden away in the nursery you can’t open. I see the grief books you opened and those you threw away. I see the hospital that you get nauseous when you drive by. I see how hard you try to picture your child’s face, and the pain filling your eyes because you just can’t seem to get it right anymore.

Bereaved mother, I see the worn carpet spots you pass over from nights spent praying that your child would live. I see the room where you first heard the news from your doctor that your child had a terminal illness. I see the words you couldn’t say when the nurse told there is no heartbeat. I see the baby blanket you sleep with at night. I see the tear-stained pages on your Bible. I see how proud you are sharing the beautiful intricacies of your child during her memorial service. I see the moments you sit in your car wondering how you will make the drive to the grocery store, let alone go in. I see how you hide your milk letdown while a newborn cries. I see the way your arms ache for the weight of your child. I see how you long to pick him up from school. I see the clothes you bought to cover a postpartum body with no child to explain the extra weight hugging your hips. I see the way you keep tenderly explaining to your other children where their brother or sister is. I see the spaces between siblings you feel like only you see. I see the sadness that accompanies even the best days. I see you exhausted but unable to sleep. I see the way you long to touch their face every single day. I see how brave you are trying to get pregnant again. I see how brave you are saying you are done trying for more children. I see how people ask if a new child has made it better, and how your mouth struggles to form a response.

Bereaved mother, I see you. I see how you keep loving your child in your own beautiful way. I see the grief that others want to pretend doesn’t exist, and how it has softened your heart, teaching you that joy and sorrow can coexist. I see a lifetime of love in a few minutes. I see the way you look at your child and see perfection, even when the world doesn’t. I see the hands you kissed, the picture frame you walk by and caress. I see the way you say his name. I see the way you long to talk about her. I see the way you buy flowers every week. I see how you lift your shoulders walking back into work because you will not stop living. I see the pregnancy journal you kept. I see the lock of hair you saved. I see the outfit you framed. I see the garden you created. I see the videos you watch with tears streaming down your face as you smile. I see the new sibling you hold in your arms, loving them in addition to, not in replace of, the child you lost. I see how you incorporate your child’s memory into your day. I see you hurting, but choosing to love again and again and again. I see that your child was worthy and worth every second of your pain. I see the way love him or her every single day.

Bereaved mother, I see you. Oh, how I see you. And you are not alone.