Three Minus One: Stories of Parents' Love and Loss (11 page)

My blog entry from January 2013—written at the request of the film’s director, and my best friend, Sean Hanish—was something of an exception in that I am one of the few posters who had not experienced the loss of a child. I wrote of my experiences of knowing Sean and his wife, Kiley; of attending the memorial service for their son, Norbert; and of visiting the movie set. My purpose in writing was simply to encourage others like me—friends and family of those who have experienced a loss—to be present and available, and to listen when our loved ones want or need to talk about what they are going through. Given the content of the other entries, I expected mine to pass with little or no notice. However, after it was posted, it actually garnered a few comments on the blog page and on Facebook. Beyond the fact that it caught anyone’s attention at all, I was surprised by the content of several of the comments, which said, in effect, “Thanks for sticking by Sean. I lost a lot of friends when I lost my child.”

I was incredulous. Who would turn away a friend at a time when support was needed the most? I figured the behavior described in
those few comments had to anomalous. But a little further reading and research, along with some anecdotal evidence, revealed that abandonment by friends is a fairly common occurrence under these circumstances.

I couldn’t get my head around that at first. After all, isn’t this what friends suit up for? Let’s face it: most of a good friendship is pretty easy. It’s hanging out laughing. It’s grabbing a pizza at 1 a.m. It’s going to that movie/concert/game that you both want to see. Those shared experiences are supposed to be the foundation for something, aren’t they? And if it’s not being there for each other when things get tough, then what is it? Friends are supposed to be the family that you get to choose.

But then I remembered something that I thought about during the aftermath of Norbert’s death, when I reflected on the conversations I had with Sean, and with mutual friends after Norbert’s memorial service. I found that I heard the same phrase over and over again. I said it myself, I heard others say it to Sean and Kiley, and I heard the guests say it to each other. We used the phrase so often, I didn’t stop to question its veracity until later. But when I really thought about it, I realized we were all telling The Big Lie. The Big Lie can take many forms, but it almost always starts with the same three words:

“I can’t imagine…”

I think I first told a version of The Big Lie to Sean on the phone when he told me they had lost Norbert: “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” I know I heard several versions of The Big Lie during or at the memorial service: “I can’t imagine how they feel” or “I can’t imagine what this is like.” Often, the three words stand by themselves, and the sentence remains incomplete, but we all understand what it is that the speaker ostensibly can’t imagine.

But it’s a lie. Can those of us who haven’t lost a child really know or experience the pain of parents who have? Of course not. But can we imagine it? Absolutely. The truth is that it’s not that we
can’t
imagine it, but rather that we
don’t want to
. As you would expect, most of the guests at Norbert’s memorial, myself included, were contemporaries
of Sean and Kiley, which meant that many of us were parents of young children. What would it take for us to imagine ourselves in their position? All it really takes is to sit down and try to conjure up an image of losing one of your children—to try to convince yourself, even momentarily, that a child that you love more than life itself was taken from you before it ever got a chance to breathe or eat or laugh.

The human imagination is a limitless resource, and one could easily tap into it to better sympathize with the parents of a stillborn child. Understandably, though, most parents would never let their minds voluntarily go that dark of a place and try to capture the feeling of losing their child. And so instead, we tell The Big Lie and pretend that the experience is so alien, so beyond our comprehension, that it surpasses our ability to even imagine it. In doing so, we put an emotional distance between ourselves and the tragedy, and we let ourselves feel secure that this horrible thing has happened to
them
, and it can’t happen to
me
.

Around the time of Norbert’s memorial service, I confronted The Big Lie a couple of times. The first wasn’t by choice. Knowing they would be unable to get out the words, Sean and Kiley asked me to deliver a eulogy for Norbert that they had written. (A greater honor, I will probably never know.) As I read their moving words, I couldn’t help picturing myself trying to write something similar for one of my own kids and, for whatever reason, I thought of having to come up with a eulogy for my son, who was then just three. The second was on the plane ride home after the service. While thinking about Sean and Kiley, my mind raced back to the day my then twenty-two-month-old daughter was born. Minutes after her delivery, she stopped breathing and needed to be resuscitated by the attendant medical staff. I remembered the abject terror of waiting to hear that she would be okay, and began to wonder about the alternate universe in which she didn’t pull through. In both cases I quickly became overwhelmed with emotion and had to purposefully steer my mind away from the thoughts of any harm coming to my children. My imagination was taking me places I didn’t want to go.

Which brings me back to disappearing friends. While I certainly can’t condone the abandonment of a friend who is grieving the loss of their child, I’d like to think that it’s not because those people are callous or indifferent to the suffering. Rather, I think it’s an extension of The Big Lie. Some must take “I can’t imagine…” to the next step, which I suppose is, “I won’t even deal with this.” It’s human nature to want to dodge pain—be it physical or emotional. By avoiding the situation entirely, these people can live in the phony world they’ve constructed, where terrible things only touch other people’s lives, and can’t invade theirs. To an extent, I can understand the desire to do that. We all want to believe that our children will be safe and that we can protect them from any dangers. But a stillbirth is one of those events that cruelly demonstrates to us that, sometimes, we have zero control over what happens to our loved ones, no matter how careful we are. By avoiding the parents, these former friends can shut out one reminder that tragedy can befall any of us, with or without warning.

Parents who have lost a child have taken up residence in a town that no one wants to visit. While staying away reveals an astonishing failure of character, I don’t think it makes those people evil. It simply makes them afraid, flawed, and all too human. That’s why it’s so magnificent that a community has built up around
Return To Zero
. That community is a place where parents can share their similar but unique stories; where they can be assured that they are not alone no matter how much they may sometimes feel they are; and because of the shared experience of almost everyone there, where no one ever has to tell them The Big Lie.

Paul De Leon

T
oday is Thursday, or so I’m told. Mommy must have been really busy today, because we were moving nonstop. Right when I would get comfortable, she would take off again. She told someone she was
going to work
earlier. I could hear music and the laughter of other children for most of the day. I wonder what her work is.

Time has been going by so slow. I just want to meet her. I don’t know how much longer I have to wait, but it seems to be getting closer. I’ve been growing like a weed the last few weeks. I’m pretty sure I put on at least a pound in just the past few days, in fact—though that’s not all my doing. Apparently Mommy loves chicken nuggets. I do, too, I admit.

My hands and arms are long now, and I can reach so far in all directions. Sometimes, for fun, I extend my entire body and let out a long stretch. When I do that I hear Mommy giggle, and it makes me smile. I love her laugh. Her voice is what soothes me when I’m scared or uncomfortable. Sometimes I hear another voice nearby when Mommy laughs, too. That voice is deeper, but caring. He seems just as pleased with my stretching and kicking as Mommy is. I wonder who he is.

I’m ready to meet them. I know they think they have been waiting for me, but I know I have been waiting for them even more. I know it will be soon. I can just tell. I’ve started twisting and turning, getting myself ready to enter the world.

It’s the end of the day, and the house is quiet now. All the sounds
are gone. My eyes are getting heavy. Mommy is comfortable now it seems. Her soft snoring tells me she is asleep. I think I will join her and get some rest.

I twist and turn to get comfortable and finally find a spot that I like. My eyes shut, and my heart beats a little slower. I am so tired that I barely notice that I’m a little bit uncomfortable in this new position. I drift off to sleep—deeply, comfortably, resting.

Something bright is making me squint my eyes. I can only have been asleep for a few minutes—what is this? I try to open them, but I can’t.

“Bella.” A deep voice is calling my name. It startles me at first. I stretch my arms and legs, and that’s when I notice that my surroundings are different now—quite different. There’s nothing to kick at now. The walls that held me before are no longer here to push against.

“Bella.” Again the voice shakes me. It’s a deep voice, but not like the one I’m used to hearing. This voice smiles constantly. It is caring and happy—but if I strain a bit, I can hear a hint of sadness in it, too.
What is there to be sad about? I’m entering the world now. I’m about to meet Mommy; I’m about to meet everyone!

That thought excites me, and it makes me open my eyes at once. Again the brightness is overwhelming and my eyes try to shut, but this time I push them open again and try to take in what is around me. There is only beauty. I know no other words to describe it. I feel myself smile. I feel my feet warm against the ground.

I looked down and see that I’m standing.
How?
My toes stretch apart and wiggle in the green blades between them. The ground is soft and cushy. I notice my hands. I bring them up to my face and tickle my nose. I laugh at myself.
What is all of this?

“Bella.” This time, the voice comes from right beside me. I turn and see that someone is standing to my right, but I can’t see his face, only an intense brightness. I don’t fear it. I look up into brightness. “Mommy?” There is no answer.

I step closer and peer into the brightness. Suddenly a man’s open arms and hands are bending down toward me. I reach out and place my small, round, chubby hands into his massive ones. Still, no fear overcomes me. After a moment, his hands leave mine and reach up under my arms. In one swift motion, I am light, and I am gliding toward him.

As he pulls me in closer, I finally see his face. His eyes are radiant—a color not yet discovered. Warm and loving, they display his joy at holding me. My pouty lips attempt a smile and succeed. He smiles back at me. More brightness comes forth. He pulls me even closer to his face.

“My sweet Bella.”

“Mommy?” I am still confused.

“No, sweet girl. It’s not Mommy.” That hint of sadness I detected earlier spikes as he says this.

A small feeling of emptiness sets into my stomach, and as I watch his face, a tear forms in his eyes and drops majestically down his smooth skin. In that instant I notice that I, too, am crying—and I realize that I won’t be meeting Mommy after all.

As if he has read my mind, he quickly pulls me in and embraces me. The warmth of his broad shoulder soothes me beyond anything I could have ever imagined. The sadness I felt a moment ago transforms into complete joy. I know I will be safe from now on.

After a long time, he places me back on the grass, and I sit down. He sits down beside me and holds my hand.

“So I’m not meeting Mommy?” I ask, pulling at the green landscape.

I don’t see him smile, but I feel it. He squeezes my hand. “Yes, child, you will meet her.”

I perk up. “I get to meet her?” I nearly yell, overcome with excitement.

He laughs and nods. “Yes, you will.”

“Oh, when? When, when, when? I want to meet her!”

“One day, I promise. You will meet Mommy, and Daddy, too!”

Daddy
. That’s the name of the other voice I used to hear. The
deeper, caring voice. Enthusiasm fills my entire body, and I dance with glee, hopping, skipping, and rolling around on the grass.

He laughs heartily. “Bella.”

I roll once more before coming to a stop on my back. I tilt my head up and look at him. “Yes?”

“Before you meet Mommy and Daddy, there are a few other people I want you to meet.”

I feel my face form a question. “Other people?”

I stand up and walk toward him. He takes my hand and we make our way to the street, which is made of gold, and he extends his hand and points. My gaze follows its direction. Just on the horizon there stands a large mass of people—faces I somehow know, faces with smiles just as bright as the one on his face.