I am a bad babyloss mother. I admire with all my heart the tenacity with which the other babyloss mothers write on their blog about their lost babies, even after they have had the rainbow baby to distract from the topic and to cut their writing time available into shreds. I have not written about Adrian in a long time. On January 2 of this year, I almost forgot that it was his anniversary. I write this with great shame, and I am afraid of being judged and scolded by the other babyloss mothers, just as I am also afraid of being dismissed as not deserving of being part of the babyloss mama group. In fact, I have been removed off a couple of other women's blogs because, I guess, I don't really write a lot about my grief, and hey, I honestly don't become aware about my grief all that often.
Except you know what? I carry this grief in my own way. And my way might involve not bringing the pain to consciousness all that often. My way might be different. My baby has died. I have another one, and that brings me immense joy, and fills up a void that would otherwise suck my life in, and leave me devoid of energy, just like it did for one and a half years. But my first baby, Adrian, is dead, and his death is there, in my mind, forever. It comes up at times, often without much pain, but occasionally with heart-stabbing soreness. I suppress a lot of it, I know that. I become aware at how much I suppress at times like that. But maybe that is what I need to do. There is no telling of what is right and wrong, and I have felt a bit let down by the community when the links to my blog disappeared after I had Emma and stopped blogging so much about the loss of Adrian. I guess I felt less "accepted". That is not what matters the most, though. What matters the most is that I accepted myself less. As if I must be conforming to a certain pattern of behaviour, of blogging, of feeling, of remembering.
Yo, I do things my own way. I am saying this for my critical self, the one that chides me for being an inferior babyloss mama. I love Adrian with all my heart, even if sometimes I forget to dust his urn. I wish for him to be here just as much as always, even though I am so profoundly happy that Emma is, that I sometimes forget to be sad about the fact that he is not. And, if on the anniversary of his death I nearly forgot to light a candle and say a prayer, it is because I was to busy being happy and living my life, the way he would have wanted me to, the way I would have wanted him to. It is a fine balance between living on and remembering, and sometimes we do one better than the other, but nobody (lest of all ourselves) should be critical of how we handle this fine balance. It changes daily anyway. There will be days full of living in the present, and days of waddling in the past. We do the best we can. And we all deserve love, understanding, and the space to be who we are.
Now if only my critical self would listen and learn...