Unschooling: Judging One Another

Thomas died in my arms. I remember thinking: it’s over. 

For 24 hours or maybe 5 months, we’d ridden an emotional roller-coaster.

Hope: there always a chance he will live.

Despair: he’ll probably die. How will we survive?

Hope: we can’t give up.

Despair: things aren’t looking good.

Hope: he’s responding to treatment.

Despair: there’s no more the doctors can do.

The end.

Up and down. Round and round. I was exhausted. For just a moment, I was glad it was over. I couldn’t take any more. But then I thought about having to continue on without our child. As grief gripped my heart, I yearned to hop back on that roller coaster. I would endure anything as long as it wasn’t the end.

Later that grey afternoon, after the nurse had removed all the tubes and wires connected to our son, we spent time with him in the bereaved parents’ lounge. We cradled Thomas within our arms, supporting his head as if he were alive. We gently stroked his soft newborn skin. We soaked him in. And then it was over. We gave Thomas to the nurse. A friend arrived to drive our children home. And then Andy and I returned to my hospital room.

”I’ll make you some tea,” said my husband as I collapsed onto the visitor‘s chair by the high hospital bed. “And how about some chocolate?”

I took the big bar of milk chocolate, and after peeling back the purple wrapper and silver foil, I broke it into pieces. I thought, “My son has just died, and I’m going to eat chocolate.” I looked towards the door. What if someone appeared? What would they think?

“If my son had just died, I wouldn’t be eating chocolate. I’d be too heartbroken to eat anything. Doesn’t she care?”

I cared.

I cared about my husband who’d made a three-hour trip home the previous evening to make sure our children were okay. Who’d then spent all night in the NICU by our son’s side, while the ventilator rose and fell. Who had that morning thought to buy me a bar of chocolate. Something normal. Something good.

I thanked Andy for the chocolate, and then I ate it. It melted in my mouth, but I didn’t taste it.

Years later, I still wonder: what would people think if they knew that my son died and I ate chocolate?

We look at people from the outside, and we think we know what’s going on in their lives, in their minds, in their hearts. We have our opinions.

“They just don’t care.”

”How could they do that?”

”If I were them, I’d have done something different.”

”I could never do that.”

We’re certain we know the story, but could we be wrong? What if the cover of the tale doesn’t match the pages?

Outside: chocolate, love in disguise. Inside, a mother’s broken heart.

I wonder: why do we judge?

Unschoolers are often judged. We’re irresponsible and lazy. Sometimes, we judge too. Why doesn’t everyone unschool when it’s the right thing to do?

How can we share and encourage and learn from each other when we aren’t willing to look further than our own opinions?

Photo by Charisse Kenion on Unsplash