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
Sue, I’m sorry for the loss of your sweet boy. Thank you for this post. It is beautiful on so many levels.
Thank you, Lisa. I appreciate your kind comment!
Lovely Sue, beautiful words. I saw the whole scene in my mind and the anguish.
Sometimes I wonder if there can be a simple answer to your question. The best thing I can offer is: grace. There but for the grace of God go I… As a Christian, I can see undoubtedly that He led us to a more relaxed, love-directed homeschooling style. Sometimes I wonder why others can’t see how wonderful it is (or the government!). But, much of the time, I judge myself: surely, if I were a more hard-working mother, I would…
Yet, the fruit is in the children. If a child is thriving, growing, learning, and has passions – whether they unschool or classical or CM – and if the mother is relaxed and joyful, then who am I to judge? They have found the right fit for them, even if they don’t match what other people think is right.
But, again, I don’t know! Perhaps we just need to keep our eyes on our own families and stop worrying about everyone else! 😀
Sarah,
Oh yes, when life is going well and we’re happy, we wonder why other families haven’t chosen to live like us. Surely everyone should do what we’re doing? I guess we want to share the good things we’ve discovered!
Perhaps we should stop judging ourselves as well as other people. We’re all just trying to do our best for our families, aren’t we?
Thank you so much for reading my story and stopping by to comment!
Sue, so powerful and moving, thanks for sharing.
Puts me in mind of something my Sophie often says about imagining others complexly. I think she heard that from John Green. So easy to simplify what we see as all there is when there is likely so much going on that we have no idea of.
And not sure where I read this but the idea that it’s much harder to hate close up, feels like a good reminder of the importance of connection, knowing that once we make some form of personal connection, however small, we’re moved that much closer to compassion and recognizing others as complex and multi-dimensional, rather than getting all judgey from afar.
Hayley,
Your comment is very helpful! Oh yes, our compassion increases when we are connected with others in some way. Now I’m thinking about something my Sophie once said: people are often lazy and hurtful with their words when communicating online with people they don’t know. Would they do this if they could see the people and were connected with them in some way?
Hayley, it’s been a real pleasure connecting with you here and in our community. Thank you for reading my story and stopping by!
Wise girls indeed!
Yep there’s a lot to learn navigating these new ways of communicating with each other. And yet on the other hand it’s simple as Sophie suggests. A little bit of kindness and compassion in real life and the same on the ‘net. If only we didn’t have all our own ‘stuff’ to deal with, hmmm.
A pleasure to read your stories, Sue 🙂