If one doesn’t count all my trips to the liquor grocery store, the soccer fields or my best friend’s house to beg for a decent home cooked meal, I don’t really get out that much.
I’m a bit of a homebody. Always have been, most likely always will be. I take refuge in my house, mainly because I’m too damned lazy to slap on the ole war paint and shimmy into a bra to go play nice with other human beings.
It’s imminently more fun to sit in my own house, half dressed with wild hair and boss my little slaves around while sitting on my maternal throne, enjoying the fruits of my kingdom.
Tomorrow, that will all change.
No, a fairy God-mother hasn’t swooped down and waved her magic wand to sprinkle fairy dust on my head, bestowing money, looks and a winning personality on me.
An invitation arrived in the mail a bit ago, followed by a commanding phone call, demanding my presence tomorrow night for a banquet.
Not a fancy dress type of banquet requiring support hose and Spanx, but a banquet nonetheless. I’ll still have to put on underwear and a bra. Dammit.
Tomorrow is the dead kids banquet and thanks to my beautiful son, I’ve got a ticket. I’d rather he endowed me with a winning lottery ticket, but I suppose I can’t hog all the luck. Damn.
Tomorrow, I have to dress up to walk into a room filled with 300 plus grieving parents and try not to let the morbidity of the event get me down.
Who’s gonna take the bet that I’ll be the one standing next to the punch bowl with a silver flask in hand?
I wouldn’t normally attend such a gala, but on this special occasion (read: my pediatrician twisted my arm and threatened to physically drag my sorry arse to the event guilted me into going) I’m pulling up my boot straps and forcing myself to attend. I will even be speaking to this room filled with wet eyes and heavy hearts.
Nothing like a little public humiliation speaking served with a side of grief to really make for a good time.
So I’m going. By myself. With no Boo. With only a handful of kleenex to fortify myself with. And maybe a flask hidden in my purse.
I try not to define myself as a grieving mother. It irks me when I meet new people and they automatically say, “Oh, you’re the mom who’s son up and died in her arms.” (And yes, people actually do say this. Dumbasses.)
I prefer introducing myself to people as Tanis, writer, wife, mother and internet porn star. It’s way more fun to watch their eyes pop out of their head as they picture me twirling around a pole in my bedroom in front of a computer camera than it is to see them stare at their feet and trip over their tongues wondering what to say to a mom with an angel hanging over her shoulder.
Tomorrow I won’t be the only mom in the room who knows what it is like to walk that lonely walk out of the hospital and into a cemetery.
I won’t be the only mom who masks my pain with inappropriate humour and low cut shirts. I will be surrounded by others who harbour the same weight I shoulder daily.
I’m so not excited to go.
But tomorrow will be an opportunity to reach out to other parents who have just lost a child and are new to this dead kid club. Parents who are floundering in their own sea of pain and wondering just what the hell they did to deserve this special honor.
I remember with a vivid clarity, the first days, weeks, months I wandered around wondering if life will return. I was desperate to talk with other parents who knew of my pain, people who could tell me that one day I would no longer want to hurl myself into my sea of grief and never swim back to shore.
I can’t ignore those parents, as painfully easy as it would be for me to do. Because I was once them. Scarred permanently by a loss so devastating that most people simply can’t comprehend it, wanting answers, seeking relief from the constant cracking of my heart.
Plus, I have a really cute low cut purple top to show off my *assets* that has been sitting in my closet collecting dust, just begging for an opportunity to be worn.
There is another reason I’m going. A more true and real reason.
I get to talk about my Bug. I get to breathe life into him for the duration of my five minute speech and watch him dance in the eyes of everyone who is listening.
I get an opportunity not to retell his eulogy, but to speak from the heart about all I have learned about my son and myself in the two years since his passing.
I once struggled to understand how life could so quickly go south, how the clouds could roll in without any warning and block out any rays of light for months at a time.
I once wondered how I could ever live without the love my Bug bestowed on me with every touch, every kiss, every sigh breathed into my neck while I cradled him.
It’s not that I know the answers to any of these things. I don’t know how the darkness of pain and grief didn’t swallow me whole. I don’t know how I survived seeing my son, lifeless and cold, and not go screaming mad.
Somehow I survived all my What-if’s. Despite the fact he is no longer here, laughing and slamming cupboard doors and driving me mad, I survived.
That is as important as remembering every small detail of my precious son’s life.
I survived to see the light shine around my other children’s hearts, to feel the love for them that was once blocked out by the raging pain I carried.
I no longer worry about remembering my son. He comes flooding back to me whenever I need him and he is as close to my heart as a person can get. I still carry him with me where ever I go, he just tends to hover about with his angel wings instead of drooling on my shoulder.
I no longer worry the tears that leak out of my heart and down my face will drown me.
I have come to an understanding, a peace with his passing. One I never thought possible. For all the pain and disbelief we endured, a new strength has emerged and forged our family, stronger than before.
When I speak tomorrow about my son, his sweet giggle and the way he would stoop over as he walked as though his head were too heavy for his little body and he always looked like he was about to topple over, or the way he would bang spoons on my floor like he was trying to dig a hole to China, I will speak about surviving the fire of loss.
I will tell people that there will be joy once again, a bitter sweet joy to be sure, but joy nonetheless. I will tell my story, my family’s story about how we once worried we wouldn’t survive this horrific cycle of grief, that our love for Bug, for one another would be decimated by the overwhelming pain we carried in our souls.
I will remind myself, once again, that love grows even in the darkest places. Love can find a way to survive even if the heaviest of weights is thrown over it, smothering it like a damp wool blanket.
I will remind myself that it is okay to grieve, to feel this pain. Because like a coin, grief has two sides. Pain on one side and the joy of the love on the other side.
I will tell tell myself, and others that it is okay to bear the wounds of loss proudly. We are all scarred with the loss of a beloved child. A lost promise, a vacant seat in our family portraits.
But our scars are beautiful. They are forged out of love.
A love that will always endure, even if one fears it won’t.
That is the message I will speak of tomorrow while I intertwine tales of my funny little man to dance in their heads.
Of course, I’ll do it while wearing my spanky new purple top.
Who says a grieving momma can’t be a cute momma?
75 Comments
You are going to help so many people by going. Insightful and flashy are an unbeatable combination.
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You have an inner light that shines with the love of your angel, and they need to be witness to that blinding bittersweet love.
I will say a pray for you and your angel.
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I can feel your tears through your words. Every time.
You help countless people over the internet, and I think helping others in person with your sparkly top will also help you.
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Tanis,
I will think of you tomorrow night. You are going to be in an inspiration for all those who are feeling lost and scared just as you once were. You are going to show them that life does carry forth, and the babies are never truly gone, they are just with us in a way other than what we had originally hoped for.
You are a wonderful individual. I admire your strength.
Jenn
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Your gift of writing will buoy so many of the people in that room. You will give words to their pain that they have been unable to find. Every time you write about Bug I marvel at the love and loss that ooze from every syllable.
And with all those inappropriate low-cut shirts in the room there are going to be boobs everywhere. Try to keep your hands to yourself, will ya? Save the groping for us girls at BlogHer.
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Praying for you tomorrow! When my boy was hospitalized, and the dr’s had no idea, I was so scared. None of us realize just how precious our children are, until we are faced with loss. Thanks so much for the reminder, and sharing about your precious one!
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Good luck tomorrow Tanis.
Its funny in a way…the way the ones we’ve lost have impacted our lives. Their physical lives are over…but they live forever in our hearts, memories, and everything we do.
Go be a cute momma!
Let us know how it goes too. Some of those mommas and daddys are going to need to hear what you say, and they don’t even know it yet.
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I don’t know if I should be funny or serious in my response.
So, seriously, stay off the pole.
Also, the parenthetical correction with embedded strikethrough redirect was fantastically labyrinthian. I got dizzy reading it.
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I read your blog all the time even though I don’t really comment. I can’t imagine any pain greater than that of the loss of your child. I applaud you for sharing your story and doing what you can to help those other parents. You’ll be in my thoughts.
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You, my friend, are a much stronger person than I, for I would have ignored that invitation, regardless of arm twisting, guilting or whatever.
I hope it goes well for you. I will keep you in my thoughts.
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I’m new to your blog…I had no idea. I have a friend from our church that is going through this grief you described. http://www.christianmomma.com/2008/03/13/so-sad/ I see her going through the motions of life and have no idea what to do or say.
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It’s been five years since I found my boyfriend, dead.
While I can now laugh, a real laugh, not the fake one you do so that people will leave you alone but a hearty laugh. I don’t know that the pain ever goes away.
Life has changed, you move on, you have no choice but to move on.
I still think of him every day.
It does get better though. I have learn to cry, whenever and where ever I want.
I commend you on being able to stand and tell your sons story. To bring life to him, to be able to show off his abilities as a proud momma should.
You go make a difference in your sparkly new purple top and know that bug will be sitting on your shoulder with his angel wings the whole time.
You will be in my prayers.
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T - in addition to the purple top and flask, you will also have the thoughts of your friends supporting you - while we do not add as much support as say - a bra - we are thinking of you. I guess I should really stop referring to myself as a royal we considering I’m just a royal pain in the arse - but I think you know what I mean (of course, if this was you talking - it would be coherent and make sense). xoxo and go spread the joy of Bug.
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I am so crying right now. You take my heart out and wring it dry every time I read a post about your magnificent boy. Tanis, you are amazing. The people in that room will benefit so much from hearing just what you said to us here. May your heart flutter lightly in the hands of your little angel boy…
You truly are a gift to humanity with your big heart and wonderful ability to tell your story.
It has been 6 six years since I lost my brother in a terrible car accident and he comes quietly to my side all the time. Your stories make me remember all that was good and wonderful about him. Thank you and good luck tomorrow night.
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a beautiful reminder and tribute.
and remember that you carry all of your friends in the computer with you too …
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You are such an inspiration. And cute.
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Tell them the same things you tell us. Don’t try to make it a speech, but rather, just talk…as Tanis…as the one who’s seen the worst, and as proof that you must always swim for the shore.
You rock Tanis. And everyone will be so much better off for having heard you.
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Thank you for that beautiful entry. I am a member of the same club. My son, though, was stillborn. He was perfect and full term and never took his first breath. I have no memories of his eyes or his smile or his smell. I wish that I’d had someone like you when it happened to tell me that there was light at the end of that long dark tunnel. That you can give that speech after only 2 years is a testament to the strong and courageous woman you are.
For me, it’s been almost 8 years since I lost my son. I still grieve, still miss him daily. I had no one IRL to talk to about him when he died. My relatives all told me to get over it, even my husband thought that we should “move on”. For a mother, there is no moving on from this loss. You move forward, make a new “normal” that includes the grief. You try to find some goodness in each new day, but you cannot go back to the innocence of “normal”.
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Tanis, it’s a good thing you’re doing, taking something painful and turning it into something good, extending a hand across those seas of grief you describe. I’m always astonished at how you have weathered something so terrible with such grace, and this, this makes you another bit more amazing. I’m proud of you for this -it can’t be easy, not at all.
(And? I CANNOT BELIEVE that people would actually say that! That is shockingly stupid.)
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good luck, friend.
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If your speech is anything like this beautiful, heart-wrenching post — well, you will have done a great service to each parent in attendance.
Argh — that sounds so formal and stilted.
We’ll be thinking of you. Now go shimmy into that top.
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Just read them this post, it is perfect! I will be thinking of you and sending warm fuzzy wishes your way!
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You will do wonderfully. And you will help even more people. It’s a wondeful gift that you have. Sucky circumstances that got you here, though.
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You are such a gifted writer. I’m sorry you have had to endure Bugs passing, but I truly believe that by doing this you will touch more people than you realize. You do it via your blog everyday. I’ll be sending good thoughts your way.
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Who better than you to give hope (and wobbly grins through the tears) to others who have suffered the loss of a child?
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I love you. And so will every person at that banquet who hears you speak of your amazing, inspirational son. I truly wish I could sit among them and hear you speak.
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I wish I could hug you. Partly because your writing brings me such joy and the other part is because I have huge boobs and maybe I would know why people want to hug me all the time.
Thanks for sharing with me.
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First time to your site, but I must say that this blog post truly touched me. My thoughts and prayers are with you.
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Your something..you really are. I’m so glad I found your blog.
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You are amazing. No, really. You say you can’t explain how you got through the loss, but with that little Bug angel on your shoulder, how could you not have? You are an inspiration and so real and honest, with a fabulous sense of humor. We are all better for knowing you and of Bug. Thanks and good luck with the banquet.
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My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. Your love for Bug rings loudly with every word - GOD BLESS YOU.
There are very few things in life that brings a tear to my eye, but the tears are flowing after reading this.
I am so glad I found your blog.
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Damnit, what are you thinking making the pregnant woman cry?! I’m so glad you’re here to share your no nonsense way of dealing with others. To remember Bug, while painful, must be joyful, too. I remember my lost baby with the same love and affection, although he was with us so short a time.
(((HUGS))) for this.
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Tanis,
You know I’m madly in love with both you and you assets. But I also admire you for who you are. You’ve been through hell, and you’re trying your damnedest to make a difference in other people’s lives. And no, not in that grody After School Special way.
Tomorrow (or today, I’m dumb and don’t know time zones. Shut up) you will walk in there and make a difference in some grieving parent’s mind. They will look at you and all of your guts and say, ‘you know what? I can get through this.’
That is amazing. YOU are amazing (with a nice rack).
Love you madly, T. Always do.
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I wish I could hear you speak tomorrow. I’m in such awe of your strength and generosity.
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Girl, (and girls) you go and do this thing with style. Sending prayers your way. Post a pic of the new top though, I do so love me some purple….
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Wishing you the strength and courage to make it through tomorrow night. You’ve experienced something a parent never should. I applaud you for speaking to newly grieving parents and letting them know that although it seems unthinkable, impossible and even undesirable that they too can rise from the depths of sorrow and continue living life without the fear of losing the precious memories of their lost child.
Rock your spanky new purple top. You’ll be the hottest Momma in the room. And Bug will be there by your shoulder, just as proud as can be.
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Oh Tanis.
No words today. Just love for you and admiration for your strength.
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I sit here crying as I read through your words. It took 15 years for me to decide that I could be a better dad than mine was and want a child of my own. Now that she is here, I am amazed at how precious she is.
I cannot imagine the agony you endure.
Thank you for sharing.
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I love you babe. That is all.
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Love you, T.
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All I can say is….WOW! I’m speechless.
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As a parent of a child who had cancer, I now help many families who are in my old shoes. Although my daughter did not die, I have found ways to help grieving parents, but I have found that no matter how hard I try, they really need to meet someone like you who has really walked the miles in those shoes. Go Girl!
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Sending you good vibes, sister. You will go, you will be fabulous, and you will have a GREAT time. Share your strength with that room. Love you. xoxo
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you are amazing.
don’t forget waterproof mascara.
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Have I told you lately how much I love you?
You’re good people, hon. Not everyone could do this. Wish I was going to be there to hear your words and make inappropriate gestures at you from the back of the room, but I’ll be there in spirit. With my tongue sticking out, blowing you raspberries.
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Thinking about you today, and always.
And your top. That too.
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Tanis, I will be praying that - as the Quakers say - you will be held in the light tonight as you speak to all those grieving parents. God bless you.
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break a leg, babe. i would have found it more comforting than i can say to see you there in the flesh, bawdy and graceful and surviving.
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I’m thinking of you, love. And I’m sending a link to this to my friend Katie, too.
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When you first mentioned this “banquet,” I thought to myself, “What a crazy and morbid idea!” But as you explained it more, I could see how this could be of great benefit to everyone attending, including you. I think you are doing a great thing. A beautiful post.
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Even after 16 years the pain of loosing a child is always there. However, you will move forward as you said and will help many others when you speak. I could never talk about Daniel. You will have my prayers for your needed strength.
Bless you, and may this be alright for your heart which will always have a part of it glowing for the love of your son.
My best,
Dorothy from grammology
remember to call gram
http://www.grammology.com
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thank you
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I know you were a balm to an awful lot of wounded hearts. I know you are to mine.
And I hope you let “the girls” come out to play in your purple top and annoying bra.
You really are my hero, you know that?
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I hope it went well, honey.
You are so wonderful to do this.
Love you sooooo much.
xoxo
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I was thinking about you last night.
I hope it went well, and I hope more then anything you found a way to comfort those new to that club as well as find a bit of peace for yourself.
Oh.. and I hope the top looked great
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I am so sorry, although you said everything so well. What else can I say? Nothing but thoughts your way. hugs!
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I wish I could have seen you. I know how much those other parents appreciated seeing you in your hawtness, knowing you survived such a loss.
We were at a walk today to raise funds for our children’s hospital. The father who organised the walk blogged that instead of watching their daughter unwrapping her fourth birthday gifts they were wrapping items for the auction.
Having only walked the edge of this abyss I cannot even imagine what it is like to travel though. I admire you.
and I’d like to grab your ass.
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Ps my little S#$t is trying to rip out her feeding tube as I try to type this.
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It takes someone so special to turn their own grief into a way to help others…you are such a remarkable woman, Tanis. I hope it all went okay (and of course, that your boobs looked great in that top).
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You will be a great help to many with those words. I appreciated your post, because I lost two friends in high school and I remain close to one of the moms.
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My heart aches for you. You are the perfect person to speak to these parents, fair play to you.
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Great words and from here it sounds like it will be emotionally hard but cathartic… for you and them.
Cheers
BC
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I am in tears!!! I can’t even read your whole damn post either. I have a lump in my throat that hurts like hell. One day….I hope to be brave enough to read this whole story. I am a coward and you are clearly a hero to other parents that have felt the great loss you have. I admire you. Thanks!
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I hope the speaking went well at the banquet. That little boy sounds so sweet. My heart just aches for you.
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I believe those who come and go give us a gift far greater than comprehension. The gift of forgivness, acceptace, understanding and rememberance… like a smell fo a good time. Or a thought of laughter that breaks you from a dead stare to laugh.
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WAIT! I just want to make sure this isn’t the same purple top that last time you wore made everyone ask if you were pregnant. I mean, there are some priorities here right, sure we want the boobs looking good, but you really don’t want everyone asking if your knocked up on a night like this…
That was a purple shirt right? I swear I remember you posting about that.
Fuck. I’m going to feel so dumb if I’m wrong!
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I hope you were fantastic - I know you were.
This post made me admire you even more - if that’s possible…
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Hey girl
When my daughter died, my wife and I went to the support group “Compassionate Friends” and we went there for some 5 years. And yes, its a group where no one wants to ever see another new parent show up, but its reality. And yes, after so many times of telling total strangers your tale… ..”My name is Larry, and my daughter Ann killed herself back in December 1992 at the age of 15. She is terribly missed these [number] years since.”
Yes, saying that over and over again does three things. 1, it helps you accept the reality of their life, and then death. 2. It helps you perpetuate your child’s existence in making him/her known by others and lastly 3, it helps you maintain sanity in knowing others are out there facing similar situations, and that it helps in knowing that.
So by now you have done this, and yes, you will cry.. alot, and so will they, and it will be easier the next time, and the next time, and the time after that. And while it doesnt change the harsh reality, it makes it easier for you to continue living, and giving love to the ones still in your life; your children, husband, friends.
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It’s a good thing you’re doing. You’ll be a shining example to the new members to your special club.
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oh man.
I remember the night I stumbled upon your old blog - the one where wrote about Bug’s death. I sat at my computer and just sobbed. It truly hurt from one Mama to another. Just hurt.
You’re amazing and I’m so glad I found your blog - keep that spunky sense of humor and humility alive. You’ll get through this Mama.
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As everyone has been saying you are amazing! I read daily and don’t comment very often, but this post made me want to tell you that you are truly a gift to all of us.
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This is my first meeting with you. Imagine now that I am sitting at my computer, in my abnormally quiet classroom with snot and tears meeting on my chin. Thank you. I mean that . Thank you. You have kicked me in the ass, told me (though you didn’t know it) to go home and play Barbie with my little girl, though I’m not a fan of the Barbie. You’ve encouraged me to listen to my 5-year-old baby genius son that never stops talking, without sighing, wishing he would shut up and want to watch television INSTEAD of talk to me. I owe you.
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We lost our daughter at the age of three 30 years ago on June 8th. My wife and I are still married, and we think about her every day. I wish I had read this before the 8th, it would have made my day easier.
Thank you.
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Your sharing has helped me open up and talk about what it feels like to lose a child… at least I can talk about it with my fingers on the keyboard. Thank you.
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It’s been four years since I found my granddaughter Amaya, dead. Her farther fell asleep on the couch with her and rolled over onto her. She was two months old and died on my birthday. I still think of her every day. She was born prematurely and spent the first four weeks in the NICU. For a long time I blamed myself. I used to think if I hadn’t gone out for dinner she would still be here. The pain is less heart wrenching for both myself and my daughter but it will never go away.
My heart goes out to you and I commend you on being able to tell your sons story.
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