Wednesday, 23 July 2008

• A Time to Mourn

  by Mama Penguin

  Yesterday morning, after the radiothon, we visited the Saint Francis EOPC (NICU) as we always do when we are at the hospital.  It was our home for 3 1/2 months, and there are still many people there who will always be special to us.  People who took care of our daughters, sustained their lives.  People who took care of me and Papa when we felt as though we couldn't handle anymore.  People who helped us gain the confidence we needed to bring our daughters home.

  Although I will always have good memories of the EOPC, it will also always stir those that are bad.  It's usually the smell that gets me.  It's hard to describe, but there is a smell about the NICU that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.  It makes my heart race, and I have to fight the tears that well up in my eyes.

  Yesterday morning was no exception.  Walking through the elevator doors, it hit me.  A wave of memories, both good and bad, that only something like the five senses can trigger.  For some reason, this particular visit flooded me with a feeling that I had long since pushed aside.  It reminded me of something I felt the day Papa and I came home from the hospital...without our daughters.  Rather, it reminded me of something I no longer felt.  I can vividly remember walking down the hallway in our house, headed for the restroom.  I stopped, placed my hand of my now vacant belly, and mourned the loss of my pregnancy.  I mourned the three months that I was robbed of, that C & M were robbed of.  I mourned the fact that I would never again feel them squirming in my belly.  I mourned the fact that they were taken from me immediately after delivery and rushed to the NICU.  I mourned the fact that I had left the hospital without them and without any certainty that they would come home in the future.

  It's not something that many women will understand, and I thank God for that.  No mother should feel that way.  Part of me felt guilty for mourning an intangible loss.  At least our daughters were alive, though we had no idea for how long.

  In the weeks that followed, many very well-meaning, and at times, ignorant, people offered me solace and advice.  None of them helped.  Someone close to me tried to cheer me up by confiding that the last three months of pregnancy were really hard, so at least I had missed that discomfort.  Somehow, I didn't find solace in that.  Another woman, out of ignorance, responded that I was lucky to have had such small babies after I told her the girls were 1 pound 13 ounces and 2 pounds 2 ounces, respectively, when they were born.  She then continued on with a story about a niece of hers that had delivered a 10 pound baby.  How terrible for her to have had a healthy, albeit big, baby.

  Now, I know most of these people had good intentions and most likely walked away not knowing how they had hurt me.  I know that ours was a situation that could easily be intimidating, leaving someone who only wishes to help, with little to say.  From my perspective, though, I would have much preferred those people had simply chosen not to say anything at all.  There really isn't much you can say to comfort someone who doesn't know if their children are going to live or die.  Instead, express your concern or sympathy with a heartfelt gesture (food, cards, flowers) or a hug.  I'm aware that people respond differently to a crisis.  I can't say what works for everyone, just what worked for me.

  Have you ever said something to someone that might have unintentionally been insensitive?  Has someone said something to you?  How do you typically handle talking with someone who is going through a crisis?

  • 12:25 PM
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