Let It Be- Part I

"The moment is as it is."  - one of the seven powers of Conscious Discipline.

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I have felt rushed at every stage of this nightmare from the cop who bullied me into leaving my daughter's sheet covered body alone on the pavement to the scant moments I had alone with her corpse at the viewings to the funeral home staff at the end of her service, who insisted gently, "It's time, Nicole.", all too eager to close the lid on my sun forever, leaving me lost in the blackness.

Then it was the unspoken, but sometimes outright verbalized demand for me to accept what could not be changed, pick myself up, and get on with my life.  As I look back, it is interesting to note that not one of the people who said something along these lines to me had lost a child.  Also interesting was the timeline that this advice was paid out on...from thirty minutes after leaving the graveside service to the fever pitch of the six month mark when a handful of well-meaning friends and loved ones approached me within the same week, desperate to see me look like...well, like the Nicole they used to know, and longed for me to wipe that death wish off my face once and for all.  Yeah, that's not asking much.

One thing I have learned in this experience is that grief is individual- the ways we cope, whether or not we express it, whether we crave company or solitude, and the time we need to process what has happened, and how long we need to recognize that it is irreversible. 

So on this work trip to learn about how the brain works, and how to teach children and adults to manage their emotions, I had a couple of conversations that I want to share.

One conversation took place in the lobby of the Hilton, as Angie face-timed her family, and I wrote for the blog.  We looked up to see our new friend from the Netherlands sweep over, and tap us on the shoulder.  I'll call her Hannah, and tell you she is a gorgeous, hilarious, compassionate soul who is an amazing listener.  Within five minutes of our initial meeting conversation, which was peppered with exaggerated hand gestures and full body movements on both our parts to compensate for the slight language barrier, I wished for this woman to become one of my new best friends. 

After a dinner at which I laughed harder than I have in months, I wanted to roll her up into a compact little roll, and tuck her into my carry on.  I need to know this woman; she is healthy for me. 

So down in the lobby, Hannah grabbed a seat, and crossed her legs criss cross applesauce on the sofa beside me.   Within minutes, I had opened my facebook, and was scrolling through pictures of Cory to show her. It struck me how showing someone I'd just met pictures of my children would've been a happy, carefree event a couple years ago.  It would've been a speedy clicking through a handful of pictures, and then on to the next topic.

 Loss redefines your priorities, all right.  Even if I didn't realize it, I was cradling my laptop, touching the screen reverently as I took my time describing moments with Cory, facets of her personality, and then did the same for Jacob.

Hannah and I showed each other our blogs, two middle aged women every bit as proud and excited as two little boys comparing baseball card collections.  She asked me if I felt comfortable telling her about the accident.  Talk turned to the service, at which point, Hannah covered her face with one hand, shocked and dismayed to discover there were vast differences between how her country and mine handle the death and burial of a child.

I listened, nearly in disbelief to hear that in her country, the child is taken home for the days before the funeral, and then transported to the place of the service.  The parents are given days of contact with their deceased child, to look at them, to touch them, to hold them.  I looked at her, stunned into silence.  She went further to explain, "There are, you know, blocks of ice, and they are placed in a special bed or in the casket..."

I covered my face in the busy lobby, and tried to imagine what that would have been like.  Angie watched my face, probably certain I was about to enter into hysterics.  I could not believe that somewhere in this world some group of people had actually considered what the parents actually needed, and gave it to them. 

Anyone reading this who has not lost a child might think this practice sounds a little morbid, but I am here to tell you if this unthinkable thing ever happens to you, ALL that will comfort you, ALL that you will crave- above food, above water, above shelter- is to be in the presence of your child...to see his or her face for as many moments as you possibly can before it is taken away from you for all of time.

Hannah looked puzzled at the mutual shock on our faces, and questioned, "You are not allowed this?"

"Oh my gosh, no!  I only wish!"  I declared emphatically and turned to Angie so she could explain what some of our rituals for parting with our children are here in the states.

Hannah listened carefully, her eyes widening every bit as much as mine had.  "But why?  Why are you not given this time?  It's your child." 

Exactly. 

Like really, United States, what the hell are we thinking here?

Hannah asked pretty much the same question of Angie, who said she thought it was a cultural belief that maybe it would be more psychologically harmful than helpful to the family.

Hannah, a child psychologist,  took this in, before raising a hand in the air and throwing it down on her thigh with this, "But they must know that the contact is needed...even the elephants...have they never watched the mother elephant standing over their baby?  They stay until they are ready to move.  No one makes them move, even if it takes days..."

At this, I burst into tears, wishing I had been given this consideration, wishing all mothers were given this last chance at time with their child.  I also cried over the sheer relief of being understood at last.

I lifted my head, wondering for a flip moment if I would eventually settle in Italy, or the Netherlands, just in case something ever happened to Jacob.

---to be continued