Grief and the little sister

It was a year ago last Sunday that they cut her out of me. A silver scar across my abdomen is the proof. I barely acknowledged the pregnancy, so it was equally strange to have a baby cut from my body and handed to me. A daughter, the doctor said. And there she appeared around the paper divider and into my line of vision with a mess of brown hard smeared across her head.

And now she is here already a year old. She lives in our house. She sleeps in Riley’s room. She holds Riley’s things while she nurses in the chair next to his bed. She reaches for the things hanging on his walls when I change her diapers. She is the sixth chair at the dining table, once balanced with four school-aged kids and two adults, only to be completely unbalanced after Riley died. His empty seat. His voice not heard. His laughter gone. And now there is a high chair at the table. It is not a replacement. Only a different kind of chair holding an entirely different child. Even though all of the seats are full, the table is still unbalanced. It will always be unbalanced. And I will always be unbalanced, even though my arms are full right now.

She cannot replace him. I never thought she would, but it was my fear. That somehow holding her and hugging her and nursing her and reading to her and feeding her and bathing her and loving her, that somehow, somehow she would rub away his memory that is seared into my heart -- my Riley-shaped scar. But that isn’t the case. I didn’t know what it would be like, but it isn’t like buying a new gallon of milk to replace the empty gallon of milk or getting a new candle after the wick is gone on the other. I haven’t stopped thinking about him. He is in my thoughts just about every waking minute of every single day. Maybe more intensely now. Now that I spend so much time in his room surrounded by his things. As I remember him at one month old, six months old. As I think of his weight and remember marveling at his tiny body, my first baby born.

Sometimes I call her Riley by mistake. Sometimes I wish she were him and that she would grow at high speed and become the nearly-17-year-old young man that he is supposed to be. But most of the time, I try to focus on appreciating her. It’s a messy, imperfect approach to living in a seemingly impossible world where she is here and he is not. It’s not her fault that her 11-year-old brother died. It’s not her fault that she was born. Yet here we are.

She is goodness in an abyss of pain. So I work on telling myself that at every chance. I want to make sure that I flip to the things that she is, instead of the things that she isn’t. I want to strengthen the neural pathways of love and appreciation for this being that has come into our lives unexpectedly. Here are some of my appreciations: I appreciate that she is an excellent sleeper; I appreciate that she is generally good natured; I appreciate that she will happily sit and play on her own while I make dinner; I appreciate that she will contentedly be in the carrier on my back while I do the things that need doing; I appreciate that she lets me hold her; I appreciate hugging her; I appreciate that sometimes she hugs me back. I appreciate that she continues to wake up even when my mind says that she will not. I appreciate that she didn’t die the night she choked on her dinner and was rushed to the ER. I appreciate feeling her weight and her warmth on my lap and in my arms and across my chest. I appreciate seeing her torso rise and fall on the monitor. I appreciate her tiny hands that reach for mine. I appreciate her eyes that look for me. I appreciate her cries that indicate her aliveness.

When I’m holding her and hugging her, I feel slightly less sad. This doesn’t mean there is less grief. It just means that the grief is being temporarily combated with this 19-pound force of love. It’s an internal battle sometimes to let it feel like love and not betrayal. But I hear his voice saying, “Love her like it’s me because she’s part me because she’s half of you.” It’s flawed 11-year-old logic, but I think what he means when he whispers those words into my head is that it’s okay to love her because he loves her, too. Of course he does. He was an amazing big brother. And she is his tiny sister, who already knows his name and waves when she sees his picture.

Grief and introductions

There is a woman. You might know her. She is tall with dark hair and she was on the trail Tuesday with her two dogs and two friends and their dogs. I know her friends, but I had never met this woman before we introduced ourselves to each other that morning. This woman who I'd never met before has a son. He's in 9th grade now, but he went to Central Middle. Just like Riley. And I can't stop thinking about her. Or about her son.

I keep wondering if her son was in Riley's 6th grade math class before he died. Maybe they sat next to each other. Or maybe he was in his English class. Maybe he sat in front of Riley. Or maybe behind him. Or maybe he was in orchestra with Riley. I wonder if he also played viola for the few weeks of the school year that Riley played viola. Or, perhaps he played cello when they were both in 5th grade and Riley played cello. Did they talk to each other at recess? Did they ever have lunch together? This boy who went to the same school as Riley and who was also a 6th grader when Riley died. They must have known each other. Or at the very least, they must have been acquaintances. The school isn't that big, after all.

From there, I wonder if this boy has a handprint on my garage door from the first anniversary of Riley's death when we made our first handprint memorial and dozens of classmates came to our house and stood in line to participate. Does he have a handprint on Riley's bedroom door from when we made our second handprint memorial? The one with the Tabasco Riley bottle? Did this boy talk about Riley with his mom when he found out that one of his classmates had died? His mom, this woman I'd never met, who happens to have a son who is the same grade that Riley would be in, if he had survived his last heart surgery. The surgery that was supposed to give him a normal lifespan. The surgery that was supposed to let him run and fly on airplanes without oxygen. Our sons must have known each other. Maybe this mother and son came to Riley's memorial after he died. Maybe they ran the Riley Run together and maybe that boy has worn a Riley Run t-shirt to school.

Does this woman know about my son at all? It's possible that her son didn't know Riley and never mentioned him in their home. That idea paralyses me. It's one of the reasons I'm intimidated by this unknown woman and her son, who I have been thinking about since Tuesday morning. She either knows about my son. Or she doesn't know about my son. If she does know about him, she didn't mention him when we introduced ourselves to each other on the trail as the dogs trotted around our feet, their tails wagging.

Then again, I didn't mention Riley to her either, even though we talked long enough to know that she and I have sons who went to the same school at the same time. I wasn't brave enough to ask if her son knew Riley. She wasn't brave enough to say that her son knew Riley. Or didn't know Riley. But if she doesn't know about my son, then Riley's life and death were invisible to this family who also lives in my town, whose son was in the same school and in the same grade as my son who is now dead. Impossible, yet possible. And frightening.

It's only in retrospect, though, that I realize that she may not have known that I was Riley's mom. I feel like I walk through the world with a sign above my head. But how could she know that I am Riley's mom, unless I say that I am Riley's mom? Sometimes it's so hard to say out loud. Not because I don't want to say his name. On the contrary. I want to say his name, but I want to say it, knowing with certainty that his name and his life and his death will be treated with the tenderness it deserves.

If I bump into this tall woman with dark hair on the trail again, perhaps I'll ask her so that I don't have to wonder anymore. But taking a chance is scary because I put my wounded heart in a stranger's hands. Will they treat it with the tenderness it deserves? So much tenderness is needed, all of the time, because my heart is so sore from all of the beating it's done without him these last three years.

Grief and worlds colliding

Riley at 5th grade orchestra concert

Younger Brother had his first band concert last night. It was held in coordination with the orchestra concert. It took place in the auditorium that Central Middle School and the Arroyo School share. Riley went to Central. YB goes to Arroyo. And it's confusing. Even though Riley was a 6th grader when he died, he never got to play in an orchestra concert for 6th grade because he died in October and the first concert each school year is held in December. So the only two concerts he participated in were when he was in 5th grade. YB is in 5th grade. 

How can YB be playing in the band concert in 5th grade and Riley also be playing in the orchestra concert in 5th grade? The orchestra even played "Dragon Hunter," which was Riley's favorite piece of music. I looked for him among the cellos. He wasn't there. I also looked for him among the violas because he switched to viola in 6th grade. He wasn't there either. I scanned their faces, not recognizing any of his peers. That orchestra doesn't know Riley. There wasn't an empty chair for him; there weren't any green ribbons tied around anyone's arms in remembrance. I suspect if I had new memories of Riley playing in an orchestra concert in 6th, 7th, or 8th grade, it would make more sense. But I don't. So it's all mixed up, these two children performing at the same concert. 

Next year will be even more confusing because YB will be at Central as a 6th grader. And how can both of my boys be 6th graders at the same school?