Beady-eyed grudge holder

There are some things I won't or can't talk about on this blog. I think everyone has them because I never read about anyone's parents. I mean, not in a direct way. More like in a "I hung out with my folks this weekend." Never about our new relationships with our parents. Someone should break through the fourth wall. We should have a conversation about our mothers and our fathers. I know with the birth of my oldest child, I became the mother to my mother's granddaughter. And so, the death of my own daughter in my own womb means something to that relationship, I think. But also, when my daughter died, something else happened. I became her child in pain. I know we are both in pain, and I know our relationship is changing. I just don't know how yet. I am not a strong person. Nor am I a courageous person. I am just treading water over here. But someone should talk about it. Someone braver than me.

:::

This past weekend, I visited my friend in NYC with another friend. It was a nice visit; though I was so emotionally exhausted on Sunday, I couldn't stay awake for more than three hours straight. I have really been craving girl time, and it was nice to be unencumbered by little ones, and have an afternoon wine, and talk in the rambling, beautiful way you talk to your lady friends. It was also difficult to see myself out in public. I must look so shell-shocked, so sad, so weary, so, well, fake...and then when I talk, it just must always seem to come back to my grief. I wish I were different, but I am not.

Mostly, I realize how very angry I must sound. That is what I thought after talking with them. I was ashamed at how angry I am at our mutual friends. And I am, I guess. I listed them. By name. I told them who kept their promises, who called, who didn't...I wanted to cry it all out. I wanted to scream, "THE COWARDS." I didn't do that, but I did feel horribly guilty afterward. Over a glass of wine, my friend said, "They just probably don't know what to say." And that is true. They probably don't. We discuss it on our blogs. We all make excuses for people..."Thank goodness they don't understand," we say. "How lucky to feel alienated from them, it means they don't know this pain. Maybe one day," we muse, "We will be friends again. After the dust settles."

But today, after four months of thinking about it, hearing it, and having friends make excuses for other friends, I want to say this to those people who don't know what to say:

Read a fucking book.

Google "what to say to someone grieving stillbirth". (96,000 hits come up) Or better yet, go to a fucking therapist. I have. I have done all those things to soothe my relationships with people who haven't even lost a child. I read countless boring books about grieving the loss of my child to figure out how to still be friends with some douchebag I shared an apartment with in 1993. I begun putting nice-nice shitty status updates on Facebook to make people feel comfortable. I have spent hundreds and hundreds of dollars seeing therapists to help me process my anger, and sadness, and grief, and the fucking horrible realization that I am a different, sad, broken person because my daughter died. I did that so I could function in this world and keep my friendships with people who spend their weekends not lighting a fucking candle instead of holding their newborn. I have read blogs, and tried to learn how other babylost mamas keep friendships with people who can't figure out what to say to them.

AND we say, "I feel bad for them. They don't know what to say."

Well, here's another thing I want to say, "Figure it fucking out." Because I have. And I remember. I remember everyone who sent an email, who mustered an "I'm sorry" in person, whose eyes glistened, who said my daughter's name, who called me, who dropped off food, who didn't make any excuses about why they didn't call sooner...I never used to be a grudge holder, but I might make an exception this time.

(Does this count as part of the angry stage?)