Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Big Sister Update



I'm getting my money's worth out of Elsie's fancy preschool.  Her teachers have become my support team, watching Elsie carefully for cues on her experience of our family tragedy, and coaching me on how and when to talk to her.

They knew, in vague terms, about our loss when Elsie entered in September.  Under Siblings, on her forms, I listed, "Baby sister, Laurel.  Deceased."  Then jotted a little note in Anything else you would like us to know? about a recent stillbirth.

I am certain that they read it, but they remained silent on the matter for months, until, at a parent teacher learning group on mindfulness that I am a part of, I completely lost my composure and sobbed something about grieving my other, stillborn daughter.  One of Elsie's teachers co-chairs this group with another mom -- the only other mom at the school who knew about the loss.  The rest of the group were caught by surprise and reacted in the typical range of ways from heartfelt sympathy to extreme discomfort.  I would be mortified about the incident if I hadn't learned, from so much goddamn practice over the last six months, to drop any expectations I previously held about my demeanor while doing my grief work.  Though much improved, I am still doing my grief work, and probably will be for some time to come.

In any case, this dramatic episode seems to have opened the doors for talking about my family's situation. Shortly thereafter, Elsie's main teacher, D, takes me aside and informs me, quietly, calmly, "E is expecting a baby brother soon." 

"Yes." I answered.  "I know.  Must be any time now.  His mom looks about ready to burst."  I do not mention that I put on my healthy, cool operating distance to drop Elsie off every morning just anticipating my run-ins with said mom.  I stared at D, trying to work out where this is going.  I find his manner professional, gentle, and completely impenetrable.

"So there's been a lot of talk about babies..." 

I nod, still unsure what I'm supposed to say to this.

I decide he's seeking affirmation, worrying about my own sensitivity to babies, and commit to this interpretation.  "That's okay with me.  You can talk about babies around Elsie.  I don't mind."  

"Oh no!" D laughs.  "I wasn't asking for your permission..." 

I can't think of how to fill the beat, so I just nod and wait, feeling like a school kid myself -- one who has just got the answer wrong.

"I just thought you ought to know.  There's been a lot of baby talk." 

I decide he's expressing concern.  "Does Elsie seem okay with it?  Does it upset her?" 

"No no.  I just thought you might like to know, if she brings up babies, that's why." 

I'm still confused, so I say the only thing I can think of.  "Oh.  Thank you.  Thanks for letting me know." 

***

Indeed, Elsie does bring up babies over the weekend, several times.  And that is that, for the time being.

***

Two weeks later, D sends me an email asking to talk.  We step out into the cold school courtyard after I drop Elsie off in the morning.

"There's been more talk about babies..."  He starts.

I'm more prepared this time.  "Yes, I know, E is expecting a baby brother.  What are you getting at?"  I ask, bluntly.

"How..." he pauses, "I just want to know... what was Elsie's experience of her sister's death?"

"Oh."  I reply.  And I begin to tell him a scattered version.  It may be the first time I've been asked to think about the event unselfishly, through somebody else's eyes.  "She didn't experience very much at all.  One day I was pregnant, the next day, we sent her to her grandparents house and disappeared.  When we came back, I wasn't pregnant anymore.  I waited for her to ask about the baby.  It didn't take long.  When she asked, I told her that there was no more baby, that the baby had died.  She seemed upset, but more because the game had changed than anything else.  She has seen me cry a lot, but not totally fall apart.  She was away for that."  Laid out like this, it sounds confusing and isolating, and I start to feel badly about it.

He nodded.  "And did she see the body?  Was there any ceremony?"  

I shook my head, no, and opened my mouth to answer, but we were interrupted by another mom.

When I got home that night, I wrote out the whole story, with an emphasis on what Elsie had seen, heard, and experienced, and sent it off to both of her teachers.  There's a definite feeling I get that I am defending myself, though D has said nothing in tone or word to make me feel doubted.  But his question is tickling at the soft underbelly of my mother's insecurity.

***

The next morning, D pulls me out into the icy courtyard again.

"I read your email."  He says.  "Twice, actually.  I started crying the first time and had to come back to finish it." 

I purse my lips and give a curt nod.  It's meant as a "Thank you for your compassion" with overtones of "Yeah.  I know.  It's pretty fucked up isn't it?"  and a generous dose of lofty distance to keep myself from breaking down. The last bit almost certainly prevents anything else from translating, so now I'm the impenetrable one.

"You're doing everything right from a child development standpoint.  Letting the child lead..." He trails off.  "You asked about whether to include Elsie in any ceremony.  I think that you should.  Children understand death as being very lonely, and being alone is a big fear.  I think that you should include her when you scatter the ashes, and make sure that she knows Laurel isn't alone. That she has a place."  

We are, once again, interrupted.

***

Before our trip, D takes me aside one more time.

"There's been a lot of talk about babies."  

This time, I don't even bother trying to say anything in response.  I just wait.

"Last time we talked, I said let Elsie lead, but I'm reassessing.  I think you should talk to her about it." 

"Does she seem upset?  Are you worried about her?"  I ask.

"Not upset.  Whenever we talk about babies, she gets very quiet and pays very close attention.  There's something going on in there.  I think you should talk to her again.  There's definitely something up.  She's so intuitive.  Did you ever explain to her why Laurel died?" 

"No." I answer.  I feel so stupid at the oversight. "I guess I never did." 

"Tell her..." He takes a deep breath.  "Tell her that Laurel was very, very, very, very, very, very sick.  Use lots of VERYs.  Be specific.  Say she was sick in her heart or in her brain.  And that's why she died."

I nod, and for the first time in this ordeal, I am terrified about how it is going to affect someone other than me.  And for the first time as a mother, I am dreading a conversation with my child.

***

It happens miles above the Pacific Ocean, on the way to New Zealand.  Elsie wakes from her solid slumber cheerful.  She cuddles up to my lap and starts talking about her baby.  The one that sometimes resides in her belly.

"I hear that E's mom is going to have a baby soon."  I tell Elsie.  "Do you talk about that at school sometimes?" 

"Yes!"
she answers.

"Do you know if the baby is a baby brother or a baby sister?" 

"Boy baby."  She says.

"Elsie...what do you think is going to happen to that baby, the baby in E's mommy's belly?" 

Elsie, who had been cheerful and playful and semi-distracted for the conversation, suddenly looks at me, right in the eye, fully attentive and says, loudly, clearly, and with total conviction,

"Die." 

And my heart breaks.

"You think the baby's going to die?"  I ask.

She nods vigorously.  "Die." 

"Do you think that baby's going to die because the baby in my belly died?"  I ask.

She nods.  I recognize my chance.  I tell her just what D told me to tell her.  That Laurel was sick.  I use some VERYs.  Probably not enough of them.  I tell her Laurel was sick in her brain, but that most babies are healthy, and healthy babies live.  I tell her E's baby brother is probably healthy, so we expect him to be born, and to breath like other live babies we know -- like healthy Elsie.  Like healthy baby Malcolm.  Like healthy baby Lily and baby Thomas.  Like healthy mommy, when I was a baby, and healthy daddy, when he was a baby.  Then I ask,

"Elsie, is your baby sick or healthy?" 

She thinks on it for a few seconds, and decides, "Healthy."  

"Oh honey, that is such wonderful news.  I'm so happy to hear it."   I really, truly am.

***

I wish I could put a nice bow on this and tie it up, say that Elsie is going to be a-okay, and so am I.  That we have found our faith in the system.  But that's just not how it works.

Some days, Elsie's baby still dies.  Other days, her baby is healthy.  I'm not sure she's convinced that E's baby brother is going to make it -- I'm not sure that I'm convinced of it either.  It's hard to recover faith after being on the wrong end of small but terrifying statistics.

I can leave you with this, though: as a family we must be making progress.  Elsie is dragging me out of my lonely and selfish grief and into a broader family and community experience of Laurel.  It took six months for me to think for two seconds about how this affected anybody else.  I'm reluctant and uncomfortable and awkward and uncertain, but a 30 lb little lady with blue eyes and a blond bob is helping me along.  I care deeply about how this affects and shapes her.  For her, I will go there.

2 comments:

  1. I am so happy that you are opening up your grief to others. It is so much harder to go at it alone.

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  2. Chances are... she will be okay. Kids are pretty darn resilient, as you know, and Elsie has the great fortune of two wonderful parents who love her, provide for her, nourish her mind, body, and soul, and communicate with her in wonderful ways.

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