Child-Sized Grief

     

       My oldest daughter was five, five and a half she would tell you, when her baby brother died in childbirth. She remembers so much from that year of her life since it was full of Grief for her and all of us as a family. In the two months prior to her brother's death, she had been diagnosed with a chronic and lifelong illness, Type 1 Diabetes. Being the oldest, and a girl, or maybe just being our Charlotte, she took the news better than I thought a child could. 

       I took her in and asked for the diagnosis, though when it was given I was heartbroken and needed a moment to compose myself before explaining it to her. She nodded and absorbed the words, taking mental notes and needing minimal encouragement in those first few hours. In the two days of hospital stay to get her stabilized and us educated, she kept her stride and her good humor. It was when we were alone that she let her guard slip, lowering her shields and admitting how she really felt. 

       Her tears came slowly and she cracked a little, "I just want to be normal," she said."I wanna be just like other kids. Diabetes is not normal."
       I remember thinking then, how naive I was when I imagined that my daughter's first heartbreak was going to be years away, over something as trivial as a boy. Her five year old grief broke my heart as I sat in the front seat cradling my pregnant belly, desperate to crawl in the back and hold her and assure her life would be ok. I cried and reached my hand back for her to hold. I told her we would find her a new normal, that we would make adjustments every day. We were less than a week into a new life then, but less than two months from another massive change that would make us find another "normal" all over. 

       In the wake of her baby brother's death, still working on the new normal from diabetes, my daughter was strong and compassionate. She would break down periodically, especially when seeing our tears over our missing baby. On a particularly good day, she surprised me with her grief, approaching me in her bedroom as I was putting away clean clothes in the closet.
       "I wish we could wear our dresses," she commented. I stared at her quizzically, perplexed by the closet full of dresses in front of her and knowing she had a trunk full of play dresses as well.
       "Which dresses can't you wear?" I asked simply.
       "The white ones," she replied, fingering the hem on a jacket within her reach. "You hung them in the back and said we could wear them to do pictures with the new baby. But we can't wear them if there is no new baby." 

       Her memory astounded me, as did her logic. My tears were always at the ready and this day was no different. I shuffled the hangers, sliding colorful patterned frocks and sweaters forward until I reached the familiar but forgotten pieces in the back. I sniffled a little, brushing a wayward drip on my shoulder as I pulled out the pristine eyelet fabric that hung on three matching hangers.
       I sat with her on the floor, both of us crying and missing the little man we once thought would be with us. "We'll find a time, honey," I promised," a time to take pictures in memory of him. You and your sisters can wear these dresses and we'll all be thinking of your angel baby brother."

       I always had thought it was better to hide my Grief from them, that they would be better for it if they didn't see my hurt every day, so plainly in view. Yet even when I wasn't thinking of it, she was, and it was wonderful to share that moment with her, to let her know that we were working on life just as before, finding a new normal all together, one memory at a time.