Mom

My parents visited this weekend.

I used to look forward to their visits; now I dread it, in a way. I hate tiptoeing around the white elephant in the room for a couple of days. I hate making small talk and hearing the latest gossip from home. The chatter never stops, even when I stop talking mom keeps talking to herself, assuming I'm still listening. My husband feels the same way, eventually he gives up and goes to bed. I stay, type on my laptop while she tells me how this couple is broken up and that one bought a new house.

She has seven sisters, my mom. We have since discovered that the Factor V Lieden gene that contributed to my hellish pregnancy is on mom's side. How this is possible, I don't know. All those sisters, each with 3, 4, 5 kids, all those cousins with perfectly healthy families of their own. Not even a preemie in the mix. Hardly a C-section. And then there's me. In deadbabyland. There are rumours of a distant cousin going through something similar but no one knows details, they do know the baby made it. I wouldn't give a shit about this gene if Charlotte had made it. But of course, she didn't.

I hated this weekend. I could overhear mom on the phone to sister after sister (of course she couldn't go 48 hours without checking in). They'd start the conversation by laughing and cracking inside jokes, mom of course telling them how she had rescued us by buying us groceries and dad helping M with an outdoor project. Then her tone would change. I couldn't hear both sides of the conversation but I could imagine that aunt asking, And how's Heather doing now? Mom responded, every time "Good, really good. It hasn't always been like this, let me tell you." She purposefully chose the generic wording, assuming I wouldn't know she's referring to me. She's as easy to read as an open book. I knew exactly what she was talking about.

As if mom has any idea how I'm really doing anyway.

I heard her say Charlotte's name just once; I think it slipped out. When she arrived in my hospital room two days post-Charlotte, she pretended nothing was wrong. Did her usual, made small talk and gossipped, drove me crazy. After two days I told her to go home. I couldn't take it. It definitely wasn't good for my blood pressure, and I felt like I was bursting inside. During her stay I did ask her to call the funeral home for me and I was so disappointed by her end of the conversation, telling the funeral home that her daughter had had a premature baby, actually, a VERY premature baby and to come pick up the little body. She wrote the whole thing off like a bad day, telling me over and over again oh but you're only young and moaning and groaning about their stressful trip cross-country a few days prior. She told me it would take me a whole month to get over this. It was a couple of months later before she said the word Charlotte, when referring to the monument dad was designing.

After that, she must have read something about how to handle the situation because she dropped the you're so young act. She told me she read about how grandparents have double grief, both for the baby and their own child's pain. Of course she liked that. It made it all about her again.

I learned quickly that when it came to this, it was easier to just fake it around her. She has not been a source of comfort, at all.

So, for the next number of weeks, I was reclusive and snippy. One word answers at best. Little eye contact. I was definitely putting out a vibe of stay away, don't talk to me. A couple of times I just got mad and hung up the phone. It's only lately that I've been some resemblance of my regular self, cooking and going to the gym and gardening. To the naked eye, sure, I'm doing really well. But who, in all seriousness, does really well in this situation? Really well compared to what?

I've had the days I spent in bed, because I couldn't think of a good reason to get up. I've had spells of sobbing in fast-food restaurants, the movie theatre, my doctor's office. I refuse to visit our baby friends for fear of the worst, most painful feelings rushing back and having to cope with that all over again. I've been forcing myself to spend hours at the piano because the act in itself occupies my brain enough to force out my regular dead-baby-thoughts. I force myself to the gym because it's supposed to make me healthier and hopefully increase my chances of not having a dead baby next time.

So, yeah, I'm doing really well.

All these aunts of mine, not one, not even one, has called me to say how I'm doing. I got flowers from most of them. I got generic sympathy cards with "Love and Prayers, X" marked on the bottom. My mom's closest sister saw Charlotte; she made the trip in that day because mom was across the country and couldn't. She saw Charlotte, held her, said how beautiful she was. Then she left, drove home. And I haven't heard from her since.

I guess they're all getting the formal report from mom, that I'm doing well.

Mom has told me, in my lowest moments when even she has to acknowledge that I'm upset, that so many people, aunts, uncles, cousins, church people, family friends.... they're all supposedly heartbroken over what happened to us, lost sleep being worried about me, ask about me all the time. I wish they would ask me. I wish they had the courage to call or even just email and ask me. I wish I knew first-hand that these people are thinking about us, how the gossip spread through our small town. I don't even know what they know. Mom has a convoluted record of events as she wasn't there. Information gets lost in translation. I've referred my version of the story to so few people; I'd be interested in hearing what they've heard.

Even some of my closest friends didn't realize that I even saw Charlotte, or that she was born alive.

Thanks mom. Thanks for spreading the word.