The Conversation That Hurt

A few days ago, we had someone visiting our home. I got home with a massive headache that seemed to be trying to morph into a migraine. So light was not my friend and I just wanted to go to bed.

I could tell by Mark's body language that me heading off to bed at 7 was not going to go over well. So I tried to put my chin up and clean up the kitchen and make small talk with our guest.

Let's just say that the conversation went into a direction that caught me extremely off guard.

Somehow we started to talk about Andrew. I probably shouldn't have gone there. But she was concerned about Mark. About us.

"Mark's having a hard time this month."  I said.

"Oh really," she commented shocked.

I described some of his nightmares. His panicking over things with Lynn. His seeming, almost paranoia at times, that she will die or get hurt and die. That all the kids will die.

She seemed surprised. Almost alarmed. It almost seemed like she didn't believe me. There was an awkward silence. I sat down at the dining room table where she was at and put my hand on the stand where Lynn was sitting in her bouncy seat.

"Did you struggle much when you lost your son?" I ask hoping for some connection . . . or . . . something.

She responds that she didn't really. His death was for such a different reason than Andrew's. He died of a medical condition. His heart wasn't formed right for some reason that she doesn't really know. So it wasn't hard for her. That caught me strangely. How could even that not be difficult? It's your child. Your flesh and blood.

It seemed there was little sympathy there. Of course, I could be wrong. But I definitely felt like I should protect my heart at that point and just wanted to go to bed. Gosh was my head killing me.

"How old was Andrew when he died?" she asked me. "23 weeks?"

"Um," the last thing I wanted to do is figure out his age in weeks.

"All I know is that he was five and a half months. I've never thought of his age in weeks." I stated groggily.

"Oh, so then he was about 24 weeks or so." I closed my eyes and moved my head around wishing I was in bed. I didn't care how many weeks old he was. He's not here is all I knew.

More silence.

"Lynn is 10 weeks now?" she asked reaching out to touch Lynn's foot.

I looked at the calendar on the wall just over Lynn's head. "Yeah."

"So she's almost half way to the age that Andrew was when he died."

And my heart stopped and jumped into my throat.

"What!?!" was what I thought in my head as I thought I was going to lose it. I felt such an intensity of pain and then looked at Lynn almost with panic.

A wave of nausea came over me.

She's almost halfway to where . . . . oh my gosh. I thought to myself.

The aching in my heart grew more palpable as I looked down at the floor. I almost thought that . . . . I almost couldn't breathe.

I couldn't do this right then.

Who says that to someone who had just told them that they were having a tough time to dealing with their child's death even a year and a half later? Who says that? What kind of . . . . .

Even now, it hurts to think about what she said. It still catches in the throat. I still find myself sickened by such a thought. So nonchalantly. So casually as though she were talking about one of the boys going out to go sledding.

It's not as though I am not aware that when she turns 5 1/2 months, that that may be a bit difficult for us. I am nervous for that day. A bit fearful.

But pah-leeze.

Such an awful thing to say.

What an awful thing to call to mind.

Gosh that conversation hurts. . . . . gosh my heart hurts.