Jan. 13 - One Month Later

Monday marked one month since Garrett passed away. Now we've had more time without him than with him, and I'd say we're fairly well back into the old normal routine. But I still think about him when I head to bed, when I wake up in the middle of the night, and first thing in the morning ... Day-to-day responsibilities seem to do a good job of filling most of my waking hours, but he still has a good hold on my thoughts when the house is quiet and I should be sleeping.

I even had a dream the other night that I was back at Saint Marys' PICU visiting four babies who were all being treated for their vein of Galen malformations. One of the babies was six months old, and I was sure she was going to make it. But as I held her and stroked her peach-fuzz hair, I still cried for her -- knowing everything she had to go through, knowing that the blessing of her living many more years came with the question of how much her quality of life would be compromised.

This week, our normal morning bus driver, Jerry, was back from vacation. He's a charismatic, sociable guy who wished me well before my maternity leave, so I was sure he'd ask how the baby was doing when he greeted me again. Even though I had run through the scenario in my head beforehand and tried to prepare a response ("He's dancing with Jesus in heaven," maybe? Or something about being in a better place?), I couldn't find anything to say when he asked. A fumbling-for-words, "Uhhhh ..." was all that came out. He tried to help with, "Growing?" That would make sense. A two-month-old baby would normally be growing like a weed. I didn't have time to think. I had to keep the line moving, so I just muttered a "Yeah" as I shuffled past and headed to my seat. Obviously that's wrong. He's not growing. But what was I supposed to say? "No, not exactly"?

Thankfully, having been back at work for a week and having already had a couple encounters with people who didn't know Garrett's story, the well-intentioned question didn't evoke an emotional response -- just befuddlement as to what to say. I had some extra memorial folders from Garrett's service in my purse and jotted down a note before handing one to Jerry as I left the bus, saying something like, "This does a better job of answering about the baby." I felt bad doing it. How is a person supposed to take that? It must be like getting a punch in the stomach. I'm sure I ruined his day, but I wanted him to know.

I'm such a chicken. I don't have a problem talking about it with someone who already knows, but I just can't bear to share the news in person. I can't stand to watch as the other person's heart breaks, because then mine dissolves again all over.

But oddly enough, while I don't want to witness it, I don't mind hearing about people's reactions afterward. I don't take joy in the saddness it causes others, but there's some comfort in knowing I'm not grieving alone. And, in a way, experiencing it from other perspectives makes it more complete. Maybe it takes me out of my own grief for a while to see how deeply other people have been affected.