I Am Oliver's Mom

 I have not taken the time to write for a few months. The heaviness that comes with November and December was certainly at the root, along with my internship and the end of a busy semester.

On December 5th we honored the day Oliver died. Two years. Two achingly long years. We gathered outside on a very chilly night with a few friends who were present then and are still our supporters today. We drank wine, laughed together, and reminisced. They have learned to follow our lead and dip into our grief when we signal. We share a very special little boy and the memory of his death is a tie that binds us.

I am continuing my internship with a local hospice agency. Yesterday I was able to spend the day shadowing a lovely social worker at the facility where Oliver died. Albeit a smidge apprehensive, I have done a lot of work on myself and my grief to come to the decision that the time was right to enter that special place and carry not only my personal story but all of the experience I have gained thus far as a social worker. I waited in the lobby where I vividly remembered entering to tell my friend who spent the night sleeping on the couch that Oliver had died. I remembered coming out to the lobby to meet friends who had gathered to say their final goodbye and drive Matt & me home to our now-empty house.

During rounds, I realized that I would be seeing the nurse who was our angel on earth when Oliver was admitted to the facility. She made more of an impact on all of our lives than she will ever understand. Matt and I delivered flowers to her many months after his death as a thank you and also a way for me, in particular, to work through my grief and trauma. When she came into the room, I was thankful for masks to hide my identity. However, after a brief introduction as an intern, she looked back at me, convinced she had met me before. I said "You were our son's nurse. I am Oliver's mom." and with those words, she began to cry.

I wasn't sure how to respond. Thankfully people began to chat amongst themselves and gave her a few minutes to gather herself. We all moved forward and I kept avoiding her gaze because it felt incredibly intimate. I saw her throughout the day, we smiled, and I saw her so lovingly speak with families who are experiencing their own loved ones' death. She is a gift to so many.

As I drove home after a truly educational day, I pondered her reaction. And my feelings about it. My initial response was she remembers us because Oliver was such an amazing little patient. (Which he was!) But I quickly realized that his death, which I hold so near and dear as my story, was also a story for her. The story may carry some true weight and trauma for her. Children don't die very often and even more rarely in a hospice center. Her remembrance may hold pain and sadness that I never considered before. Nor should I. It is not a grieving person's responsibility to manage their own grief and those of others, remember the "dump out" theory. Yet I need to acknowledge others' participation in Waverly and Oliver's deaths as their own experience.

Grief continues to surprise and challenge me.