The Kids are Alright

For a year and a half now, I've been on the receiving end of people's reactions to the news that my son was stillborn, and I gotta say, as a whole, society receives like maybe a generous C minus for general response to this information. As we get further and further away from Sam's birth, I'm realizing that one of the reasons I am so selective in who I share this information with is that most people are really bad at responding and I don't really have spare emotional energy for coaching them through the feelings-- both theirs and my own-- that need to be finessed so as to create an encounter that doesn't leave everyone just feeling worse at the end of a conversation in which my dead baby plays a role.

But Ellie is a very different story. Since she was only two and a half when we lost her brother, the fact of a dead baby doesn't seem weird or tragic to her-- it just seems normal. She doesn't understand the unfortunate stigma that comes with the situation and because we are open with her and Poppy about explaining Sam's life, death, and birth (in that order) she doesn't think this is a topic that is so sad it should be taboo. So she tells people about it in that manner. Reactions tend to vary.

Ellie seems to go through phases where she wants to talk about Sam a lot-- she'll spend a couple weeks bringing him up or asking us questions about him-- these especially seem to be connected with things that Poppy is doing. "Did Sam ever laugh?" "Can he hear me if I yell really loud at his grave?" "When Sam was in your tummy, did I tickle him?" During the most recent of these phases, we were visiting our favorite bookstore and playing with the two other families that had brought their young kids to play. As I stepped away to nurse Poppy in a comfy adult-sized chair, I overheard Ellie talking to the mom with a six month old boy. "My baby sister's name is Poppy. I have a baby brother, too. His name is Sam. He died."

I continued to feed Poppy, too far away from Ellie to provide affirmation or context. For the first time I considered the notion that Mike and I aren't in full control over how Sam is introduced to the world. Ellie is just as entitled as we are to share her relationship with him in whatever ways are most comfortable for her. And since Ellie is relieved of any sense of stigma and unburdened by the idea that this is so uncomfortable for others that she'll need to brace herself against their response, she is much more open to talking about it than we are. It's something I honestly hadn't thought about yet. I tried to listen for the other mother's reaction to Ellie's emotionless delivery of unequivocally grim information. "Oh," was all she said. I had some empathy for her-- she was undoubtedly not expecting that to come out of Ellie's mouth, and had no way of knowing how to respond in an age-appropriate way if she's had no experience with this herself. But once I had finished feeding Poppy and returned to the group to collect Ellie, she didn't address me about it either. Maybe I'm reading into it too much. Maybe the other moms were just busy trying to keep their kiddos happy-- opening applesauce pouches and negotiating lids on a round of hot chocolates. But a previously chatty pair of adults did not meet my gaze, and the new tension in the room seemed a bit relieved by the fact that I was soon ready to help Ellie put on her jacket and head off to lunch.

The next afternoon was cool and sunny, and, I took Ellie and Poppy over to our neighborhood park. Ellie was delighted to meet a new friend on the playground-- a little girl right around her age who was wearing a pink dress that I could tell Ellie admired as soon as she saw it. (Side note-- it's so funny to think that even in preschool, our fashion choices signal to the world around us who might be a good fit for our tastes!) Ellie and Elizabeth, as I later learned the little girl was named, immediately raced up to the slide while I strolled around wearing Poppy, who wanted to look up at some tree branches.

When they moved closer to me, Elizabeth looked at Poppy with big blue eyes, and with the wisdom that apparently only a three year old can possess, she turned her eyes to me and said, "You had two babies but you lost one." It wasn't a question, but an affirmation. She didn't seem to pity me, and she didn't even seem confused. It was like she just wanted me to know that she knew about Sam, and I was grateful in that moment that she did know about him, and that she had addressed it so frankly with me. "Yes," I responded. "Did Ellie tell you about that?" Elizabeth nodded.

I'm sure she didn't even realized this, but Elizabeth gave me an opportunity to talk about Sam without having to guide the conversation in a way that would make her feel more comfortable. It was refreshing. After Elizabeth and I had exchanged a few more words about my babies, she and Ellie moved on, ready to push each other on the swings and debate the merits of their favorite My Little Ponies. I reflected on the openness and freedom with which these young children spoke about a topic adults struggle with so much. I wished that my encounter with the adults the day prior had gone in a similar direction. I felt frustrated at myself and my peers for not being able to do this as capably as a pair of preschoolers on the playground had done-- unashamedly, respectfully, and without the fear that can accompany this kind of vulnerability.

I am sure that as Ellie grows and absorbs the reactions of others and recognizes that people don't treat Sam as casually and openly as she does, she will calibrate for herself the way she is willing to speak about him. She will begin to understand that there are few people who can speak about her brother, or stillbirth, or death in general with much comfort, and will therefore learn the coded language with which we talk about such topics in our society. She will notice the way people try to gloss over her brother's loss, changing the topic to something less scary or sad. She will begin to connect that even though we speak openly about Sam at home, his absence doesn't feel as acute when we are outside our four walls. His invisibility in our home is a source of pain, but his invisibility when we walk through the world is a shield, however imperfect, and eventually Ellie will differentiate between these two modes. But I hope that even as Ellie grows in understanding of these social norms surrounding death, particularly that of a child, she continues to push back on them. I'm proud of the way that she has confidently brought Sam's memory with her everywhere she goes, and I hope that in a world that doesn't always want to validate that, she continues to include him whenever she feels right doing so.