On March 5th 2017 I received a phone call from my mother. I had already missed 7 calls between 3am-4am. Waking up in the twilight hours to my husband shaking me awake. He too had missed called from my mom. I hit redial, and the vibrations on the ringtone were dim in comparison to the voice that answered. It was so broken, there was no words. Just raw human emotion expressing disbelief and horror. I tried to speak for her. What happened? Who is hurt? Is it Dad? I jumped to him first. I worried about his health as stress had already caused my mom to develop epilepsy in her 50's. And he wasn't on the phone making this call. It must be Dad. She still wasn't speaking, just screaming tears.
Then one word. Kimmy.
And suddenly my strong demeanor on the phone stared to break and mirror my mothers. I paced the room in the dark. Brandon sitting on the bed to rub my back when I would sit for a second. Leaving the next to move because my world had stopped.
I spent the next hours on the phone trying to book flights to get home. This is when you feel the distance of immigration. When a boarder separates you from loved ones. When you come up with crazy notions like, "If I start driving right this second I can be there in 19 hours." Crying to strangers on the phone booking flights when you realize your child's passport is expired. You thought there would be time. If this is a funeral you are coming home for, you cannot bring your children.
I couldn't get a flight until 7pm. 15 hours I would have to wait. I spent them on the phone trying to get updates. The hours spun by fast even though my world stood still. Friends dropped by to bring me things to ease the plane ride, knowing my anxiety would be at its worst. Someone gave me a xanax, I thought, I don't need this I am strong enough. I now have a xanax prescription because this was the beginning of the end of being strong.
I got off that plane at close to midnight. The hospital was dark and quiet. I asked my dad about visiting hours, his reply, "the ICU doesn't have visiting hours." I waited at security doors, a nurse buzzing us in. I walked and heard my footsteps echo in the empty hallway. Until we got to a door. And I walked in and my life changed forever.
On May 20th 2018 My mom received a call. She believed because it was my husband making the call, that it was the happy news that should have followed my call, telling her I was on the way to the hospital. Full term, and feeling pain I thought was contractions. Instead the only words he told her was, "We lost the baby." I do not know what happened on her end of that call. I know it was probably similar to mine. Packing a suitcase without knowing what was being put inside. Booking a flight that you do not want to take, and yet cannot come soon enough.
I know I felt it was surreal that somehow she was arriving from another country 9 hours after picking up the phone. I know she arrived to a dark hospital, closed to visiting hours, except for these situations. I know she got there just in time to say goodbye. Before she ever got the chance to say hello.
She lost a child at 28. I lost a child at birth. We both know the pain of child loss, something a mother shouldn't know. Something a mother and daughter should not share in common.
We had struggled after Kimmy's loss. I was a child wanting my mother, but she had nothing to give. I know this because I struggle to give my own children their desires right now. She knows this because it's watching your child live your own pain. Experience of child loss is the only way to understand it. Though our circumstances are different, it is only another mother that can cry and say I know.
And now we know each others grief. I often wondered if our relationship would ever repair itself to the one I used to love. Our family had remained so close over the years of being shattered. I wished it back over and over again. But now we stand, mirroring each other once more. In pain, in triumph, in understanding. My mothers pain is my Pain now. It's something we should not share. I wish neither of us had to know. But here we are. I know her grief. She knows mine.
We are still struggling.
But it is together in grief, instead of apart because of grief.
with love, lissa