For Better or Worse

A while back, Laura Jane posted about the idea of coping and moving forward after the death of a baby.  How do you keep going when you know that your life will always be worse than you thought it would be?

I left this comment on her blog (actually I left a loooong, rambling comment, but this part sort of sums it up):

Yes, our lives will always be a little bit worse because our babies died. But I think it's also true that our lives will be deeper, richer, wiser, crazier, more absurd, more interesting, more complicated, more adventurous, more appreciative, and more sacred because we love and miss those babies. 

It doesn't make it better. But there are moments when I realize it is what it is. I will piece together the best life I can have and it will never be the life I hoped it would be. The truth is, there's probably nobody in the world who has the life they hoped they would have. Some event has occurred so that everyone's life is a little bit worse than they would have hoped. Our brand of tragedy is especially heartbreaking and unfair, but life is a gamble like that. And we are all living in the middle of better and worse.

Sure, I can write it to LJ and sound somewhat convincing.  But the truth is I've really struggled with this.  I don't see how things could ever get "better," knowing that we'll never have Eliza here with us.  Her birth should have shaped our lives as new parents, and instead her death feels like it shadows in grief everything that happens next.

I've always been the person who believes that things will work out if you try hard enough, and really want it.  But I just can't see what could ever work out that would balance this loss.  There's no windfall possible in my future that would some how make all this worthwhile.  I know logically, intellectually, that this pain won't eat me up for the rest of my life.  I know time will help with that.  But still, I find myself stumbling under the burden of this idea that I have to accept my life as forever worse than it could have been, worse than it should have been.

I can't say that I've had some kind of revelation that changes that point of view.  But I do think I'm experiencing a growing realization that (although there are lots of fictional plots that want to convince us otherwise) there's actually no singular moment that defines our lives--unless we allow it to.  The possibility of parallel universes aside (you know, Fringe-style), my life now can't be compared to some alternative life I might have had.  Imagining how my life should have been, with Eliza in it, is unavoidable and sometimes irresistible.  But in reality?  There is no better version of my life I might have had.  This is it.  This is all I get.

Eliza died.  This happened.  It's sad, and unfair, and terrible.  And of course my life is different than it would be if she had lived.  But there are millions of scenarios in my life that could have gone another way that might have been "better."  Like if I had gone to law school instead of grad school.  If I'd continued to study Spanish in college.  If I'd done a semester abroad (I always regretted not doing that).  If my first best friend hadn't turned out to be a two-faced meanie sometime in fifth grade.  If I'd tweezed my eyebrows before my freshman year of high school instead of after.  If I'd gotten that one part I auditioned for.  If I'd gone to a more highly ranked university for undergrad.  If the boy I loved in college hadn't broken my heart.  If I hadn't poured hot tea down my arm in grad school and given myself third degree burns and a huge ugly scar.

These have all been losses or worries or regrets at some point in my life.  But they add up to my life.  And even though I'd still go back and change some things if I could (especially the stupid burn on my arm), I know that there's not really some magical, perfect version of things that could have been.  There's no way to know how my life would have played out if any one of those things hadn't happened, and there's no reason to believe that it ultimately would have been "better."  Eliza's loss--like all those smaller losses before--has brought its own gifts into my life, made way for changes and experiences that wouldn't have otherwise been possible.  Being her mom is shaping everything that happens to me next, and I decide whether that's a blessing or a curse.

I still can't imagine getting to the point where I wouldn't leap at the chance to turn back time and change everything so that Eliza stays with us.  But I am realizing that she's part of a narrative I can't accurately define as worse than it should have been, because it's the only story there is.

Please don't misunderstand me.  I still hate this story.  I still want my baby.  I'd take any risk and make any bargain, any sacrifice to have her here with me.  I miss her so much.  And I still can't say the words, "I really miss her," without dissolving into tears.

I also want to be clear on this:  When I talk about gifts and opportunities, I'm NOT preaching about the broken road that leads us where we're meant to go (remember, I don't hold by those silly notions).  I'm just trying to accept the truth of my life story, and let that truth carry me forward.

So I keep coming back to the idea that my life can't be worse only because there's really no better to compare it with.  It is what it is.  I'm doing the best I can with the cards I've been dealt, just like everybody else.  This happened.  It can't unhappen.  So now I wait and see what happens next.

Yes, it's so tempting to think that if Eliza had lived, everything would be better.  A part of me will always believe that.  But my grief for her isn't just about my life, and what would be easier or better or more fun for me.  I mourn a baby girl who, for no reason at all, was denied the chance to live this life.  And yet I keep remembering this line I read somewhere:  For all we know, it might be just as lucky to die as it is to be born.  

Eliza's death is a tragedy that we'll mourn forever--her lost potential, our lost hopes.  But I'm starting to realize that I have to quit thinking about my life as though it were ripped in half on that day. As though it's a simple cause and effect.  Before and after.  Like everything since that day has been transformed to something darker and scarier and sadder than it was before.  Don't get me wrong--it still feels that way a lot of the time.  But as far as thinking about what might have been, and comparing my life now to the life I should have with an eight month old baby here with me...  even when I do it, I know that I'm missing the point.

The point isn't better or worse.  The point is making the most of this "wild and precious life" that I have.  Wishing it were better would eventually mean wishing it away.  And I still want to know what happens next.