Mourning Has Broken

Grief is not only a reaction to death; it can be a reaction to any form of loss.  In this case, it is mourning the loss of an ‘ideal’.  When you discover you are having a baby, you start to dream, hope and envisage the child that you will have and the life that they will have.  When you discover that there is something ‘not ideal’ – an anomaly, a difference, a challenge – these ideas are somewhat shattered and have to be rebuilt around the new reality in which you find yourself and your child.  If I look at the past 3 years carefully, I can truly say that I have gone through the 5 stages of grief as outlined by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.  However, I don’t know if I will ever really reach acceptance in its entirety.  I feel that, if I fully accept my son’s challenges, it will render me complacent in the fight to get him what he needs and in enabling him to reach his utmost potential.  I also do not think that grief is a linear or finite process that can be compartmentalised.  You may be in 2 stages simultaneously and the intensity of the stages may fluctuate at different times.  While you may reach an acceptance of certain aspects, other situations or challenges may re-awaken your anger or your depression.  For me, there are definite triggers for the different stages that can push or pull me out of one emotion and into another.

Initially, when N was diagnosed with the apraxia of speech, well-meaning people would comment that luckily it was “just his speech” or the favourite platitude that it “could be worse”.  While I did acknowledge (and was grateful) that he was a beautiful and healthy child and had so much that was ‘right’, I just wanted to reply that, actually, it could be a whole lot better too.  Our son could be able to say his name, or call me mama, or tell me what he wanted to eat.  He could be able to tell me if he was happy, or sad, or feeling sick, or hurt.  He could be able to talk to his friends and blow out the candles on his birthday cake.  He could be able to enjoy playschool and be sitting in the sandpit instead of at therapy.  I could be able to drop him off each morning safe in the knowledge that he could make himself understood.  I could not have to panic about circumstances in which I may have to leave him with a stranger who would not know what he wanted or needed.  I could not have endless nights lying awake worrying about his therapy, his progress and whether I was missing something.

Many of us dare not ever discuss this grief for fear of being deemed ‘ungrateful’ that we have a child, a healthy child.  We are scared we will be judged for feeling angry that we have to spend hours of the week at therapy appointments or depressed at the thought of this being a long-term situation.  I don’t believe that we can ever really come out the other side of it without talking about it in some way to someone.  Writing about my process has been reflective and healing for me, yet it has revealed how little I spoke to anyone about what was happening or how I was feeling. To grieve is painful.  To grieve alone can break you.