My Mommy Agony

As moms, we are primed to fix boo-boos.  We are ready to rock, nurse, snuggle, change diapers, do whatever it takes to make it better for our child.  Usually it's a process of trial and error.  Sometimes we get it right, other times we rock into the wee hours of the night, praying for a break in the tears.

We grow with our children as they grow.  We learn when it's time to back off and allow our children to figure it out for themselves.  We find the balance between letting go just enough, and hanging on to the apron strings for security.

Then there are the times we desperately want to make it better, we want to fix it, but it's just not physically possible.

These past 48 hours have been agonizing for me, having to watch Noah go through this grief process.  It is excruciating to watch my man-child experience anger, depression, fury, denial, rage, and utter despair, often all within the same 30 seconds of each other.  This morning he announced he's going on a hunger strike; logically, Noah knows that won't bring Gretta back--but try explaining that to a grieving, angry 11 year old boy.  No child should have to go through this kind of pain of losing a dear loved one and best friend.  I think, for me, the pain of watching Noah go through this is worse than the pain I feel from missing our dog.  It hurts to watch him do his backyard pacing without his happy brown-dog shadow walking behind him, tail wagging, not caring where they were going, just happy to be with her boy.

Shortly after Gretta died, Noah asked me to please not "griefalize" him, as I would a client at the grief center where I volunteer.  Both my mentor and I found this very interesting, and so typically perceptive of Noah.  I have wanted to reassure him that everything and anything he feels right now is normal, but that is not what he needs from his mom.  I have held him, cried with him, laid down with him and snuggled, listened when he's raged on, done my best to comfort him--but I can't fix it.  I can't snap my fingers and make it go away.  I can't go through this for him, in his place.

Shawn and I have both spent time talking with Noah when he's been receptive to it.  We've wanted to assure him that we both understand, that we've both lost beloved pets and best friends.  I've been honest with him, because truthfully, Noah is too smart for anything less.  I've explained that it's going to hurt for a while, but one day he'll realize he's smiling at memories instead of tearing up.  I told him I can't promise when it will start to hurt less, but it will.  We talked about anger (after he shoved my ancient cat off the counter and screamed at her for still being alive when his dog is dead), acceptable ways to show it, and how it's even okay to be angry at God and Gretta, me and Shawn.  Anger is something new for Noah--it's not a problem we've typically had with him.  Right now, he just needs to get all of that out, in a safe manner, be comfortable with it, then maybe we can start talking about good memories and Gretta.  Hopefully soon Noah will be able to rest in the knowledge that he gave Gretta a great life.

I will admit that for myself and Shawn, it is a small relief to see Noah experience these emotions and feelings.  Asperger's can leave a person very expressionless.  People on the spectrum don't experience emotions the same way you or I do--it's not to say they don't experience them at all, just differently.  Oftentimes, Noah can seem very cold and callous.  Things he might find funny are actually mean; he can't always grasp the concept of what other people are feeling, and why they are feeling those specific emotions.  So, as awful as it sounds, it is a small relief to see our son experience such a wide range of emotions.  It has given him a chance to do so in a safe setting (he wasn't punished for shoving my cat--he got a hug instead), and a chance for us to teach him what to do with what he's feeling.

I am relieved we are soon leaving for vacation.  We all need a break.  This tiny house has suddenly become too big without Gretta following me around as I complete my daily tasks.  Even with our two loud, energetic boys, it has become too quiet with Gretta's companionship.  It tears me apart to watch Noah stand at her grave and grieve for his friend.  The silence when he goes to bed and there's no "Come on Gretta, it's bedtime!" call has left a void at 8 every night.  There is an ache, an emptiness, when she doesn't come running to greet us when we come through the front door.  There is a hole in my son's heart.