I think it's human nature to compare. I know I spend my days comparing my body to other women, comparing the cleanliness of my house to others, comparing the behavior of my children to others. I can't say whether or not this is also human nature, but I almost always find myself lacking in comparison.
In the first year or two after losing the boys, I made a lot of grief comparisons. There were so many people who had it worse than I. Why, I'd be SO much worse off if I'd lost the boys when they were 10 or 6 or 3. I told myself that there were so many worse losses in the world and that I needed to keep mine in perspective.
I remember a well-meaning friend of Tony's sent us an article (Vessels by Daniel Raeburn) about a couple who suffered through a still birth. I'm sure there were many redemptive qualities to the article, but all I remember are two scenes. The first was when the baby was born and the author recalled the feeling of the plates of the skull grinding against one another. I was horrified. What an awful loss those people endured! At least I'd never had to experience that! And then, there was the scene where the couple goes to a support group. The grieving attendees all tell their stories and at the end of the meeting the wife says to the author/husband, "That last couple? There is someone out there has it worse than us!" The couple that sparked that remark had described losing twins from TTTS. Then I was livid. Not at the author; I understood what he was doing. He was making himself feel better by thinking about others who have it worse. I'd done that all the time. But I was furious with the "friend" who sent the article. What comfort can possibly come from knowing you are living the worst case scenario?
Even then, it took a long time for me to stop comparing.
In reading a recent article about the passing of Beau Biden, I read a story about what Vice President Biden said when Beau returned home from war. He admitted to feeling somewhat guilty that his son returned when so many others did not, and he said, "Not all losses are equal."
Despite the fact that I felt that way for a long time, too, I now must disagree. Now I say that it is foolish to compare losses. Regardless of the ______ (what *is* the appropriate word? Depth? Severity? Worthiness? I'll be damned if I'm about to quantify) of the loss, the emotional toll is the same. Loss is like a hurricane that destroys modest apartments and million dollar beachfront properties with equanimity; it doesn't matter how swanky the residence, the occupants are still homeless.
It took a year, maybe more, for me to stop making comparisons. I was able to, in the words of a wise friend, "connect, not compare." Once I was able to do that, I was much better equipped to interact with people experiencing loss. A friend who was derailed from the loss of a beloved pony said, "I'm sorry. This is nothing compared to what you've been through." And I was able to say, sincerely and honestly, that ALL loss sucks, and that there was no use comparing. Since I stopped comparing, I've been able to be present and (I hope) comforting to friends losing family members, pets, and unborn children. There is no point comparing losses. I truly believe that.
But just because I believe it doesn't mean the rest of the world does. And one demographic I've found particularly prone to making comparisons is children.
My children, aged 13.5 and almost 8, make comparisons constantly. They ask if I love one cat more than other. They ask if I think one cat loves them more than anyone else in the family. They ask me which class is my favorite, which student. They say, "I'm your favorite, right?" and ask "Who do you love more?" They say it playfully, but I'm pretty sure there's an element of seriousness behind the question. They've even asked me if, when I remarry and add two step brothers to the family, if I will love those boys as much as I love them.
And this is where I start flying on instinct. I didn't read a lot of books about child loss in the months and years after the boys died. There just aren't a lot of resources out there for a loss like mine. Instead I sort of followed my gut and went to therapy on a regular basis. And one thing I decided very early on is that Anna needed to know that she was "enough." That I couldn't spend the day in bed because she needed to know that she was important enough for me to get up. That she was enough to make me happy. And that I loved her enough that I wouldn't disappear.
I remember a conversation with a friend who had suffered a miscarriage before the birth of her first child. She was wearing a mother's necklace and had a bead that represented the lost child. She asked if I had any similar jewelry and I said no. Somehow the conversation to turned to Christmas as she was surprised to hear that I didn't have stockings on my mantle with the names Ray and Alex. I told her that I worried that Anna would feel less important if I did that. Then I made the leap from equal to better. Anna is not equal to two dead babies. She's more than. And she needs to know it. I remember saying, "You can't compete with dead."
In 2007 Anna got a brother - talk about competition! Then her father and I divorced, and Daddy married a woman with three children. More competition! Last year they gave Anna and Vinnie a half-brother. Even more competition! Now here I go getting engaged! The poor darlings! Now, don't get me wrong. Anna and Vinnie love their step and half siblings. And they love Jim's boys. But that's an awful lot for two little hearts to manage. For those reasons and countless others, I need my children to know that they are number one priority in my life.
So when they ask, "Who do you love more?" I answer simply in ways that they can understand. "I love you two both equally (yes, equally!), but I don't love any other thing or person in the world as much as I love you. I will always love you two MOST."
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