Documenting the first 100 days after the loss of my 7-month old son, Owen, is partly what inspired this blog: life after infant loss, life after a tragedy.
Remember the second week of March when the whole world shut down due to the pandemic? We all experienced shock and significant losses. Every facet of our life was affected. Life would never be the same. We realized just how good we had it before. We dream about starting 2020 over, reminisce the old days, and wish we had answers. Some days it feels like we are living in a nightmare. We don't know how we are going to get through this and yet here we are, almost 6 months in, trying to make the best of it.
I feel this way after the death of my son, except the grief is a grossly personal pandemic that has no vaccine coming, and I don't know when or if it will get better. What I'm sharing is nothing remarkable, but an honest account of how I survived the first 100 days after losing Owen.
Day 1
Laundry. Piles of laundry. My husband, Kevin and I returned home after 12 days in the hospital when Covid-19 was at its peak. I had no control over what happened there, but I could clean like the Dickens.
I find peace in tidying, decluttering, and cleaning. It feels useful and distracting. I started putting away non-sentimental baby items. I became particularly angry packing the baby Tylenol and diapers away. When the first outbreak of Covid-19 hit the U.S., I ordered 3 boxes of baby Tylenol and extra diapers online. Both were hot items and ones Owen would need after surgery. That is the only time I felt angry during those early days. Money wasted. How could I have known? This is absurd!
Entering the playroom and seeing Owen's toys, I questioned if Owen had existed. Was it all a nightmare? Was it just two weeks ago when we were all a happy family?
Day 3
In the middle of the night, I woke up thrashing my legs and crying out. My body reacted viscerally – as if my essence could not handle this reality and was desperately trying to escape my legs. Kevin woke up and we started to cry together and pray. We both felt the air was suffocating us as if we were still wearing face masks. While in the hospital, we wore masks 24/7, even in our sleep.
Week 1
Overall, I got the best sleep I had in seven months. Owen never slept through the night and my body was catching up on rest. I slept in while Kevin made breakfast for our daughter, Lea*. I would often eat breakfast alone hearing Kevin and Lea playing while my tea or coffee took effect.
My son's existence was still fuzzy. Was he ever here? Did I imagine him? I was on autopilot doing the minimum amount of everything. Not winning mother of the year. Some friends continued to reach out and some gave space. A few close friends texted me almost every day to ask how I was doing that day and sending love. These check-ins saved me because my emotions changed constantly depending on the day or time of day.
I was overly sensitive to the question "How are you?" because it was almost too overwhelming to think about. "How are you feeling today?" or "How is your morning or day going?" are easier questions to process. To conserve my energy, I copied and pasted the same text response to different friends.
Neighbors and friends kindly organized a meal train, which we are so grateful for. I created a gratitude journal listing people's acts of kindness. I wrote a lot of emails. I shared on Social Media what happened.
After dinner was when the sadness crept in most. During Lea’s story time, I became quiet and numb, staring blankly into space, thinking about how Owen's front row story time seat was on my lap and how he was missing our nightly family ritual.
I had despairing and sorrowful cries at night before bed. If I didn't cry that day, I had heart palpitations or anxiety the next day. I began to search online half seriously if one could die of a broken heart and grew slightly concerned. I started to ask God to please spare my heart and not give me more pain than I could handle. I was done.
Week 2
We planned for Owen's funeral, which would be at the end of the week. It would be a small funeral with 8 people and shared on Zoom. We wrote our tributes and selected music to play. I picked out Owen's outfit: a comfortable white footed-sleeper with an elephant holding a yellow or blue balloon with its trunk. We had a beautiful funeral for Owen. I was too stunned to cry at it; family and friends would say they admired Kevin's and my strength.
I worried about how life would be after the funeral. Would we still be supported? I felt compelled to explain to people that what we experienced was traumatic and would take a long time to recover from. Would I not be able to talk about my son again? 6 months from now? 6 years from now? 20 years from now?
Week 3
I wrote thank you notes. Lots of them. There were so many people to thank for keeping us going. I could only write 3-5 notes a day. Kevin returned to work. I slowly returned to mom mode. There were moments of sadness during the day but mostly at night. The last thank you note was sent.
Month 1
Fewer people reached out and as regularly, except for a handful of relatives and very close friends. Again, these check-ins saved me, even if I didn't have the energy to talk. When I did, at times I found myself the comforted being the comforter.
It was time for me to start reaching out to the experts, to select my support group, to find a tribe. I quickly looked up therapists and put that thought on hold. I figured it was too early, that I must be in shock and needed to sit in my grief. I joined a support group The Compassionate Friends. Interestingly, The Compassionate Friends informed Kevin and me that the first two years after child loss are considered early grief. Fantastic.
I wrote to a past teacher who lost a child ten years earlier and sent my heartfelt condolences again. I devoured a book on heaven in one night. I googled “what happens to your baby when they die” and other burning questions in the late hours. I obsessively watched videos of Owen before bed.
I became increasingly paranoid about my health and grew more anxious. I worried about having a panic attack if I took Lea for a walk around the block by myself. A doctor gave me some anti-anxiety meds to have just in case, but I never took them.
By the 4th week, I finished weaning breastmilk and put the pump away. The body is cruel in that it still produces milk, but releasing the oxytocin gave me an odd sense of comfort.
Kevin packed away Owen’s crib at the end of the month. Our bedroom felt large.
Week 6
I regained the strength and energy to wake up before the house stirred. I started to take better care of myself with exercising, reading, and pursuing online studies. I wasn't working full-time as I decided not to return to work after having Owen for a while, thinking I would be a stay-at-home mom of two under 2 caring for a baby with a heart condition.
I packed away Owen's baby clothes, except for some favorites, which I keep in a single drawer. I put away my nursing clothes and pulled out my regular clothes. I began reorganizing and setting aside the items in my life that were no longer relevant.
After the fourth consecutive day of feeling normal or having what I call an "up" day, I started to have intensely sorrowful grieving sessions at night. This went on for 3-4 evenings in a row. I realized the first wave of the initial shock of the loss was wearing off and even though I was functioning better, it also meant my mind was more capable of feeling the deep pain, 6 weeks in. By then, it felt as if the world had moved on and I was only starting to grieve.
I began searching for my son in nature, sitting in the backyard, hoping Owen as a reincarnated cardinal or blue-jay would make his presence known. I felt sad (and a bit nuts) for doing so, but also comforted and hopeful that I might catch a glimpse of him if I believed hard enough.
Month 2
I was amazed at how slowly time passed. It had only been two months since Owen died and yet, it felt like years, decades. I started to see managing grief as surviving.
Month 3
I began to think about the future and the next steps. I looked for more support groups, books to read, and a creative outlet. I didn’t have as many nightly crying sessions, maybe 3 times a week.
I realized I couldn’t lean on my husband for every sad feeling as it wasn’t fair to him. We were on different grieving paths with different methods of managing our grief. I started to feel a little alone and wondered how we would manage this the course of our lives.
More days passed crying at night seeking comfort from my photo gallery of Owen.
Day 100
And then day 100 came. I'll shed a quick tear every other day during the day, but haven’t had a debilitating moment in a while. Lately, I also softly cry maybe once or twice a week at night before falling asleep. This is coming from someone who normally cries a handful of times a year.
How did I survive?
I guess I survived because I had to....and by accepting that contrary to popular belief, this kind of grief - child loss grief - is not a short-term temporary guest, but one that will likely be in residence for the rest of my life, because let's face it, we never stop loving our children.
Once I accepted grief will always be here, maybe softer in time, I looked for ways to manage it: by crying, exercising, getting outside, dressing up, playing with my daughter, praying, reading, connecting with loved ones, working on projects, limiting news and social media, looking at old photos and videos, and joining support groups.
The times when none of that helped, I just tried to be, and went to bed. And somehow, I have 100 days of grief behind me...and countless more ahead.
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