I strongly believe that women who give birth naturally (i.e. without an epidural), deserve to wear a badge proclaiming this feat. I have delivered two children and can attest to the excruciating pain involved in the entire process. I have not earned a badge and that is perfectly fine by me- epidurals are amazing and I highly recommend them. I have tremendous respect for women who chose no epidural- it takes a lot of strength, determination, and effort.
I envision these badges to be unassuming, but something all women would be able to immediately recognize. I could pass by and dip my head with a slight smile in recognition of their hard work. Perhaps it would fuel conversations for those who have not yet experienced child birth. Fellow badge wears would be able to recognize each other immediately and know they share a common bond; a unique experience that not everyone is able to participate in.
Since Owen has passed away, I have come to realize I want to wear a badge. I am not sure what it should look like, but I want it to say things like, "I get it!", "Is there any way I can help you?", "You are amazing and doing the best you can", and "We may look like a typical family of three, but we are far from it". Without Owen, Pete and I have worked very hard to stay busy. We fill our free time with projects and activities because idle time allows for the grief to sneak in. It is with us all of the time, but if we remain busy we feel like we are tricking ourselves into moving forward.
A few weeks ago, we took Ellie to the Franklin Park Zoo for a Boo at the Zoo event. We all wore costumes, visited the animals, and even got to Trick-or-Treat in a section of the zoo. It was a fun day- our biggest challenge was finding parking. What a different day it would have been if Owen had joined us. The packing of supplies and equipment, making of medicine and back-up medicine, extra clothes and diapers, formula and bottles, concerns about the weather, the long drive to the zoo, pressure sores from sitting in a car seat and then wheelchair all day... and the list goes on. This trip just entailed having money to get in and not forgetting the Rapunzel hair for Ellie's costume.
My first realization of needing a badge happened soon after we arrived at the zoo. As we entered the first exhibit we encountered a mom with two little girls, both under the age of five. One girl ran ahead pointing out the animals as she spotted them. As the mom reminded her not to get too far ahead, she remained close by her other daughter, who was blind. There was a look on this mother's face of calm intensity- she was focused on helping her daughter navigate a crowded hallway and making sure the children running by in all directions did not knock her off balance. I immediately felt a sense of camaraderie with this woman; Owen was also blind. I wondered if she was bothered by the fact that her daughter could not see the animals? Then I immediately thought of all the other senses coming into play in the enclosed bird exhibit. The echos, the dim hallways with brightly lit animal enclosures (perhaps she had some vision like Owen and could see contrasts in light and dark?), surely she could smell the smells you only find at a zoo. I wanted to touch this woman's shoulder and tell her I understand. I get it- I can imagine all of the things going through her mind and she is not alone.
A few exhibits later, we came across a little boy in a wheelchair. We were once again in an indoor exhibit. I don't remember the animal, but I do remember, to get to the glass, you had to walk down long stadium seating. No problem for Ellie and the numerous other children, they bounded down the elongated steps and got up very close (perhaps too close to that glass...all those germs...). The mom and the little boy hung back at the top step. She would not be able to navigate the wheelchair down those five steps on her own. This time I did say something, I offered to help carry him down. I mumbled something incoherent about having a son with a wheelchair and how I understood. The mom declined my offer and I retreated. She didn't know I was her a few short weeks ago. I know what it is like to have a child in a wheelchair who is missing out on the freedom a typical child enjoys.
I knew what we looked like to these moms: a perfect family; Rapunzel the typical three year old, a Red Sox player dad, a cat mom, and even an extra body to help out- Meme the witch. What they couldn't see was the gaping hole following us through the zoo where Owen should have been dressed as a pumpkin. I didn't have my badge on to let them know I was actually one of them.
When we went places with Owen, I would make eye contact with numerous people, we would acknowledge each other silently and know that we each understood the mutual challenges we face each day. I am no longer part of that group and I still want to be. If I had a badge, one easily recognizable to parents who have children with special needs, maybe it would provide comfort to those families. It would provide comfort to me. I have lived life with a healthy baby girl and I have lived life having a special needs child. My family may appear to be healthy and complete, but it is not. Owen is missing and it hurts to not be able to share that part of me at all times.
I want everyone to know our son is missing from our group. I want people to know that my offers to help come from a deep need to make their day easier. I understand how difficult even the simplest outing can be. If I was wearing my badge, maybe the mom with the child in the wheelchair would have let me help bring her son closer to the glass. She needed a helping hand, and unfortunately both of mine have been empty for three and a half weeks.
