My son is buried in an unmarked grave.
At first I chose that course because I didn’t want to make a huge fuss. My mother delivered a still born son that was whisked away from her without even a second thought of a proper burial. So, why would mine deserve anything else? At least I was getting a graveside service.
That decision was made before I knew much about grieving. I didn’t know how I would long to have something, ANYTHING besides the hole in my heart to prove his existence. The cemetery is full oheadstones, each one representing a LIFE. No one would know I had a baby there.
During one visit I had the thought: I cannot be the only one who feels this way.
So I had the great idea of putting a memorial for all the infants buried there without a headstone. I got permission from the city and started doing some research. Before too long the process was stopped so that someone who needed an Eagle Scout project could do it.
but I had friends that had lost babies. They had headstones. They had places to take flowers and families. They had photos of their lifeless babies. Some had mini shrines, a testimony of their love.
I began to feel like I had made the wrong choice. Did my choice mean I loved him less than they loved their children? If I had loved him would I be doing more? I was jealous and sad and felt like my pain was not big enough, and that it was not small enough at the same time. What was the appropriate amount of attention to bring to this situation?
My heart said he deserved the world. He deserved a whole life full of love and laughter and chocolate, all the good things.
So why didn’t I even give him a headstone?!
Bless my therapist who asked me: WHY? Why does it matter? Do you think he cares if he has a headstone? Does he care if the world knows he existed? Would he be sad to know that someone walked through the cemetery and didn’t know he was there? Um no.
It took some time to change my thought processes, but because I was brought to that awareness, I realized that all that stuff wasn’t about him at all, it was about me. He isn’t hurting because he doesn’t have a headstone. I needed to realize that so that I could forgive myself. I no longer suffer with regret for not doing more. There are many ways in which he has altered the course of our lives and we do our best to show gratitude.
There is no right way to do this sort of thing. I do not love my son any less than those who have done more.
Last year when I was struggling so deeply, a friend of mine came to my parents house where I was staying and showed me the plans her son had made for a memorial to be placed in that part of the cemetery.
I sobbed. It was as though he was giving me a gift (through my friend), now that I understood it wasn’t about him, it is about me.
I took my family to see it for the first time. Now I can sit there! And though others may not recognize it as representing someone’s life, I do. And I hope there are other mothers and fathers and friends who can feel that that bench is for them too.
