The Look: an evolution
I was speaking with another parent at camp drop-off yesterday morning about what other camps our kids were attending this summer. For the uninitiated, kids’ summer logistics can be almost as exhausting as navigating a school year.
“For the first time next week, we are only going to have one drop-off and pickup. My son, who will be a freshman, is going to the same camp as Anessa. Exciting times!”
“Wow, a freshman,” was his only response - though I could see him doing the mental math of my children’s age difference.
I waited to see if he would inquire about it or ask if we only had the two kids. He didn’t. And then the bus pulled away and all the parents made their way back to their cars, travel mugs in hand.
On the short drive home, I thought about the conversation. Specifically, how just a few years ago what was left unsaid would have torn me apart. Literally shredded me. Leaving only scraps that I would spend the rest of the day piecing back together with a mix of benzos, sleep, and alcohol.
Or, more likely, I would have forced the conversation forward to a point where the reason for the age gap was explained. Because I couldn’t possibly let him walk back to his car with his lukewarm coffee thinking that I only had two children. The desperation I felt for all of my children to be, if not remembered, at least known – seen - was almost manic. As if I were letting Adelaide die all over again if this stranger didn’t know she had existed.
To say I’ve come a long way sounds trite, but it’s true. I know this way of navigating the world after loss has been earned and learned. It has taken years of therapy, hundreds of thousands of written words, and countless tears. I know this is the healthier way to live… and yet I’ve begun to wonder if I don’t talk about Adelaide enough.
Am I letting her fade into the history of our lives? The way you might an old job or home, so that they only come up when discussing those years of your life in which they existed. I have always resisted calling Adelaide a chapter in my life, but am I inadvertently relegating her to one now?
This is where my rational brain pipes up to remind me that I have written not one, but two books in which Adelaide is a main character. That I sit on two non-profit boards of organizations related to Adelaide’s medical conditions. That no one could enter our home, see her photos all over our walls, and not know what she meant to us.
And yet…
After Miguel’s rec softball game the other night he told me he was telling a story to someone on his team and said something along the lines of “after our daughter died…” The person he was talking to stood there with the dumbfounded expression that anyone who has ever had to mention their child has died knows all too well. Miguel explained she had been sick her whole life, that yes, it was tragic, but we were ok.
“I haven’t had to explain Adelaide to a new person in a while,” Miguel said.
He didn’t elaborate on what that meant to him. But I understood how acutely he felt the incongruity of our life in that moment. How bizarre it feels to explain the limited existence of a person who remains such an essential part of our daily thoughts and lives.
Miguel is nicer than me. While everything he said to his teammate was true, I know that he said it so that he could comfort or reassure them and get back to the point of his story. When I get “the look” I pause and acknowledge how much it really fucking sucked and that it still does. That Adelaide was an absolute force in our lives and we miss her every single day. No sugar-coating, just the life-changing truth of it.
I didn’t always respond this way. Another result of all of that healing I’ve been up to, I suppose. In the earliest days, I avoided meeting new people altogether so that I didn’t have to face introducing people to my dead child. Over time, as I mentioned earlier, I began to manically force the conversation toward making Adelaide known.
What I didn’t mention, however, was the guilt I felt from inflicting my tragedy on someone else’s otherwise normal day. So, I would try and reassure them that we were ok, or at the very least that we would be. Anything to make “the look” disappear and assuage my guilt.
“The look” is an integral part of the exchange, though. If it wasn’t there, I would miss it, or at the very least wonder what was wrong with a person who had just learned of the death of a child and NOT responded with a look of horror and/or compassion. To be clear, “the look” is not the problem. Well, not anymore.
Now, I no longer feel the need to reassure others that we are ok. We are ok and those who know us know that. But I guess I’m realizing there is a part of me that still needs to hold on to how shitty it all was and still is. To let it be just a little bit uncomfortable. To let Adelaide hold space in this world. The space she will always hold between Jackson and Anessa. Whether everyone knows she is there or not.
ID: Photo taken in 2023 by Jennifer Loomis Photography. A black and white photo against a black backdrop. Jackson is laying on his stomach on the ground and Anessa is laying on his back. A ladybug stuffed animal is at Jackson's side. Both children are smiling at the camera.
Special note: I have chosen to share this photo without covering Anessa's face as it is from three years ago and her face is partially obstructed by her hair. This doesn't mean I will be showing her face in the future. I just decided to today.
