Spring After SIDS
By Kathy Whelan, loving lifted from the Massachusetts Center for SIDS

He died in winter on a night foggy and damp. It fit our black, numb minds as we left the emergency room with an empty car seat behind us. When the interminable night waned, I could barely believe that the sun rose. How could life go on after my baby died? Yet the sun rose again, twenty-four hours later.

For the rest of the world, spring is symbolic of rebirth. Of hope. The increased sunlight brings out neighbors and lightens moods. But for those of us who grieve for our babies, spring is also a season of potholes and mud.

Mother's Day. Watch our for that pothole! When other mothers are treated with flowers and brunch, all I could do is remember my baby that died. Because he was my first child, I questioned whether I was really a mother or not. I decided that even though my baby died. I was still a mother. My husband made sure to give me a card to recognize my status and a hug to recognize my pain. Some years I've made a ceremony out of planting flowers on his grave. Or watching his video. Even after three subsequent children, Mother's Day is inevitably a remembrance of Mikey.

Father's Day. Pothole! Being a Mom, I thought that Father's Day would be easier for me to handle than Mother's Day. But potholes can be surprising. Father's Day also reminded me of my son, and I grieved for the father/son relationship Steve might never have. Now in addition to the annual Father's Day trip to the local ice cream stand, we usually celebrate by visiting Mikey's grave, and b talking about the days Mikey was here and the days he is not.

Other signs of spring became potholes of grief. The tulips that bloomed on my front walk: beautiful as they are they sadly remind me of the day that I planted them, and of my son who cooed at my efforts.

The moms strolling their babies down my street. I actually ran out of my house one bright spring morning to take a peek at such a baby. I wondered how big he was, how old he was and what my son would've looked like. I'm sure his Mom was curious as to why this strange woman was so intent on her son, and why she left abruptly, tears choking her.

Six Springs have come and gone since Mike's death. As time passes, I've learned to negotiate the potholes. Some I've come to expect: Mother's Day, Father's Day. But others will arise where I least expect them: in the spring blooms, in the baby strollers.

So, I wish you a happy spring: may you navigate your won potholes without much damage. Expect that Mother's Day and Father's Day will be hard. And don't be surprised if something unexpected makes you feel sad. It doesn't mean that you aren't making progress in your grief. It is just a pothole.

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