This Little Light...

I have an online friend from many-moons-ago who wrote me after William’s death and, like many here, have followed this blog and my ups and downs since his passing. I recently received this email from her. I thought I would share it with you, both because it was so moving to me, and because so many of you have done similar things to remember my William, and what I say in response is meant for her, but for all of you as well: 

"The real reason I am writing to you tonight is because I wanted you to know about the unique way I am honoring William in my heart.  I may not ever have shared this before, but I am an actor and occasionally do plays when I can find the time.  Right now I am doing a musical called "Quilters" which is about pioneer women and how they got through the good times and the bad, and it uses quilts as a metaphor for making do with what you had, for community in helping each other through, etc.  It's an all-woman show and is a charming (and emotional) show.  (I don't really recommend you see the show right now, as some parts might be too emotional or strong for you right now. Perhaps someday.)

There is a scene in the second act about the large families women had back then, and how childbirth/pregnancy was both a bane and a blessing at times. The actors say things like, "My eighth was Nan; she was always the quiet one" or "My second was Elizabeth.  She was the light of her daddy's eyes," etc.  Each actor takes multiple names for babies, and has multiple experiences with pregnancy, both good and bad. My character has 16 children, as some women did back then.

As in real life, there are miscarriages and stillbirths represented.  I happen to have been assigned the stillbirth.  My line is simply, "My third baby was stillborn" and with such a simple line, could easily be lost in the play. But we have taken the opportunity to give this line real meaning and time.  I come in carrying a cloth folded to symbolically represent a baby. I say, "My third baby was stillborn," and then I hand the baby to the oldest actress in the show.  Very simple, but I take time to kiss the baby tenderly and have great difficulty handing the baby over, giving the baby one last caress, and having difficulty moving on.  It's only a minute or so in time, but it gives a lump in the throat of everyone in the cast, and no one more so than me.

The moment is so meaningful to me because I am thinking of William.  In my mind, it's William I am speaking of, William whose little face I see, and William who I have such trouble letting go of.  Every night I dedicate that little bit of the play to William's memory and to you, in honor of your grief and that of grieving mothers everywhere.  Chances are there will be a mother in the audience sooner or later who has experienced a miscarriage, perhaps even one with a stillbirth, and I want to make sure that moment is treated with dignity and deep sorrow and the respect it deserves.

Anyhow, I wanted to let you know that each night we perform, a little bit of time and love is going out to William and to you, and each night we perform, William and you are remembered again, with love and sorrow and tenderness."

This was my response to her:

I just can't tell you how moved I am by your remembering William in your play. It's so comforting to feel his light shining on still, in some way, after being so quickly extinguished in this world. More people "know" my stillborn son than ever would have "known" him in life. If he were alive, he would be just another child, another smiling little face lost in the sea of our growing children. But because he's gone, because his going was such a heartbreak, we all remember, forever, his little baby-face. Strange, to say that, but it's true. And of course, I would take his growing, breathing, alive little body over 1,000 people remembering him any day...

But because I don't have him, because he is gone, I cherish what I have, and the truth is, my memory isn't big enough to hold him. He will never grow up or grow old, but he will and does go on, in your actions and thoughts, in so many other of my online friends' thoughts and actions and words. And in remembering him, we are remembering all of those lost babies - one sibling of sixteen, born still and lost to us all.

And thank you for thinking of me, warning me against "Quilters" because it might be too difficult. I'm at a stage in my grief, though, where I'm almost seeking out experiences like that. It's painful, but I'm not quite as raw as I once was, and watching/seeing loss like my own brings it back for me in an almost familiar/comforting way. It's validating, I guess. It happens, it happened to me, it really exists and it's as sad and heartbreaking to everyone else on the outside as it feels from the inside.

Thank you again. You are such a gift.