The questions

As August nears its end, I find myself busy doing little things I have been putting off all summer, enjoying lazy days with family and friends, and preparing for school to start. I've tried to be as organized as possible for my return to work: my classroom is set up, posters are hung, desks arranged, library stocked. Pencils sharpened, notebooks divided, newsletters written. I have looked back at past year plans and gone through boxes of favorite art projects and fun little math games. I feel almost ready except for one big looming thing that I know I won't be able to avoid: the questions.

I'm used to answering questions about myself to new colleagues and parents, that's expected. How long have you been teaching, which schools have you taught at, what are your plans for the year, what are your views on this and that. Easy. But it's the bigger questions I'm afraid of. Where did you teach last year? Do you have any children? They may not sound so scary to others, but these questions are what I am dreading most. I will even admit that I have changed schools because I was so anxious about having to speak about Caius and his death with past students and their families. Not only was I was unsure about how to speak to small children about what happened (should they ask), I also didn't want to be reminded of the excitement I felt as I left last June knowing I would have Caius in the next few months. I didn't want to have to see the sadness in the eyes of parents who I had grown close to. I didn't want to have to pretend not to notice how others avoid eye contact as they suddenly remember they have to check their phone when they see me.

What I did want was anonymity. I wanted a fresh start where people don't feel uncomfortable around me, where people may not already know about this one awful thing. A place where I can jump into a conversation without the other person thinking, "please don't let her bring it up. Please don't let ME bring it up. Oh my gosh I wonder if she WILL bring it up. Or maybe I should bring it up...". I've had these panicked thoughts before when speaking with someone who has gone through a loss- I know it can be tough.

The problem with the questions is how to answer them when they do come up. Because the reality is, they cannot totally be avoided. Human beings are curious. Asking questions is how we get to know each other. What I am struggling with is how to answer. The answers are very straight forward, this I understand. Where did you teach last year? I was on mat leave. Do you have any children? No. Done.

Well, not really.

In real life, my experiences so far have been more like this: Where did you teach last year? I was on mat leave. And then:

Oh! Congratulations. Your first? Boy or girl? What is their name? How old are they? Did you guys have a nice summer? Are they in daycare now or do you have family watching them? Do you have any pictures?

Normal, innocent questions. I can answer the first few with no problems, but then it gets tricky. Because no one really expects you to follow, "my first, a boy, his name is Caius" with "well technically he would have been one on September first but we only got him for seven months, I had the worst summer of my life without him, I had to cancel the daycare he was going to attend but yes I have about a thousand photos of him on my phone if you'd like to see".

I struggle with "Do you have any children?" as well. Do you have any children? I can answer no, which is the truth- I don't have a child anymore, but that answers eats me up inside. I feel guilty and awful for not acknowledging the best thing that ever happened to me. I feel as though I am betraying my son if I don't mention his existence. I have tried "not anymore", which seems to get the message across but that also feels kind of like cheating. The truth is, I WANT to say that I had an amazing son but I lost him. I just don't want to make people sad.

I've been thinking about this long and hard, trying to sort through my feelings about what to say. I have also spoken to others who have gone through similar experiences. What I ultimately I realized is that maybe it's ok for people to feel sad when I answer truthfully. Maybe it's ok that I don't have a great story to offer about my summer holidays with my baby, maybe it's ok that I get a little teary eyed when I talk about his loss. The reality is it's life, it's our story, and if it makes someone sad, that's ok. Sadness is just a feeling, and even though it is unpleasant sometimes we must experience it. Clint and I live with sadness everyday, as do others who have experienced loss. We have ways to cope with it, ways to get out of it when it feels overwhelming. But we understand we must go though it. As humans we grieve when we lose someone who was so important to us, and we feel sad when we hear about the losses of others. We do this because we care, and we are able to put ourselves in their shoes. This is what makes us loving, compassionate people. This is what drives us to reach out and help others going through difficult times and experiencing tragedy. Sadness is another facet in which we can connect, and bond. So with these reflections in mind, I have decided that I will answer these questions in a way that acknowledges Caius and the amazing time we had with him. Although it may hard or uncomfortable, it's what feels best for me. And I apologize in advance if I catch you off guard. I just wanted you to know that I had an incredible seven months of mat leave with my sweet son Caius.