Mournful November

“Mournful November 
this is the image 
you invent for me…

what you can’t give away you must carry with you, 
it is always heavier than you thought.”
Margaret Atwood

November has been and continues to be a difficult month for me. It is the unquestioned surrender to the bastions of summer warmth, to the light that prevails over the lengthiness of each day. I forgive the bleakness of winter in January and February. By then, there is acceptance and resignation. But November slaps across the face with its sudden, unforgiving arrival.

As well, throughout my life, it has never been a good month for me. Beyond the metaphors of darkness, actual personal losses have gathered into this collective time span that is the month of November. Sad anniversaries; each brutal scythes cutting through my heart.

Here are the most personal and significant…

November 6^th, 1976:

This was the day my first child, a little girl, died. She was born on November 4^th—two months too early. Today such premature babies survive. Back then, it was a death sentence. After days struggling to breathe, she passed.

It was strange to lose a child when, in many ways, I was still very young myself… emotionally immature and unprepared. In addition, mine was a generation which, while ironically chronicling the age of free speech and doing your thing, still closed the door on acceptance of private emotions. Grief was never discussed and, consequently, allowed.  I went into shock and stayed enveloped in a daze of silence.

People did not know what to say to me and so many offered clumsy, often thoughtless comments. I never responded to such statements as:

“It’s better that she died so young…you did not get to know her and really love her”.

“You did something wrong. This is your fault. You killed her” (Yes, I heard that)

But there was an incredible, kind doctor who said, “It is important for a new Mother to hold her baby. I am sorry you cannot but, though every minute counts, I want you to at least see her before we move her to intensive care. It is important that you have that private moment.”

Seeing her, so tiny, filled with tubes, alone in that incubator, overwhelmed me. I shocked myself at the depth of my sorrow. It was foreign and frightening to feel such pain. I sobbed uncontrollably.

As it turned out, that was the last time I cried. And after that, just silence.

I remember her burial, standing at her gravesite in a daze. I also remember Mother’s milk pouring out of my breasts --though there was no baby to suckle. Nature does not heed the losses of the heart. I was embarrassed and worried that it would show through my dress. So I did not say a word. I just stood there. It was a moment etched in my memory.

And then, life went on. Within 18 months, my second child was born. Not without challenges but healthy, beautiful and alive! 18 months later, her equally lovely sister followed. With such joyous arrivals, I never discussed the first little baby whom I named Jennifer. But I never forgot her. Never.

The only photo I have
taken when I was pregnant
 in 1976

Years later, my daughter was faced with difficulties during her pregnancy. In her fears of losing her baby, she finally broke the silence. “Why do you never talk about Jennifer? How could you not talk about what happened? What is wrong with you?” I did not get angry. I understood. I was even proud that she had the courage to speak out. For I knew that she did not…could not…thankfully understand what happened; that it took years for the shock to slowly turn into resignation to finally a place of silent sadness.

I do think of Jennifer every November. I wonder what she would look like today and who she would have become. Through the passages of new months/years, I have allowed myself to finally hold this little daughter in the deepest, safest place of my heart. That is how I face that dark November sorrow. 

November 21^st, 2011:

This is the day my Mother died. I have written about her in past blogs and I will write a commemorative tribute on the actual, upcoming anniversary. The words brew in my heart and in my mind. I want it to be real, perfect, and loving.

In the context of this blog, the anniversary of her passing is the most difficult of November’s barren harshness. It was tough to lose Mom but sadder when the season turns grey and cold. The darkened streets seem lonelier, the barren trees sadder, the rains colder. It scathes the heart with a fierceness and ferocity.

Not a day goes by when I do not think of Mom. She was not perfect and often times, neither was our relationship. But this I know, I always loved her. That Mother and child bond defies rational thinking with its confrontational bluntness. Yet it supersedes any other relationship as it holds an indescribable depth of unconditional acceptance and resilience.

Sometimes I cannot believe she is gone. At first, the shock once again thrust me into a state of silence. I went into self-protection and could not cry. I will never really understand such initial absence of emotions. Then came the day I packed up her belongings. As I went through her closet and found the suit she wore when she left for honeymoon… When I read her letters and her girlhood diary…When I found my baby book and all the letters she saved that I sent her over the years. That is when the depth of the loss finally collapsed upon me. Alone in her bedroom, I finally cried.

And there are still surprising moments, that creep into a instant or an event when my emotions overwhelm. It is the grief of slow acceptance.

The years have trained me to no longer speak of her in the present or have expectations of simply seeing her. But I still find myself thinking: “Mom would have loved this” or “I remember when Mom did that” or “I wonder what Mom would say”. And yes, especially recently, I also find myself admitting that “Mom was right” and “Oh my God, I am my Mother”.

And the years have taught me to forgive the bad, understand the confusion, take responsibility for my role in the conflicts, and simply learn more about the girl she was and the woman she became. The beautiful woman, the vibrant woman, the smart woman, the loving woman. That is what happens in darkness…you seek the light. You seek the warmth of the love. And you never forget. Never.

November 29^th, 1975:

There is one final November anniversary I will share here. Ironically, it was, in itself, a happy November day. It was sunny and unusually warm. It was the day I got married.

I have heard stories from friends who knew they we were actually making a huge mistake when they walked down the aisle. I was the opposite. I was so happy at my wedding that I ran down the aisle. Well, perhaps more accurately, a happy, walking-on-air prance.

Perhaps one day I will write a blog about my marriage. What I will presently share is that, in spite of the differences, the challenges, there were wonderful moments. It began with loving promise. It ultimately became crippled and irreparable. But it was always well intentioned, genuine.

So, every 29^th day of November, I recall the young couple who started life together. We dared to defy the curse of this month.  We could not foresee that ultimately, we would come to surrender to November’s mournful predilections. But for a moment in time, there was love. I have come to hold onto that and November will never take that away from me.

November, 2018:

This November I am older and alone in a place that is still unsettled and uncertain. I awaken these dark, cold mornings with a weariness and sense of foreboding. I cannot explain. Perhaps it is simply yet another season of bleakness. Perhaps November compels sadness and an inescapable confrontation of present fears and past losses. Perhaps, as my years grow numbered, it is time to acquiesce to the silences and sorrows of life.

But, perhaps, in graceful acceptance and in remembrance, I can move through the cold bleakness. Then I will be free to believe that, no matter what, another Spring and Summer awaits. For what remains in my life, perhaps the ultimate presage is hope.

“November is usually such a disagreeable month...as if the year had suddenly found out that she was growing old and could do nothing but weep and fret over it. This year is growing old...just like a stately old lady who knows she can be charming even with gray hair and wrinkles.”
L.M. Montgomery