They say men grieve differently, they just do.
And I don’t mean why, as in why can’t he just grieve my way already?
OK, yes, that is exactly what I mean.
He supports me. He hangs up the prayer flag I sewed with our boys. But I had to ask him three or maybe seven times.
And he never makes flags, or clay anythings or watercolors. He doesn’t have any jewellery or key chains.
He grieves. I know. In the quiet of his heart, without needing a circle of women to hear his pain. Without the need to write about it or talk about it or become any kind of dead baby activist. In his heart, his daughter is dead. He doesn’t need to do anything or paint anything to feel it or heal it.
Boys go to Jupiter to get more supider. Yes! Yes! Some days it just gets the better of me. To me his lack of journaling is insensitive. And I try to understand. Most days I do. I understand his grief and his process and I respect the world out of him. But other days, why can’t he just grieve like I do? It would feel so nice to not only be supported, but to actually go hand in hand, watercoloring the world with love and healing and our baby girl.
Maybe it would hurt less.
And if anyone reads this, just so you know, he is actually one of the good ones. A great one. The perfect one and only for me. I really am my best me with him. But losing our baby girl, it’s polarizing. In some ways it has brought us closer, intensely closer. And in other ways, like in the stupid stubborn way he won’t just heal his broken heart the way I say, it pulls us apart. And the distance is immense. And it is so lonely. And so hard.
Is it so hard, I ask you, men, to paint a frikin watercolor heart?