Scale of 1-10

My grandmother died when I was eighteen. She was and still is one of the people I love the most in the world and when she died it was Christmas vacation of my first year of college. I had just spent the most homesick few months of my life and all I wanted was to get home and see my friends. After she died I walked around feeling like someone had chopped off my arm, dimly wondering why everyone was still treating me as though everything was ok. Couldn't they see I was missing an arm?

My mom and my sister went to a grief support group in San Francisco--I was back in Boston for school, I'm not sure why my brother didn't go with them. I didn't hear much about the group though I know it was very helpful for them. I do remember them telling me about how other people in the group would talk about the death of a dog or something else that seemed less important, less painful. The facilitator taught the group that grief is grief. It's not comparable--my grief is worse and sadder than yours. I've thought of this often since then.

After my liver transplant people would stop themselves whiling complaining to me about something and say "Oh, I can't even complain. This is nothing compared to what you've gone through."

I would reply that yes, of course they could complain. My getting sick did not close the door on all other future suffering and complaining. When you're in it, feeling the pain of whatever is hurting at the moment, that is as real as it gets. All of that and yes, there were times when I'd want to shout Are you kidding me with this?? THIS is the problem? Shake it off homie.

All of that and I'm one of the few who got the transplant. Lots of people don't get that lucky. Who am I to complain?

In the hospital the nurses ask you "On a scale of 1-10 how much pain are you in?" The pictures show a row of faces--the ten has stenciled tears running down its cheeks, the one is smiling. I'd be half-focused on my pain and half-wondering "Well hmm, how bad IS my pain? I bet 'x' would hurt more than this. . ."

How do we respond to the pain and suffering of others? Some people force you to look at the positive--yes, but look at how great it is that you HAVE four healthy children. You are so blessed. Some people bring up something worse, to try to help you have perspective--you aren't going to eat that food? There are children starving in Africa who would love to eat that steamed spinach! Some people--the ones who have the energy and the awareness or the training or the natural leanings or whatever else goes into it--sit there and make space for you and what you're feeling. They don't judge or Polly Anna you. They sit with you in your grief and your discomfort and let you know that you are not alone. Which is probably what most of us want--that person and to know that we're not alone.

As a patient, when I finish reeling off all of the shit in my medical chart to a new practitioner, more often than not I am met with a blank stare. Whoa. Just. Whoa. That is a lot. Ulcerative colitis at eleven. Infertility at sixteen. Liver failure at twenty-three. IVF at thirty-five. A premature twin pregnancy with eight weeks in the NICU at thirty-six. A spontaneous twin pregnancy at thirty-seven. Holy shit woman.

As a parent, I am often met with a similar blank stare. From strangers at the park who yell out to me as I pass "We've heard about you!! We haven't met you but we've heard about you and all the kids. How old are they again?" From other twin parents who look at me practically with tears in their eyes as they send a quick prayer up to whoever they believe in, asking that they please, please do not get pregnant with another set of twins. I often have people say things like "Oh man, you make me feel like an asshole for ever complaining. I only have one! How do you do it?" or "I can't complain to you! I don't know how you do it."

And I respond with "Parenting is hard no matter what. I think your kids know just how much energy you have to give. . .and they push you past that and take more." I've never had one kid--I have no idea how hard it is. I'd imagine that going from no kids to any kids is hard as hell--I know it was for us. My husband looked at me after we'd had the older twins home for a month or so, haggard, and said "People lied! No one told us how hard this is." It's hard. Does it matter who has it harder? Also, how insufferable would I be if I trumped everyone else's complaints? You think that's hard? Try this on for size! I'd be left alone, searching for that other mom of two sets of twins to come listen and share complaints.

I am so incredibly lucky. These beautiful, healthy, lively children call me mama. Or at least look at me with smiles that say "Oh hey, mama" until they're able to say the words. I get attention and often admiration everywhere I go. That can feel good. I don't even have to do anything other than survive to have people think I'm cool. I would not trade one thing in my life. The transplant saved my life and changed it forever and I would never go back and undo any of it, even if I could. The years of infertility and being told I would never have kids sliced my heart open over and over. I got through that. I wouldn't want to go through it again but it made me who I am as a mother and as a woman. There were many times I held back tears in the face of the joy of people sharing the news of a pregnancy with me. I know how lucky I am.

All of that is true and yet. It is 9:26 in the morning. I'm sitting here writing, trying to ignore the cries of one child is is wailing "Mama! Mama!" in a heartbroken voice. I have already watched as that same child rubbed peanut butter into her hair, not once but twice--the second time looking me straight in the eye with a "What are you going to do about it?" look in her eyes. I held her head over the sink and washed it out as she cried. I scared her and I feel ashamed of myself.

I sometimes think my mere existence can make other mothers feel like failures. How did she get all four of those kids into the car to drive into the city? That's a good question. How the hell did I do that? It is ridiculously fucking hard. I do it by pushing calm into every edge of myself so that I have the space to try and acknowledge four separate little people and each of their needs. It is hard and I fail, over and over again. No amount of acknowledgement or comparison or kudos make it less hard. And the really really hard times when I wonder how I will make it through the next five minutes usually happen when I'm alone, unseen. Those aren't the stories that I call up when I meet an expectant mom of twins. I'm not going to tell her "Holy shit it is so hard! Watch out!" What would be the point of that? Plus, I mostly forget the details when we've passed through them. PTSD maybe or mom brain. Or just having no space to recall them or dwell on them.
I joke that the key to it all is having low expectations. Or I say that I let my kids eat sticks and don't brush their hair and let them fall and hurt themselves. All true.

Is it harder than what you're doing? Who knows. Who cares? Does it matter?