I belong to many support groups for trans people and their families -- online and virtual. Earlier today on a Facebook group for parents of trans kids, I read a post about mourning the child you lost and how it's not ok for others to see that mourning process publicly. Man, I relate to that.
I've lost a child. But there was no funeral. There were no memorials or kind words or letters to help ease the loss of this child. There were words of kindness for our new child and the support we show her. But there has been no time or place or space in our lives to mourn the child we lost other than behind closed doors. No one sends condolences to parents of trans kids on the unexpected loss of our sons or daughters. And, we have to put on brave faces to show people that we are 100% behind our kids because if we're not, who is?! We can't show cracks -- it might mean that we question our kids' "choices."
Christmas seems to be a trigger for families like ours. Looking at old pictures, putting ornaments on the tree; everything reminds us of the seemingly tectonic shift in our lives. We can't repost pictures from last year on social media. We had a son then. As much as we love those memories we have to put them in a little box in our minds and try to look past them.
Tonight I saw a post from an old friend on social media. "My son, J..." I wanted to reply, "I didn't know your son was called J! I have a J, too!" But I can't do that. I love the name of the child we no longer have but I can't tell anyone we chose that name. We agonized over picking just the right one. And we did. But that's no longer her name and I don't have the right to introduce it to people who don't already know.
I have read agonizing stories in the media this week: the battle for Aleppo, the terrorism attack in Berlin, the nearly-over cancer battle of a friend, the passing of a mother. I feel so fortunate that our lives are good. We have an incredibly supportive family and we are safe, healthy, housed and fed. But at times I want to compare my hurdles. I want to say, "We're in the shit, too!" But our shit is so minimal in comparison. I am so utterly grateful for the support we receive from our family and friends and I have to keep sight of that. Keep sight of all the positives. But sometimes, you know, I just want to say openly and in front of everyone "This sucks."
And then my daughter throws her arms around me and tells me she loves me, and it all goes away.