I took a physiology class when I was pregnant with Ethan. It wasn’t my favorite class, which, of course, means I haven’t retained much of what I learned. However, even though it has been nearly three years since I took physiology, I still remember that our ability to associate scents with specific memories occurs due to a link in the limbic system, otherwise known as the “emotional” part of the brain.
Scents can conjure up vivid memories, which can set off heavily rooted waves of emotion, depending on what we associate with that particular scent. Sometimes, smell will make us remember things we have forgotten. Even though I detested that class, I suppose that particular concept has stuck with me, because I had a real-life physiology refresher shortly after Ethan passed away.
Ethan was home for three days before his brain hemorrhage, but he already had a sizable amount of laundry. The day he passed away, John and I wept as we inhaled Ethan’s scent from the tiny clothes in that bag of laundry. Afterward, I individually placed in a plastic baggie each of his clothes and packed them away in a box. I anticipated that preservation would rob my baby of his signature smell, and I didn’t want my last scent memory of Ethan to be associated with embalming fluid. I know saving a scent sounds totally crazy, but grief makes you do crazy things. I was desperately clinging to whatever I could.
Looking for Comfort
It was almost five weeks before I opened that box again. Five weeks since I’d inhaled his intoxicating baby smell. Five heart-wrenching weeks since the day Ethan’s spirit left his tiny body. I thought five weeks was enough. I foolishly believed I had given myself enough time to open up that box again. I was wrong.
Ethan’s smell was comforting when he was still fighting for his life in the intensive care nursery. When we weren’t at his bedside, John and I carried Ethan’s hats everywhere because it gave us “portable comfort.” The day I opened his box of clothing, I needed to feel that comfort again. The first outfit I pulled out was the last one he wore before he was admitted. It was the outfit he wore the night we took him to the emergency room, and there were spots of blood on it from Ethan’s bleeding heel stick.
I began to sob uncontrollably almost immediately after I pressed his clothing onto my face and inhaled deeply. His scent triggered memories of what it felt like to hold him, but my arms were empty. I could literally feel the sensation of lightness overpowering in my arms. I smelled Ethan, but I had physical evidence that he was truly gone. There was no baby lying peacefully in my arms. I created my own terrible juxtaposition, and it made the reality of Ethan being gone even harder to cope with.
There was something about his smell that was more powerful than any other memory I had of him. The anguish I felt at that moment was almost unbearable. John and the kids were home when this happened. Poor John had to shut the door to our room because I was crying so hysterically—he didn’t want to scare the boys. Had I known that I’d lose it like I did, I probably would have waited a while before I opened the box. But it was too late.
Staying Strong for Everyone Else
I tried my best to harden myself when Ethan was in the hospital. I was the family spokesperson, the prognosis interpreter, the consoler of those who cried for my son. I was the woman who had to pretend to be strong for everyone else. I barely allowed myself to cry at Ethan’s funeral. The only time I came close to absolutely losing my mind was when the funeral director asked John and I to do the honor of closing Ethan’s casket. But smelling Ethan five weeks after he was gone? Well, I hadn’t cried that hard since the day he slipped away.
No one will ever truly understand what it feels like to lose your child. Age doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if your child is 6, 18 or 49 years old. I know mothers who lost children at all of those ages, and their grief is just the same as mine. Your baby will always be your baby, no matter what.
Ethan was one week old when he passed away, and my pain has been no less than theirs. And from what I’ve learned thus far, smell did the same thing to them, too.
What about you? Share your stories in the comments section below.
Read more about Tiffany's life at The Art of Lion Taming.