My Secret Identity

Secret identities aren’t all they are cracked up to be. They are not what the movies make them out to be. I have a secret identity. I have had it for years now. I don’t have a fancy outfit or a cape to reveal my true identity. I just have a story. And it’s a doozy.

Carrying around this secret identity can get a bit weighty some days. I wish more people knew my secret. Being Clark Kent all the time with everyone when the S on my chest is screaming to be shown takes its toll. On the day that marks the occasion of my son’s death, my secret identity, being a bereaved mother, is particularly a heavy burden to bear.

That’s why I’m so thankful I got to go to George Mark yesterday and wear my secret identity proudly.

I was a hot mess at first. I went into the front office to sign in and as I tried to explain who I was and why I was there to the office administrator, I choked. Another employee who had known me for quite some time came up to me and let me cry, saying very little, giving me the space I needed to feel what I was feeling.

 Even when I think I have it together, memories of my son sneak up on me. But those memories are allowed to inundate me when I’m at George Mark. They are allowed to make me tongue-tied. My tears are welcome there.

I spent the whole day there. I hugged necks and talked to nurses. I told Kathy Hull that her Ted Talk was an absolute revelation. I was happy to learn that members of the team share our story when they walk past the tile wall when giving tours of the facility.

I told our story. I told our story. I told our story.

I let everyone see the secret identity, fancy outfit, cape, but most importantly scars and all.

Everyone knew about the hole in my chest where a child had once been. They knew the scars existed. It’s an utter relief to not have to hide the scars.  I spend so much time hiding them, diminishing them, that being able to let the scars see the light of day is an utter blessing.   

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