This Damn Day

I hate this damn day. I never know what to do with my emotions, or which ones I'm supposed to have for that matter. I know, I know...I can "feel however I want to feel." But that isn't always easy. In fact, by the time one of these "days" gets here, I'm usually to the point that I'm climbing OUT of the hole. It's the days leading up that slay me. I usually try to avoid work during this time and give myself ample time away. Several of my coworkers can probably tell you that I failed to do that this year. I had an entire 12 hour shift where I was literally just trying to remember to keep breathing. Once I stepped outside the hospital, the floodgates opened. And god did I need that.

It's been a particularly bad week, in terms of my grief. For some reason, I always underestimate the pain before it sweeps me under. It literally feels like someone is holding an open flame to my chest, while I'm trying to simultaneously  recover from knocking the wind out of myself. It's crazy how physical the pain was, is, and will continue to be.

I've had to continue being a parent this week, despite my inability to breathe. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes it just isn't. I know a secret that not many parents don't know. You can say it a lot, as a parent. Hell, you can even think it. But you can't KNOW it, until you know it. This is the secret....You can't live for your children. You can't. You have to find other reasons to make yourself move, or not move. And this isn't one of those, "spouse first, then children" rants. I don't believe that either. You have to live for you. You have to MOVE for you. YOU are your only guarantee. Now, although that may sound morbid to many, it's actually been the most freeing lesson I've ever learned. I know for a fact that the people in my life are borrowed. When I watch my children in a sport, I don't care how many points they make, runs they score, or stats they accumulate. I'm legitimately grateful to get to witness their movement, their smiles, their friendships. And I don't feel obligated to make sure they achieve THIS or THAT. Not at all. I'm just here for the ride. They're pretty cool little humans, and I'm glad I get to be the one they come home to at night.

The PTSD triggered by these specific days is deafening. I can literally hear nothing else sometimes. I can feel, smell, hear, taste every moment. There is a new movie coming out, and of course the timing of its advertising couldn't be better...it's about a "miracle." I'm sure it will be very popular and people will bring their tissues, and have a good cry about the boy who essentially drowned and was then prayed back to life. I know this is what sells, and that no one is going to make a movie about the boy who had thousands praying for him and still died. Where is the blockbuster in that story? It isn't there. But I can tell you it's real. It may not be pretty, but it happens all the time. It is incredibly difficult for grieving parents to hear about how prayer has saved someone. In fact, it borders on cruelty, not intentionally so,  but cruelty just the same. Now, don't get me wrong, if my kid had lived after thousands of prayers went up for him, I'd be preaching at every church in town. But that didn't happen. We had love. We had support. We had faith. And we buried our son. And it isn't a "story" to me. It isn't a blockbuster hit that I'll go watch and forget about next week. It is real. And it hurts.  It is loud, and it's silent. It burns and it cuts in ways I could never adequately describe. Does it make you a horrible person if you're super excited about seeing that movie? Of course not! But it does make you a lucky one.

Today, my children are literally everywhere. One daughter is competing in a basketball state tournament, and loving every minute. Another daughter is watching a play with her Grandma who knows very well how much the spoiling will mean to her today. Still two other daughters wait for me in an orphanage, a whole country away. I'm taking my oldest son to several of his own basketball games today. He's fifteen so he smells terrible...comes with the territory...so I've already washed his uniform in order to get it ready for yet another game tonight. And while I guess that could annoy me some days, today I'm so grateful to get to watch his clothes tumble around in the dryer. The fact that they're there means he is well enough to do something he loves, and the fact that I often have troubling deciphering between his laundry and his Dad's now, means that he's grown enough to make that distinction difficult. And I'm annoyingly grateful for that. Because, one set of clothes will never come through my laundry again. I will never, ever forget the day that the last mickey mouse shirt went through the dryer. And while the big moments are certainly present, it is these that cut me to my core.

I have to be a mom today. I have to go through several motions I don't want to, and although I know the choice is ultimately up to me, there are moments that feel very forced. Sometimes I can talk and laugh in the crowd, and sometimes the walls are too close, and breathing becomes my only focus. I choose to enjoy the moments for which I'm grateful, while also honoring those that burn.

Today means a lot of things, and this year is no different. Although our lives change and move with time, the significance of this day and that last breath have remained the same. Easton Scott Zanger, you were, are, and continue to be so many things to so many people. I'm infinitely proud of you for that. I'm going to need your help today getting through the moments. Please hold me when I struggle, as I did you, six years ago today...

Karibe!!!

Oh today will go down as one of the most unique experiences of my life. Have you ever taken a TEN year old swimming for the first time in their life? How about TWO at the same time??? I'm in Haiti visiting my twin daughters and they were allowed to leave the orphanage with me today and to go to a nearby luxury hotel to swim for the day.

These girls had clearly never seen anything like this place. I watched them look out the windows of our van, at a country they live in but rarely see. The walls inside their wonderful orphanage are pretty much their primary scenery. Then as we pulled up to the hotel lobby, I could see their eyes grow wide and they started smiling and whispering to one another.

I brought them each a swimming suit and when I asked them to put it on, they hesitated for a moment. I made the gestures of putting it on over your head and they got it right away. Neither girl would come out of the bathroom without their cover up fully zipped :) I'd like to remind them of this is about 5 years :)

As we approached the water and they realized that I was going to get IN the pool, they hurriedly dropped their cover ups to the ground and followed. Katia stayed back of course, as she does nothing without letting Katie test the waters first. Literally in this case! Katie is more adventurous and walked straight  into the water. ..with her mouth WIDE open....ooops. Mom fail. She sputtered and failed for a minute and when I scooped her up her heart was racing insanely fast. Worst. Mother. Ever. Luckily she didn't let my one mishap deter her...I think she may have to carry that patience with her to America. And as for Katia, after she saw that, she turned right back around, like "forget you, lady! No way in hell."

Eventually we were all three in the water learning how to hold our breath and tread water. I'm a TERRIBLE swim instructor in case your were wondering....especially in creole. I never realized there were so many steps to teaching that! I mean, I wanted to say, just do "this". :) Doesn't quite work that way. In fact, to be perfectly honest, I didn't even know I WAS teaching initially. I was just doing what people do in water. When I got too low, I blew the water from my mouth, etc. Then I noticed Katie doing it too. As I began to watch her, I realized that she was mimicking every single thing I was doing! Right down to wiping water out of my eyes. I actually remember thinking, "oh shit! She's learning by watching you!! That could get dangerous at some point..."  I loved the way they eventually just followed me wherever I went. They'd grab onto my shoulders or take my hand when the water got too deep. And they both snuggled pretty close as the day turned to evening. They were FREEZING, which I found hilarious because I was still getting sunburned at that point. They kept saying the word for red and pointing to my face at the end of the day. Apparently my face was burnt and theirs wasn't. Hmmm, odd. Perhaps our exteriors are slightly different shades ;) Another learning moment for me today....when choosing a filter for a pic, what works for mom may not work for them :)

I wrote this down today because I want to remember forever the feeling of our first outing away from the orphanage. I'm not sure who was more scared when the day started, me or the girls. But in the end, it was one of the coolest things I've ever experienced!!!

Healthy, Safe, and Free

I am healthy. I am safe. I am free.

I'm constantly amazed at the extent to which the universe will go to teach me perspective...

For those who know me, I'm not a politically inclined person. I honestly don't follow it. On purpose. It annoys me.  So, this is not a political post. This is simply an observation, by a human being. based on life. Her life.

Recently, I became ill. I had pneumonia. It's not fun. In fact, I don't recommend it. Anyway, I was trying to muddle through some ridiculous insurance crap in order to be seen by a new provider because my employer had changed some policies. I couldn't get in to the person I wanted and I was quite upset about it. In fact, I cried. Cried.

The same day, a sweet friend of mine checked in just to see how I was doing, as she does most days. I saw her name pop up on my phone, followed by the inevitable, "Hello friend! How are you today?"  I responded by telling her that I was ill, and that I had pneumonia, so I wasn't feeling well. I put the phone down and walked away for a moment. When I came back, I noticed that she'd responded to me. I opened that message and my jaw dropped, and this time, the tears were warranted.

My friend is Haitian. She is a beautiful, vibrant, Haitian woman. She is driven and compassionate, and one of the most loving souls I've ever met. But perhaps the most inspiring thing about my friend, is her optimism, her ability to hope in the face of diversity. Today, some people in her country decided to riot against a proposed increase in gas prices. For reasons she doesn't understand, her streets were on fire. Buildings surrounding her had bricks thrown through the windows. Her sister was unable to come home after a day of work because there was literally ZERO transportation. So, what did she do? She walked. All night. Alone. In Haiti. She arrived home sometime this morning. She is safe. And we are grateful.

I've thought about my friend all day today. She was in the forefront of my mind as I drove to work, in a car that I own and can afford to fuel appropriately. I drove without fear and without any thought as to whether or not it would be safe to leave my place of work later that night and drive to my home. I thought of her as I climbed the stairs and although it caused me to cough a little, I could breathe for the first time in a few days, thanks to antibiotics I'd gotten the day I was diagnosed. Do you know what my friend's response was to my message about being ill? Let this sink in...

"Oh my! I pray that you can get to someone to help and that they can find a treatment for you! Please tell me you will be well again!"

Like I said, this time, my tears were warranted. Get to someone who can help? Pray there is a treatment for me? I hadn't had either of those fears. Not once. Of course there is treatment for pneumonia and of course I could "get there." But these privileges are not a given, for my friend. They are not a right.

I began to think about what makes us different. Did I work harder than she did? Absolutely not. Am I smarter? Certainly no. The woman speaks three languages fluently, and dabbles in a few more. Am I more compassionate? I challenge anyone to find a more compassionate being than this young woman. So what is different? There is only one thing that separates us. I was born here. She was born there. I didn't earn my birthplace. She didn't earn hers. It's where we landed. So why did I get this life full of abundance and privileges that I'm too ignorant to even recognize that I have, and she is the one with hope. She is the one spreading optimism and love and, for her, the importance of Jesus.

I don't live under a rock, and so despite my disdain for political rants, I see the memes and the posts related to borders and who "should be allowed in" and who shouldn't. I wonder if anyone who feels that people should "stay out" would feel that way if they met my friend? I don't know any human being in my circle who would be a better neighbor, a more driven student, and more compassionate friend. She encompasses all that I believe this country truly wants to see in its citizens. And I see the plea for people to "just come legally." Oh friends...if only you knew what that meant.

My friend wants to study music. Her voice is sensational, and she wishes to teach. She could go to school in Haiti, but when she finished paying the tuition that she can't afford, even if she excelled greatly in her studies, she could simply be denied a diploma. Even if she gets a diploma after her years of study and hard work, she cannot get a job in Haiti after being taught IN Haiti. If she were to be taught in a developed country, she could go home and be nearly guaranteed a job. Easy fix, right? Just come to America, and better your life. Oh if only it were that simple. It takes YEARS to even be considered for a visa to get here. She must prove to her country that she has a reason to return home. For example, if she were to leave behind a husband, or better yet, children, she might be granted a visa to leave for study. Even then, even with the proper documentation in hand, the wait list to enter is years long. Years. So, better her life? Tell me how. Tell HER how. She'd listen. She's all ears. I'M all ears. If I could make it happen,  she'd live in my home TODAY. I couldn't find a better role model for my children.

So, I don't know what the answer is. I'm not quoting memes. I'm not looking for a political discussion. I'm simply telling you what I know. What I've SEEN with my own eyes. I'm telling you about my friend. My real, live friend. A person. A beautiful person that I'm blessed to count among one of my closest friends. She is driven, she is smart, she is compassionate...and her streets are on fire.

My children will come to live in America. They'll enjoy privileges that some will never know. Someday they will be annoyed with insurance squabbles. They'll whine about gas prices, and they'll be exhausted after a long day of work...hopefully doing something they love. And so today I'm grateful for lungs that work, because I had access to adequate healthcare. I'm grateful for the debit card that worked to fill my car with gas. I'm grateful for tired legs, after a day at work, doing the job I was born to do.

I am healthy. I am safe. I am free.

Heaven, Haiti, Home

Heaven, Haiti, and Home....

"The decision to have a child is to accept that your heart will forever walk around outside of your body."

Remember when you had your first child, and you had no idea that your heart could experience such a capacity for love? And then you had your second and the guilt of bringing another child to share that love weighed on you until you laid eyes on them and you realized that your heart grew once again? I have experienced these emotions more times than I can count, and I consider myself incredibly lucky to know that the capacity of the human heart knows no bounds.

I could never have known, as a young parent, that I could love someone enough to let them go. When my son was hurting, I could no longer put my own feelings first. It would have been so much easier to trade places, but that wasn't an option, and so I had to tell him that it was OK to move on without me. A huge part of my heart is in heaven, and will remain there. Nothing will ever replace that space.

My biological children have been home for a week now, living their busy lives without us. I miss them terribly. They each occupy different parts of my heart and I can't wait to wrap them in hugs again. Part of my heart is at home.

And now I have daughters who have stolen yet another piece of me. Part of my heart is in Haiti. I cannot adequately describe the love and the connection I feel to two little women who just two weeks ago, were strangers. From the moment I laid eyes on them, I felt that pull at my heart. Its ability to grow and create space has not been lost, and I'd feared it had for so long. Their hugs got longer each time I left them. And the last day, I was sure they'd never let go. Watching them cry tears of sorrow as their Dad and I left, broke me. We watched as their friends circled protectively around them, knowing all too well the pain of watching your parents leave and hoping against hope that they would, indeed, return for you one day.

While my heart stretches from heaven, to Haiti, to home, I recognize the gift in that truth. I have learned and experienced the capacity of the human heart and it's more incredible than I could have imagined. I have wanted to be a mother for as long as I can remember, but I had no idea just exactly what that would mean for me. Now I know....

Heaven, Haiti, Home....

Bel Ayiti

I'm here again. The air is sticky and although I've just showered, I can feel the sweat dripping off of my forehead. But coffee, I still need coffee. The nights are short in Haiti and the days are long, and caffeine is needed. The coffee still has the same deep, rich flavor. The rooster still crows. The early morning, still my favorite time of day in Haiti. But something is different. And although I know that it's me, I can't always pinpoint the words to describe in what way I'm different on this trip than on others.

There is the obvious reason. I met my children on this trip. I experienced a life changing moment, and several of those to follow. But that isn't it entirely. I think that in times past I would lay out every detail of my trip. I would try to do my emotions justice with words, but how does a mother describe correctly the feelings she experiences at the "birth" of her child. I certainly can't, but I also don't want to. And that's a way in which this trip feels different.  I know I will share details here and there about what we have seen here this time, just as I've alays done. But right now I feel like it's not entirely my story to share.

I'm going to be raising two more little girls. They are my children and I love them beyond measure, and although I'm forever grateful to be added to the story, I am not their WHOLE story, and it isn't mine to tell.

So instead I want to share with you what I want you to know about my daughters. I want you to know that their country is beautiful. I want you to know that it is a thing to be loved and not to be feared. I want you to know that if you are more fearful of this place than you are of your own home, then your fear lies in ignorance. And I truly don't mean that in a judgemental way. I'm simply saying that if you haven't experienced the beauty, felt the sticky air, poured your teeth brushing water from a bottle, woken up to a rooster symphony, then you can't know. And there isn't anything wrong with that. But please don't assume that this is a scary place based on things you may have heard.

I'm certainly not rescuing anyone. In fact, I struggle with guilt every day about whether or not I'm doing my daughters a favor by bringing them home. And that's not to say that I'm not proud to be an American, that I don't know the beauty, power, and opportunity that lies within its borders. I absolutely do. But I do not feel that it's MORE beautiful, MORE powerful, or filled with MORE possibility than that of Haiti. As many things as we do well in America, there are some things that Haiti just gets right. I've never met a more optimistic, or resilient people. I've never experienced a big city atmosphere where people smile and acknowledge you like you're in a small town, the way I do in Haiti. The point is that my girls aren't being saved. There is likely some "saving" going on, but they aren't the recipients.

Adopting my children doesn't make me feel like a heroine. I simply didn't give birth to my children and I had to go about getting them home with me in a different way. I'm grateful to have the opportunity to do so.

I will do my very best to keep the love of Haiti and its traditions and its people alive and well in our home. I'm so excited and terrified and grateful and feel a major sense of responsibility to do justice to the gift that is having a piece of Haiti in my home. Because Haiti is not a place to be feared. It is a place to be loved.

Bel Ayiti  (beautiful Haiti)

Eight

You're supposed to be 8 tomorrow. Eight...what should be a day filled with dirt and skinned knees and driving your siblings crazy will instead be yet another reminder of your absence. It will be a day spent, in part, in oblivion....because that's the only way I can make it through the day. It will be a day of close family and friends, holding me up and allowing me to just "be". It will be a day of gifts you'll never open and cake you'll never eat. It will scrape at my soul and open that wound yet again, so that I feel it in its entirety.

Sara and I bought your lanterns last Monday. It's become a tradition, and one that we both dread actually. It's hard. It never gets easier, and each year we add one more lantern. Eight of them will light up the sky this year. Eight. I can't seem to wrap my head around that.

I know you're aware of the changes in our lives lately. I have no doubt you orchestrated our path, and will be with us as we travel to meet your sisters next week. And still there is that part of me that screams out in pain, hoping that you know you can never be replaced. Your presence in my life will never take a back burner.  I cannot, WILL NOT exclude you when telling others that I have several children. I have 6 children. It sounds crazy to some, and for those who dig deeper and ask your ages, they'll hear that you are no long here with me. That fact is often met with an "I'm sorry" and an "oh, so you'll have 5 in your home then..." almost as if this is better, as if this lightens the load. What they don't know is that parenting you hasn't stopped for me. In fact, in some ways it has become more present in the past few years as the rawness of early grief shifts into moments of wondering "what if". I very much have 6 children. Three are in my home and three are currently outside my reach. Please know that the physical presence of your sisters, and the coming together of our family is only complete with you there.

I make no promises on your birthday.  I spend the day trying to remember how to breathe...in and out...in and out....and occasionally hoping I'll forget how. I love you with my whole being, sweet boy. I love all eight years of you....EIGHT.

Mother's Day

Oh this day...it's supposed to be a happy day of celebration. And I suppose it is, for daughters whose mothers are still here, and for mothers who can still hold all of their children. For those of us who don't fit into those categories, it's another reminder of that empty chair...those arms we can't feel.

And of course it's beautiful today. Of course the sun is shining. It's a mocking reminder of the way the world keeps turning despite the pain of those suffering loss. And it's a life sentence, one for which we didn't ask to experience. On the one hand, I don't know know that there is a group of people who can truly appreciate this day more. On the other...my own broken heart cries out for theirs in mutual pain over the existence of this day.

This year, Mother's Day has taken on a different meaning for me. Somewhere mixed in the pain of loss of my precious son, is a sense of deep gratitude for the birth mother of my daughters. So, today I will honor him and celebrate her.

Happy Mother's Day, M. I have never met you, and yet you have have proven to be one of the most important mothers in my life. Your body carried our daughters. Your arms held them first. Your lips kissed their heads. You bravely brought them into the world in your own home. I can't imagine the fear and pain you must have endured, experiencing the birth of twins in that way. I'm eternally grateful for your grit and courage. I know you never meant to leave them so soon. A piece of my heart lives in heaven too. If you'll hold him for me, I'll gladly love our girls as my own. I'll wrap them in the love of a mother's hug, until we all meet again one day. My boy likes ice cream and "moos". Please tell him that I miss him with every breath I take. Guide me as our girls become American citizens and enter a world completely foreign to them. Help me to know their pain and joy, as any mother does. I promise to speak of you often. I will say your name, and remind them that they were loved by two mothers in this lifetime.

Happy Mother's Day to all of the beautiful souls I've been fortunate enough to know. To those whose children are being loved by them on earth, I learn from each of you and I'm grateful. To those who had to give a child back, my soul burns for you as we navigate the pain and strength it takes to mother a child we can no longer see. To those whose mothers have been lost too soon, I promise to cherish every moment I get with mine, in order to honor the pain you experience. Love and peace on this day full of mixed emotion.

Visit Dreams

It's 1am, and the tears I feel are real. It's because the dream was so real. The world I was just in was so filled with emotion and hope and laughter, and when I opened my eyes and the cruel, harsh reality slammed me in the chest, the tears were all I had left.

I had reached for you. I'd seen your sweet face and soft curls and when you reached back for me, I'd buried my face in your scent. At the time, I didn't know why I was crying. All I'd done was pick you up...something I'd done a hundred times before. But somewhere in my dream brain, it was registering that the ability to do this was special. So I snuggled you closer, and I whispered to you that I'd never let you go...

So you can imagine the burning in my chest when I opened my eyes and reality raged through my heart. I'd done exactly that, again. I'd let you go. Why did I do that? Why did I think that I could handle cutting myself in half and continuing to "live."

It's amazing to me how physical my ache for you continues to be. The triggers happen in a million different ways every day. They're present in a moment I have at work, or something someone says to me that makes me remember how very lonely this grief process is.

I wish you'd never left. Sometimes I'm mad as hell at you for leaving. Most of the time I'm mad at me. But the burn is the same either way. It's moments like these that make life seem so incredibly long, and I need that day that will bring me back to you.

So, I'd ask for you to make these days I'll have to endure, burn a little less, but then Sara's words ring in my ears..."you don't want this to go away. Not really. You want the dreams, because they connect you." I know you gave her to me, and I'm grateful. But goddammit, I hate when she's right. So maybe make that happen a little less often...ok?

I miss you, my boy. I ACHE for you. I'll feel that burn in my chest every day until I get to bury my face in your hair again. Until then, help me to find the moments that allow me to breathe. Give me the strength to want to stay...and don't stop visiting my dreams...

Palm trees, Self-doubt, and Bitchy Crabs

I'm a disaster. Let me explain. (Although that opening sentence is rather hilarious  considering where I'm going with this. So, I'm on a tropical island. As in, one of the most beautiful places on the planet and I have still managed to judge myself daily, from appearance to how I spend my time here. It's a gift,  really, this ability to degrade myself in any possible situation. 

The funny thing is that I sort of pride myself on not judging others. And, as a parent, although I know I will inevitably screw up my children, I do think my number one priority is raising them to NOT be judgemental assholes. However, in my constant quest for reserving judgement of others, I forgot someone. And that someone is arguably the most important someone...me.

The weather is beautiful here. And when I say "beautiful" I feel that I've failed to do it justice. I could say "exquisite", "superb", "magnificent" and still, all words would fall short of describing the innate beauty of this island. And yet, despite my surroundings, I'm still me, stuck in my never-ending loop of self-depreciation. So....I'm anorexic. I know what you're thinking, "well that's funny, because usually people who are anorexic aren't upwards of 50 pounds over their goal weight." (Or maybe I'm just thinking that and am putting words into your mouth. I'm apparently pretty good at that.) By saying I'm anorexic, I don't mean that it manifests in a physical way, but emotionally and mentally. I judge myself on how I look, what goes in and what physical effort I put forth at a constant rate. And maybe I'm using the word wrong, but it's my blog, so I can. I doubt it will bother the 10 or so people who are actually bored enough to read my thoughts.

But I digress. You see, I was walking along this incredible beach today and had plenty of time to ponder my life (dangerous pasttime, I know). I was thinking about how amazing it is that in everything I've ever written/complained about/discussed in my blogs, they always seem to be these external issues. Warranted, sure, but the truth is that my inner struggle existed much earlier than anything external that I can remember. And if we're talking honesty, this is as honest as I can get.

Back to being "anorexic" (There. Do the quotation marks make you feel better about a fat person claiming to be anorexic? Yes, Sara, I know...I'm my own worst critic and was probably the only one bothered by that in the first place). Anyway, I did actually try the whole "not eating" thing in high school. And admittedly, it screwed me up in ways I didn't even see at the time. It's the reason I don't own a scale, and also the reason I avoid mirrors. I didn't realize this last part until my therapist brought it up in a session recently. I thought about her statement and was shocked at how accurate it was. How sad is that? I don't even look at myself. (And this is absolutely not a plea for platitudes about my looks. Believe me, this has nothing to do with anyone but myself.) So, here, I've had to look at myself and I realized that in my quest to avoid looking in the mirror, I've somehow gotten to be this person I don't even recognize.

I'm a person who truly does love physical activity. Weird, I know. I mean everyone feels good afterward, right? But it's the true creepos who enjoy the "during" part of pushing your body past its natural limits. And yet, I don't do that anymore. I truly feel that sometimes I can't. Whether grief,  or depression, or depression brought on by grief, or survivor's guilt, whatever it is, it makes it incredibly difficult to move. So I don't. Not unless I have to, that is. I move to go to work. I move to attend my children's activities. I move for all kinds of reasons that affect the lives of other people, but I SUCK at moving for me. (See how I did that?  Judged myself for judging myself?? I'm telling you guys, if this were and Olympic sport, I'd nail it.)

So out here on this island, I just move. I can, so I do. Now why can I? Because I typically have enough energy to do only a few things each day. And those are the good days. Out here, I have no other obligations. Nothing to MAKE me move, except for me. So I move for me. It's an incredible feeling to be spending an entire day/week doing things to take care of yourself. I feel like mothers in general are particularly bad at this. But, I'm not naive enough to believe that this is real life. I know that when I return to my family (whom I love more than life), that I will use up what little life power I've got left each day on just surviving.  I spend so much of my energy on grief, ptsd, and judging myself for doing that, that I'm left exhausted at the end of each day, when some days all I've physically done is moved my arm three inches to the right.

The isolation on this island is magnificent. I'm free to walk around in a bathing suit all day and not give it a second thought when it comes to wondering if others are judging me. That was, until today. I jumped into the ocean today to cool off and then, as always, as I made my way back to my lounge chair to lie in the sun, I made a mental note of how awful my shadow looked. Because that's helpful. I dismissed it quickly, because again, no one is around and also because constantly evaluating your body is exhausting. However, I opened my eyes for a second to make sure I was fully facing the sun, and I saw a crab standing right in front of me. She just stopped there, staring at me. I assume she was staring, because honestly it's hard to know where their eyes are. And I assume she was female because, you know,  we're best at judging our own...

Anyway, I could tell she was judging me. She knew I looked horrible in that bathing suit, and she was judging the fact that I'd been smug enough to assume that no one else was being affected by such a hideous creature, simply because no other humans were around. I also believe she was judging the few times in my life that I've attempted a "crab walk." Because as she sauntered effortlessly, from side to side, I noticed her backward glance at the large lady in the lounge chair, right before she added a bit of a graceful glide to her movements. She did this, as if to say, "not only are you overweight and out of shape, but you have also never correctly walked like a crab. And it's insulting." And with that, she scurried along the shoreline until the waves overtook her little body (skinny bitch) and she buried herself in the sand. (Come to think of it, I may have more problems than made-up, fat person anorexia...)

Anyway, all of this rambling does have something resembling a point. As I was lying there, getting tan, listening to the ocean, and getting judged by bitchy crabs, I was also thinking about how useless it is to continue putting myself down in this way. Has it ever served me? Has it ever motivated me to do more? Has it ever done anything but cut down an already fragile self-esteem? And the answer, of course, is no. So, I'm tired of diets. I'm tired of specific exercise regimens with a specific "goal date" in mind. I've decided that instead of trying to lose pounds of weight, I'm going to try to lose pounds of self-judgement (a word? Maybe not, but again, my blog). And since I've made this incredible discovery for myself and made up words to prove my point, I'm officially awarding myself with 50 pounds worth of self-judgement lost. I'm feeling lighter already.

And while this is clearly a much more healthy way to think, I know that I will have days where this whole concept is more than I can handle and I'll revert back to my old habits. But even those days are going to have the possibility of "pounds" lost, because the acknowledgement that I'm human, and allowed my ups and downs, is a pretty important step too. Don't get me wrong, I'm still gonna screw this up, because I've said, and the bitchy crab also pointed out...I am a giant disaster. :)

10/10

We use a pain scale in the healthcare world. Most are familiar with it. It's a scale going from 0-10. It's a way to gauge a person's pain level in order to determine whether or not your interventions are effective. People aren't always great at understanding the scale, but it can be helpful in determining efficacy of medicaton from time to time. Sometimes patients and nurses don't exactly agree on the pain rating. So, when the nurse is the patient, they tend to avoid the top of the pain scale.  I've never rated my pain a 10/10 when asked. Even when I was yelling and literally punching the back of an ER gurney because of kidney stone pain, I still couldn't do it. When asked what I rated my pain, I said "8" through clenched teeth and tears.

While there have been times that I have been in pretty intense physical pain, I could have never imagined the power of emotional pain. Even writing the words, "emotional pain" just seems too empty to describe the immense, searing agony  of child loss. It's ongoing, and forever and there is no medication, no cure. And there is certainly no scale that does it justice.

I keep learning new things about grief, and that's part of the reason the pain lingers. I reach new levels of understanding of this process with each passing year. I recently came to a realization about a certain statement that's never made much sense to me. You know how you'll always see a meme or quote related to grief that essentially says, "no one can tell you when to get over it", or "so many people just tell me to get over it"? Well, I don't think I've ever actually heard THOSE specific words. Don't get me wrong, I FEEL that sentiment, but I don't think I've ever heard it. But I think now I know what actually happens that makes grieving people feel that way. It isn't necessarily that someone SAYS we need to move on, it's the unspoken expectation that we just do so.

For example, grieving people are expected to keep their actual feelings quiet, at least at certain times in their lives when others are allowed to voice theirs. If we say what we actually think in certain situations, we will not be received well. I'll try to explain what I mean....

The hospital I work in has a rule set up, during this particularly bad flu season, that says that no children under the age of 16 are allowed in the hospital. It's for the protection of our patients and their babies. Of course this is difficult for some new families who want their newborn to be introduced to their other children as soon as possible. While I can understand this sentiment, my patience with those who try to find a way around the policy, only lasts so long. My response to is your typical, "I know this is a tough policy and I'm sorry your other children will have to wait to meet their sibling". At this point, I'm still ok. I can make it through that...once. But lately the conversation has continued to include, "I just CAN'T be away from my children for 3 whole days. I've never been away from them"...followed by tears. YES, I know pregnant women are hormonal. YES, I understand that this is a completely normal sentiment. But that doesn't mean that my own heart doesn't scream, "yes you CAN! Believe me. I haven't held my child in 5 years. I'm still here." Obviously that response doesn't work. This is the problem. People who don't understand this way of thinking are allowed to express their feelings, even if they hurt me. But I cannot express mine. And I discussed this  with my friend and she asked me why I can't just say it? The answer is simple. I have to live in THIS world.  I don't get to live in my grieving world all the time. I mean, I suppose I could, but I wouldn't function here in reality.

I'm not saying any of this to entice any sort of sympathy. I'm truly not. I'm not looking for someone to say, "of course you can say what you feel", mostly because it isn't true. But the feelings are real. They're present whether they're voiced or not. And I think this discrepancy between the living world and the grieving world bears mentioning.

I also don't pretend to be innocent of invoking these feelings in my fellow grievers. I lost my child. I have not lost my spouse. I do not have a life threatening illness myself. Both of my parents are still alive. And for those in my life who don't share my fortune, I welcome you to express exactly what you're feeling when you're talking to me. Make your conversations with me the ones in which you can say exactly what is in your brain in that moment. If I complain about my husband, tell me that I'm lucky to have him. If I whine about a bad hair day, show me your bald head and tell me to get the hell over it. I say this because I want the grieving to know that I don't need for you to "get over it". I don't need for you to feel any way other than the way you feel. I don't need for you to sugar coat things. I don't need for you to spare my feelings because I don't understand where you're coming from. Tell me where you stand. Tell me what your heart hears when I say something insensitive. Tell me exactly what stirs in you when you feel  I've missed your perspective.  It's ok. It's OK to hurt. It's OK to be angry. It's OK to tell me you feel forgotten and alone. It's ok...to tell me it's a 10...

"Too Depressed For Therapy"

I don't remember exactly what day it happened, what moment it was that wiped away my ability for pretense. It wasn't the moment he left. That was certainly filled with more than the deafening silence I heard screeching through my brain...but the loss of pretense wasn't there. In fact, just hours after he was gone, we went to dinner. To DINNER. I remember thinking about how incredibly ridiculous that was. Do people whose children are dead go to dinner?? Probably not, I'd thought, and yet there I was with a menu in my hand, just like it was any other Saturday.

And don't get me wrong, I've never really been one to mince words, but still I could when needed. However, that part of me is gone in many situations where it used to just be as natural as breathing. What do I mean? Well, recently I was talking about my grandmother and I said, "oh. Well, she's dead." I think the way I said it seemed harsh or something.  It must have because I recognized a change in expression among the people I was talking to. But for me, dead is dead. It isn't  just "passing away" or "passing on" or "crossing over". It's dead. And I think I NEED for it to be that. Because it's real. There is nothing more real than "dead" for me. And believe me, it is the most real thing I've ever experienced. It's continuous. It's part of me. And now IT is what is as natural as breathing. Dead. My son is dead.

I was there when it happened, so I know. The air stopped moving through his lungs and his heart stopped beating. He no longer turned his head toward my cheat as I held him. His arm slipped from its place on his chest. And if you think this is difficult to read, I can't begin to describe what it means to watch that, to bear witness to your child's last breath. Dead.

I see a therapist pretty regularly (most people reading this are likely thinking, "well thank god!....:)). But sometimes I just can't go. Sometimes the thought of moving even one arm is too much, so getting up and making myself take time to "work through my crap" is not gonna happen. So, I don't go. I literally cancelled therapy because I was too depressed to go. That's hilarious to me. And maybe it shouldn't be, but it is. Because it's REAL. That's exactly what grief does. It kicks my ass. And it NEVER goes away. And sometimes it makes me awesome, and sometimes it makes me vomit. And sometimes it make me tired. And sometimes it makes me a crappy friend. But one thing it never does is leave. It doesn't allow me to ignore it. Not in its entirety, not enough to allow for pretense...

I don't even know why this is important enough to me to write down. Maybe someone else out there feels the same way? Maybe this is a common byproduct of grief? What I do know is that what I experienced was real, what I currently feel is real, and that the irony is that what woke me up to this very real "life" I lead....was death.