She'll be 9 tomorrow. It's her birthday, and she's turning 9. To be honest, I don't really remember her turning 8. The entire year was a blur and birthdays are a tough subject in our house anyway. We did nothing last year for her birthday. Seriously, nothing. Well, there was one exception. Another Mom, and a woman who has become a sort of savior friend, made her a cake. She made MY daughter a birthday cake. I vaguely remember her asking if she could do something, but I don't ever remember answering the question. But, when that day came I was lighting a candle on the most perfect birthday cake for a panda-loving princess. My friend had just done it. She didn't need my answer to know what needed to be done. She took over when I couldn't be the Mom. I've only recently realized the value in that. I noticed that I'm learning to be a better mother from the women around me, just as I did before.
Another very special woman in my life suffered her own tragedy the same year our family was faced with the death of our son, Easton. Our stories are unique, and sometimes our grieving processes couldn't be any different. But, we learn from one another. We share pain and progress. We cry and laugh at how far we've come and how far we have left to go. One of the most amazing things I've taken from this woman is her ability to continue celebrating life. We agree that neither of us does things the "right" way. We simply do what we can do. She works tirelessly to make special occasions like birthdays and holidays as special as they've always been. This concept was completely foreign to me, and I've had to take a chapter from HER strength book in order to see the beauty in that. I've seen that celebrations don't mean forgetting. It doesn't mean we've moved on and aren't looking back. It's simply another way we put our feet on the ground and keep walking, together. I'm not saying this is any easier for me than it was a year ago, but I'm grateful to her for leading by example and for never making me feel as though I was doing it "wrong".
This week I've spent most of my free hours baking ridiculously indulgent birthday treats for my daughter to take to school. I took a cue from my friend who'd made the special cake last year and decided that I was going to try to make this birthday memorable, but this time with my own hands. She helped me with the details of creating the perfect panda treats, but more than that she showed me that being present in this moment for this child didn't mean that I was forgetting the one who will never again blow out the candles. And I didn't have to do it on her time. She just waited. She was just there when I needed her to be there, teaching me to make the cookies, but more importantly teaching me to remember that this opportunity still exists for myself and this child. And I love her for that.
I didn't make them because I thought my dauther had to have them. I made them because I can. Because I've been gifted this moment. I get to watch her turn 9. I get to see her move on from her 8-year-old life for the best reason, because she's 9. That's a gift, and I know it. I had no idea what to expect on the day I first met that fiesty little human. She came into the world with an opinion, and she continues to share it today. I don't assume I'll be given the opportunity to see her drive a car, or go on a date. I don't assume I'll see her turn 30, or 40, or 50. Those days aren't guarantees. Those moments aren't mine to claim. But what I know in this moment right now, is that she is silly and witty. She is talented and beautiful. She has more freckles this year than last. And she's 9. And I'm here to see all of it. I won't take that for granted.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Aunt Chach, Mom 2
They don't call her Mom, but they fit in that place in her heart. She didn't give them birth, but she was there to watch them enter the world and was among the first to hold them close. She doesn't have to be the parent, but she guides them with love and understanding. She's watched them grow and has taught me to sometimes simply stand back and watch too.
She wasn't there that first night, but I felt her soul and strength with me. She didn't get to be in the room with me when I made big decisions about his life, but her heart tore in two just as mine did. No one asked her how she was doing that day. No one brought her food and encouraged her to eat, or a pillow and told her to sleep. Her visitor's badge said "Aunt", but that word wasn't sufficient. There should have been a sticker that said "Mom 2". Maybe then they would have known what this was doing to her. Maybe then someone would have taken their eyes off of me for a minute and offered her their shoulder instead.
But, she wouldn't have wanted that. She wouldn't have taken one second of the comfort meant for me. Even though her soul was shredding too. Even though her arms ached for the chance to hold him again, just as mine did. In those last few hours when people were milling in and out and saying their good-byes, she stayed away, and not because of fear or disinterest, but because she was giving me all the seconds I had left. She didn't take one moment of my time with him, although she had every right to do so. They all cried for me and for the five of us who were losing that piece of our lives, but no one cried for her.
She could be sad but not AS sad as the mother. If I cried a thousand tears, she was only allowed 999. She could hurt, but the knife couldn't go as deep. It wasn't allowed. She wasn't the mother. And although she may not have worn the title, I assure you that that day, she lost her child. So today I cry for her. I cry for her pain and misery. I cry for her stifled screams. I cry for the ache in her arms, and the tear in her soul.
I love you, my sister. And I'm so sorry for the loss of your baby.
She wasn't there that first night, but I felt her soul and strength with me. She didn't get to be in the room with me when I made big decisions about his life, but her heart tore in two just as mine did. No one asked her how she was doing that day. No one brought her food and encouraged her to eat, or a pillow and told her to sleep. Her visitor's badge said "Aunt", but that word wasn't sufficient. There should have been a sticker that said "Mom 2". Maybe then they would have known what this was doing to her. Maybe then someone would have taken their eyes off of me for a minute and offered her their shoulder instead.
But, she wouldn't have wanted that. She wouldn't have taken one second of the comfort meant for me. Even though her soul was shredding too. Even though her arms ached for the chance to hold him again, just as mine did. In those last few hours when people were milling in and out and saying their good-byes, she stayed away, and not because of fear or disinterest, but because she was giving me all the seconds I had left. She didn't take one moment of my time with him, although she had every right to do so. They all cried for me and for the five of us who were losing that piece of our lives, but no one cried for her.
She could be sad but not AS sad as the mother. If I cried a thousand tears, she was only allowed 999. She could hurt, but the knife couldn't go as deep. It wasn't allowed. She wasn't the mother. And although she may not have worn the title, I assure you that that day, she lost her child. So today I cry for her. I cry for her pain and misery. I cry for her stifled screams. I cry for the ache in her arms, and the tear in her soul.
I love you, my sister. And I'm so sorry for the loss of your baby.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Give Her Life
I know I've said this a thousand times, but one of the most unexpected parts of this entire process is the feeling of isolation. I didn't realize how lonely it would be to live in "your child died" land. And it's lonely mainly because you can't unlearn what you now know. Sometimes that's excruciating, but sometimes it truly is the gift that everyone claims it is.
I recently read the article "101 Things To Tell My Daughters", as it was making its way through the facebook newsfeed. It's a great compilation of all of the truly important things in life that should be passed to our daughters. I agree that many times the lessons we learn are passed down a generation, but sometimes they are linear and other times they can even be passed from daughter to mother. I gave birth to two beautiful daughters, and I'm grateful for that every day (even when I'm threatening to disown them). But, I've realized in the past year or so that, although I gave them BIRTH 6 and 8 years ago, it is only now that I'm learning to give them LIFE.
As mothers, we worry constantly about whether or not we're doing the right thing. We do our best to protect our daughters from our own difficult experiences, and we kill ourselves trying to make sure that no matter what injury may befall our little legacies, we will have exactly the right band-aid, in exactly the right size. But, when something comes along and strips you of your right to worry and protect, you see things a little differently. I no longer keep band-aids. This is where perspective becomes a blessing and a curse. It's difficult to permanently abandon the worry, to give up that inborn motherly angst of trying to protect/save another human being, especially when those around you don't have the same experience. However, it's also the most freeing moment of your life when you are able to do so. And it isn't just to your benefit. In fact, it's exactly what will give your daughter all the things you've been trying to give her all along.
I'm certainly in no position to be dolling out advice. None of us are, if you ask me. But shared experiences are some of the best ways to connect with others in a loving and understanding way, so here's what I know. I know that my girls are going to skin their knees when they fall off their bikes. I know they're going to look to me to fix it. But, what if instead of rushing over with a band-aid, I love them from a distance as they get back up on their own? This seems simple and cliche, but when exactly is the right time to show them that you have confidence in their ability to get back up? Is it when they fail their first test? Lose their first job opportunity? My youngest daughter fell in a swimming pool this past summer and it happened to be in the deep end. She was flailing and struggling, and two years ago I would have jumped in fully clothed and immediately pulled her to the side. But something inside me told me to stop. Instead of pulling her back out, I calmly told her to swim. She refused and sunk a little deeper, but still I stayed on the side of the pool. I told her to use her legs and her arms and to feel her way to the side. When she made it to the edge, I lifted her out, wrapped a big towel around her and hugged her until she stopped crying. I was so proud of her in that moment, and I told her so. As I was driving home that day, I realized that the lesson wasn't for her. It was for me. I was a new kind of mother now, one that knew that no matter how many band-aids I kept on hand, and no matter how many safety warnings I gave, at some point, my girl was going to be drowning without me. But you know what? My girl can swim.
Does this make me a genius? Does it make me mother of the year? Of course not. This means that I'm broken. It means that the me I used to be doesn't work anymore. Instead, someone else is learning to walk in new mom shoes. She's learning to LET IT GO (for all of us who can't stop hearing the song in our heads). And, actually...this part isn't so bad. I've watched what I hope will be the biggest fall of my daughters' lives, and I've seen them get back up and start pedaling again. But the greatest gift of freedom I've received is in knowing that even if this wasn't their darkest hour, my only job is to love them through the process. It was chance that I was able to give them birth, but I'm most grateful for the ability to CHOOSE to give them life.
I recently read the article "101 Things To Tell My Daughters", as it was making its way through the facebook newsfeed. It's a great compilation of all of the truly important things in life that should be passed to our daughters. I agree that many times the lessons we learn are passed down a generation, but sometimes they are linear and other times they can even be passed from daughter to mother. I gave birth to two beautiful daughters, and I'm grateful for that every day (even when I'm threatening to disown them). But, I've realized in the past year or so that, although I gave them BIRTH 6 and 8 years ago, it is only now that I'm learning to give them LIFE.
As mothers, we worry constantly about whether or not we're doing the right thing. We do our best to protect our daughters from our own difficult experiences, and we kill ourselves trying to make sure that no matter what injury may befall our little legacies, we will have exactly the right band-aid, in exactly the right size. But, when something comes along and strips you of your right to worry and protect, you see things a little differently. I no longer keep band-aids. This is where perspective becomes a blessing and a curse. It's difficult to permanently abandon the worry, to give up that inborn motherly angst of trying to protect/save another human being, especially when those around you don't have the same experience. However, it's also the most freeing moment of your life when you are able to do so. And it isn't just to your benefit. In fact, it's exactly what will give your daughter all the things you've been trying to give her all along.
I'm certainly in no position to be dolling out advice. None of us are, if you ask me. But shared experiences are some of the best ways to connect with others in a loving and understanding way, so here's what I know. I know that my girls are going to skin their knees when they fall off their bikes. I know they're going to look to me to fix it. But, what if instead of rushing over with a band-aid, I love them from a distance as they get back up on their own? This seems simple and cliche, but when exactly is the right time to show them that you have confidence in their ability to get back up? Is it when they fail their first test? Lose their first job opportunity? My youngest daughter fell in a swimming pool this past summer and it happened to be in the deep end. She was flailing and struggling, and two years ago I would have jumped in fully clothed and immediately pulled her to the side. But something inside me told me to stop. Instead of pulling her back out, I calmly told her to swim. She refused and sunk a little deeper, but still I stayed on the side of the pool. I told her to use her legs and her arms and to feel her way to the side. When she made it to the edge, I lifted her out, wrapped a big towel around her and hugged her until she stopped crying. I was so proud of her in that moment, and I told her so. As I was driving home that day, I realized that the lesson wasn't for her. It was for me. I was a new kind of mother now, one that knew that no matter how many band-aids I kept on hand, and no matter how many safety warnings I gave, at some point, my girl was going to be drowning without me. But you know what? My girl can swim.
Does this make me a genius? Does it make me mother of the year? Of course not. This means that I'm broken. It means that the me I used to be doesn't work anymore. Instead, someone else is learning to walk in new mom shoes. She's learning to LET IT GO (for all of us who can't stop hearing the song in our heads). And, actually...this part isn't so bad. I've watched what I hope will be the biggest fall of my daughters' lives, and I've seen them get back up and start pedaling again. But the greatest gift of freedom I've received is in knowing that even if this wasn't their darkest hour, my only job is to love them through the process. It was chance that I was able to give them birth, but I'm most grateful for the ability to CHOOSE to give them life.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
The House That Grief Built
Today it's his turn. Tomorrow it might be mine, or hers, or all of us combined. Sometimes it's anger, sometimes it's tears. It doesn't really matter which method we choose. They all suck. And we're stuck here in this new existence. Each of us navigating a new world and trying to make the pieces of each individual fit into a family. It doesn't work well. Not without that most precious 6th piece. He's still here of course, but not in the way we want him to be. Not in the way that makes our puzzle fit together.
You know what the biggest problem is? Our physical life, our day to day, has become too damn easy. Seriously, I just read about a parent who is struggling through life with a sick child and she describes the medications, the therapies, the phone calls, the constant worry. And I know all about that life. That's the life that left me completely drained, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. It's the one that made me cry myself to "sleep", but only for minutes at a time before the worry would creep back in and take over. Yes, I remember that life well, and I remember begging for it to stop. For at least the physical part to get better. Guess what? It did. And it's horrible.
Without that piece of constant movement, that never ending need to "save" a member of our family, we have time to think. And that is dangerous. The first part of the grief process was such a tunnel. We were all just feeling our way around in the dark. Separately. Now it seems we've found pieces of each other again, and although that would seem to be a positive thing, it just brings up more pain and confusion. If I squint hard enough, I can catch a glimpse of my little girl, but it doesn't last long. She may laugh for a moment, but soon she'll be swallowed up by the darkness again. It happens to all of us. My husband is over there in the corner. I know he is because sometimes I see him, but then I remember that it's not all of him. And if I find the courage to look into his eyes, I'm reminded with blinding clarity that I'm no longer all of me. How are we supposed to make that work? This is a rhetorical question, of course. No one has this answer. The people in this HOUSE don't have the answer, and if they don't, no one does.
Every family experiences the emotions of each of its members. Usually you deal with it and move on, right? Sisters fight and they are punished for being unkind to one another, and you move to the next issue. That doesn't happen here. Sure the sisters are fighting, but why? Can you always blame the grief? Maybe it's just a normal part of growing up with siblings. That's possible. But what if you're wrong about that? What if they can't stop pushing each other away because they feel the need to protect themselves from loss again? Maybe they want to control what they can and can't have. That's what their Mom does. So why shouldn't they be allowed the same liberties? Could we be blaming the pain too much? Sure. But it's always there. Even if it isn't the reason for the fighting, it will become the raging voice of punishment. All of the sudden a normal moment of parental frustration becomes a shouted list of the reasons that life is unfair.
This exercise in emotional torture is a life sentence for this family. Everything we do or don't do is colored by what we've lost. We grieve so differently, and the outlets we choose to release that pain couldn't be further apart. How do you make that fit? You don't. You sit back and watch, or you stand up and scream, depending on your role that day. But what you don't do is fix it. What you don't do, is make it better. You let it happen, and you pretend for a moment that you have a choice in the matter, that you're choosing your role. But the truth is, this isn't your house anymore. This is grief's house, and you're just living in it.
You know what the biggest problem is? Our physical life, our day to day, has become too damn easy. Seriously, I just read about a parent who is struggling through life with a sick child and she describes the medications, the therapies, the phone calls, the constant worry. And I know all about that life. That's the life that left me completely drained, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. It's the one that made me cry myself to "sleep", but only for minutes at a time before the worry would creep back in and take over. Yes, I remember that life well, and I remember begging for it to stop. For at least the physical part to get better. Guess what? It did. And it's horrible.
Without that piece of constant movement, that never ending need to "save" a member of our family, we have time to think. And that is dangerous. The first part of the grief process was such a tunnel. We were all just feeling our way around in the dark. Separately. Now it seems we've found pieces of each other again, and although that would seem to be a positive thing, it just brings up more pain and confusion. If I squint hard enough, I can catch a glimpse of my little girl, but it doesn't last long. She may laugh for a moment, but soon she'll be swallowed up by the darkness again. It happens to all of us. My husband is over there in the corner. I know he is because sometimes I see him, but then I remember that it's not all of him. And if I find the courage to look into his eyes, I'm reminded with blinding clarity that I'm no longer all of me. How are we supposed to make that work? This is a rhetorical question, of course. No one has this answer. The people in this HOUSE don't have the answer, and if they don't, no one does.
Every family experiences the emotions of each of its members. Usually you deal with it and move on, right? Sisters fight and they are punished for being unkind to one another, and you move to the next issue. That doesn't happen here. Sure the sisters are fighting, but why? Can you always blame the grief? Maybe it's just a normal part of growing up with siblings. That's possible. But what if you're wrong about that? What if they can't stop pushing each other away because they feel the need to protect themselves from loss again? Maybe they want to control what they can and can't have. That's what their Mom does. So why shouldn't they be allowed the same liberties? Could we be blaming the pain too much? Sure. But it's always there. Even if it isn't the reason for the fighting, it will become the raging voice of punishment. All of the sudden a normal moment of parental frustration becomes a shouted list of the reasons that life is unfair.
This exercise in emotional torture is a life sentence for this family. Everything we do or don't do is colored by what we've lost. We grieve so differently, and the outlets we choose to release that pain couldn't be further apart. How do you make that fit? You don't. You sit back and watch, or you stand up and scream, depending on your role that day. But what you don't do is fix it. What you don't do, is make it better. You let it happen, and you pretend for a moment that you have a choice in the matter, that you're choosing your role. But the truth is, this isn't your house anymore. This is grief's house, and you're just living in it.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
What's Missing
My little ballerina is constantly twisting and turning, using the correct names for each of her newly learned moves (minus the "r" sound of course). She's usually so happy after her dance class and tells me all about the things she's learning, promising that someday I will get to see her perform, but not until recital time. She gets all giggly and evasive when I ask what her dance looks like. It's a game we play. But not tonight. Tonight she wasn't my 6-year-old, giggling ballerina. Tonight she was broken.
As Morgan left her class tonight, I noticed the cloud over her eyes. I saw that telltale sign that the big one was coming. Sure enough, we barely made it to the van when the tears started. This is how she operates within her grief. She gets whiny and seems very tired for several weeks and then the explosion happens. She started by complaining that the dance had changed again and that she just wanted to finish it so she could practice the whole thing because she was so afraid of messing up on the stage. I reassured her that I don't watch her do things to make sure she does them "correctly." I told her that I watch her because I like to see her experiencing life and enjoying it. I added that I felt extremely lucky to be able to witness those things. That's when the pain became too much to bear:
"Mommy!! I am NOT lucky all the time. I just keep losing things! Important things!!"
I have an idea where this is going at this point, but I don't want to assume so I try a different angle.
"Well, Morgan, everyone has to learn responsibility and taking care of our toys and things so that we don't lose them."
"You don't understand what I'm saying, Mommy. I don't care about my stupid toys..."
This is where the Mom I used to be would tell her that we don't say stupid, but I know this is not one of those conversations where I get to be Mom. What good is Mom in this situation anyway? Mom is someone who fixes the problem, right? There is no fix here. Mom is unnecessary. Instead, Compassionate Listener takes a turn. So I play..."Ok, what have you lost then?"
"I am NOT saying it out loud."
"Your brother." It isn't a question. It doesn't need to be. It's a statement that says, "me too."
"YES!! THIS ISN'T FAIR, MOMMY!! I HATE THIS!! Why do all my friends have their brothers and I don't?? What did I do wrong? I. WANT. HIM. BACK."
Again, not a question. Because guess what? It isn't a request. It is a demand. She wants him back. NOW. And I should give him to her. She's right. And I know it.
So, I do the only thing I know to do. I hug her and thank her for being my daughter. I tell her how grateful I am that her healthy, capable little body can do the most beautiful "piwowette" I've ever seen. I thank her for crying with me. I thank her for sharing with me.
"Do I look like you, Mommy?"
"Yes, Baby. You look very much like Mommy."
"Do I act like you, Mommy?"
"Sometimes you do."
"I...I want to look like you...I want to act like you, because...Mommy?...Didn't Beastie look like you?"
"Yes, Baby. He did."
"Well, I want to look like him. I want to be like him."
"Oh, Baby. Nothing makes me happier than looking at your face, because I see him there. No one on the planet looks more like him than you do. But you know what? I'm so grateful that you're my Morgan, because she's a pretty fantastic little girl all by herself. And do you know what makes you just like your brother?"
"My curly hair?....because it's gone...(tears)"
"No, Baby. It's your big, beautiful heart. And that will never go away."
When did being Mom become so painful? I can't take her pain away. That should stop when you've lost the ability to help even one of your children. There shouldn't be any more tough questions or unanswerable moments. But there are. Life doesn't care what you think should be happening. Life just happens. And it's hard and it's ugly, but every once in awhile the thing that is missing is actually what makes it worth living. I would have never known how much more beautiful a pirouette could be...especially without the "r".
As Morgan left her class tonight, I noticed the cloud over her eyes. I saw that telltale sign that the big one was coming. Sure enough, we barely made it to the van when the tears started. This is how she operates within her grief. She gets whiny and seems very tired for several weeks and then the explosion happens. She started by complaining that the dance had changed again and that she just wanted to finish it so she could practice the whole thing because she was so afraid of messing up on the stage. I reassured her that I don't watch her do things to make sure she does them "correctly." I told her that I watch her because I like to see her experiencing life and enjoying it. I added that I felt extremely lucky to be able to witness those things. That's when the pain became too much to bear:
"Mommy!! I am NOT lucky all the time. I just keep losing things! Important things!!"
I have an idea where this is going at this point, but I don't want to assume so I try a different angle.
"Well, Morgan, everyone has to learn responsibility and taking care of our toys and things so that we don't lose them."
"You don't understand what I'm saying, Mommy. I don't care about my stupid toys..."
This is where the Mom I used to be would tell her that we don't say stupid, but I know this is not one of those conversations where I get to be Mom. What good is Mom in this situation anyway? Mom is someone who fixes the problem, right? There is no fix here. Mom is unnecessary. Instead, Compassionate Listener takes a turn. So I play..."Ok, what have you lost then?"
"I am NOT saying it out loud."
"Your brother." It isn't a question. It doesn't need to be. It's a statement that says, "me too."
"YES!! THIS ISN'T FAIR, MOMMY!! I HATE THIS!! Why do all my friends have their brothers and I don't?? What did I do wrong? I. WANT. HIM. BACK."
Again, not a question. Because guess what? It isn't a request. It is a demand. She wants him back. NOW. And I should give him to her. She's right. And I know it.
So, I do the only thing I know to do. I hug her and thank her for being my daughter. I tell her how grateful I am that her healthy, capable little body can do the most beautiful "piwowette" I've ever seen. I thank her for crying with me. I thank her for sharing with me.
"Do I look like you, Mommy?"
"Yes, Baby. You look very much like Mommy."
"Do I act like you, Mommy?"
"Sometimes you do."
"I...I want to look like you...I want to act like you, because...Mommy?...Didn't Beastie look like you?"
"Yes, Baby. He did."
"Well, I want to look like him. I want to be like him."
"Oh, Baby. Nothing makes me happier than looking at your face, because I see him there. No one on the planet looks more like him than you do. But you know what? I'm so grateful that you're my Morgan, because she's a pretty fantastic little girl all by herself. And do you know what makes you just like your brother?"
"My curly hair?....because it's gone...(tears)"
"No, Baby. It's your big, beautiful heart. And that will never go away."
When did being Mom become so painful? I can't take her pain away. That should stop when you've lost the ability to help even one of your children. There shouldn't be any more tough questions or unanswerable moments. But there are. Life doesn't care what you think should be happening. Life just happens. And it's hard and it's ugly, but every once in awhile the thing that is missing is actually what makes it worth living. I would have never known how much more beautiful a pirouette could be...especially without the "r".
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Gratitude
Consuming. Grief is all-consuming. Anger, hate, fear, pain, loss....these are the things I've felt burned into my soul. The heaviness of these emotions can be unbearable. But they're all part of the process and must be experienced on my time. This is the lesson of grief. The different aspects come in waves and you can try to ignore them, but eventually they all come to a screeching halt, right in front of your face. This is still true of my process. And the most recent addition to the myriad of emotions?...overwhelming...GRATITUDE.
I didn't see this one coming. I expected the fear, the pain, the anger. I wasn't even all that surprised when all I could feel for any living person was burning hatred. Sadness was always going to be a factor, but gratitude? Where the hell did that come from?? And yet, here it is. Gratitude. I can see the beauty of life experience. I can understand the gift of tremendous pain. To be honest, I've put off writing this blog for some time now because I was imagining how I would have felt in the beginning had I come across it and realized that yet another grieving mother was spouting her blessings and thanking God, Allah, and Mother Nature for her good fortune. I would have thrown the computer against the wall. Ironically, it's exactly that spirit that made me decide to write it.
I can't tell anyone where their grief journey will take them. I wouldn't ever tell someone to count their blessings or to thank their lucky stars for the gift of renewed perspective. What I can say is that, in my own tiny corner of grief, beneath the dark layers of pain and hurt, there is the smallest light. I can't even say that I can fully comprehend where it came from or how far it extends because I'm still wading through darkness. But it's there. You can't go looking for it. You can't wish for it to get there sooner. You can't even know for sure that it will ever show up. You have to experience ALL of it. And feeling this way now doesn't mean that the other parts are less important, that they are the "bad" parts of grief, or that I won't be bogged down by them again. Certainly not. Don't worry...I'm still batshit crazy over here. But, I'm grateful that the coin always has two sides. Both equally as important as its counterpart.
So, what exactly am I grateful for? All of it. I'm grateful for the beauty of a community coming together to raise us up. I'm grateful for my friends and family who have said, "We'll take you any way we can get you. Broken or not. Even if that means not having you at all for awhile." I'm grateful to my children for continuing to want to hug a mother whose range of feelings for them has spanned the globe in the past year. I'm grateful to my husband for just being him, and for listening to his own heart when trying to navigate a way through the pain of a marriage that's been wounded by loss. I'm grateful to my baby for teaching me things that my tiny human brain would have never discovered on its own. He taught me to love. To REALLY love, and to mean it. I'm grateful to know a love whose mere touch is healing. And I'm grateful for grief and its all-consuming nature. Because it's still there. It still hurts. It still burns. I'm still consumed. But this time, by the need to share my most precious gift. Love.
I didn't see this one coming. I expected the fear, the pain, the anger. I wasn't even all that surprised when all I could feel for any living person was burning hatred. Sadness was always going to be a factor, but gratitude? Where the hell did that come from?? And yet, here it is. Gratitude. I can see the beauty of life experience. I can understand the gift of tremendous pain. To be honest, I've put off writing this blog for some time now because I was imagining how I would have felt in the beginning had I come across it and realized that yet another grieving mother was spouting her blessings and thanking God, Allah, and Mother Nature for her good fortune. I would have thrown the computer against the wall. Ironically, it's exactly that spirit that made me decide to write it.
I can't tell anyone where their grief journey will take them. I wouldn't ever tell someone to count their blessings or to thank their lucky stars for the gift of renewed perspective. What I can say is that, in my own tiny corner of grief, beneath the dark layers of pain and hurt, there is the smallest light. I can't even say that I can fully comprehend where it came from or how far it extends because I'm still wading through darkness. But it's there. You can't go looking for it. You can't wish for it to get there sooner. You can't even know for sure that it will ever show up. You have to experience ALL of it. And feeling this way now doesn't mean that the other parts are less important, that they are the "bad" parts of grief, or that I won't be bogged down by them again. Certainly not. Don't worry...I'm still batshit crazy over here. But, I'm grateful that the coin always has two sides. Both equally as important as its counterpart.
So, what exactly am I grateful for? All of it. I'm grateful for the beauty of a community coming together to raise us up. I'm grateful for my friends and family who have said, "We'll take you any way we can get you. Broken or not. Even if that means not having you at all for awhile." I'm grateful to my children for continuing to want to hug a mother whose range of feelings for them has spanned the globe in the past year. I'm grateful to my husband for just being him, and for listening to his own heart when trying to navigate a way through the pain of a marriage that's been wounded by loss. I'm grateful to my baby for teaching me things that my tiny human brain would have never discovered on its own. He taught me to love. To REALLY love, and to mean it. I'm grateful to know a love whose mere touch is healing. And I'm grateful for grief and its all-consuming nature. Because it's still there. It still hurts. It still burns. I'm still consumed. But this time, by the need to share my most precious gift. Love.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Christmas Tree
Somehow it came. In less than an hour it will be here. I'm not sure how that happened because I felt I was doing my best to make it feel unwelcome. Still, my efforts have gone unnoticed. My pain didn't scare away the snow. My shattered heart didn't deter the world from hanging mistletoe and decorating trees. Everyone around me still bought gifts for their loved ones. They still made "to do" lists and ran around in the same stressed out circles trying to complete everything before the big day. Why? I don't know. How? I can't imagine. But it's true. Christmas is here.
Although I guess this is technically our second Christmas without you, it feels like the first. I don't know if that's because of the horribly close proximity of your death to that date last year, or if every year will feel like the first. Maybe it's just that last year was my first Christmas without breath. This one is my first without YOU. I began to feel the hole widening when I realized that time was running out for buying gifts for your brother and sisters. I remember thinking to myself, Ok, as much as you hate every aspect of this holiday, at some point you're going to wish that your children had something to open on Christmas. And not because they NEED any of the things you're buying, but just because you don't want more things to be ripped from them. So, I did it. I bought things. I found items on shelves and put them in carts and brought them home to be wrapped. I did all of those things. That seemed like enough. That should have been enough. But of course it wasn't. I couldn't buy those gifts without getting yours too. I found the greatest gifts for you. You'd love them. And actually there were times when I was buying them that something felt lighter. Something was holding me up and allowing me to enjoy that process. Part of that was the love of a friend, and part of it was you. I know you chose your gifts. But the thing is, I also had to wrap them. The paper is covered in my tears because of course I knew that the little boy who would have loved them so much wouldn't be there to open them. I know you'll never see them. I know you won't race to the living room to beat your siblings to the tree. I know you won't cuddle with me on the couch while we play with your new toys. The funny thing is, I'm very aware of all of these things and yet, I also know that the first thing I'll do when I come up those stairs is look for you.
Tonight your siblings set out their stockings. They jumped up and down with excitement and watched Christmas movies together. I sat here and watched them. All I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and never resurface, but I didn't. I'm sure my smile wasn't as broad as they'd like it. I know they recognized my pain. But what they couldn't possibly see was the war raging inside me. How could I be here watching this all unfold? I don't even like when all five of us are in a room together because it makes that missing piece of our puzzle feel so much bigger. Your piece completed us and without it, none of us seem to fit. So how could I possibly be part of something that is supposed to be full of such joy and happiness when my pieces are missing? But, still I sat there. I wanted to scream and punch something. When your sister handed me the picture she'd drawn of our family, I wanted to throw it back at her. She'd forgotten to draw you. When your Dad took your siblings to church and I sat home alone, I wanted to hate him. Why were they trying to make Christmas look the same when clearly that wasn't ever going to happen again? Why was I the only one who could see that? Why was I alone in my efforts of stopping the world from spinning?
All of these things went racing through my head, and yet, I never would have thrown that picture back at your sister. As crushed as I felt in that moment, some part of me knows her pain runs deep. And when Daddy suggested that she finish the picture by adding you, she said, in all of her adorable innocence, "Well, I didn't have time to draw the ornaments on the tree. And Eastie was supposed to be pulling the ornaments off. I'll draw him doing that. That's why I hung that yellow ornament so low on our tree this year. Remember how he always pulled that one off?" And sure enough, the bottom of the tree held a gold ornament with Santa on it. It's so low, it nearly touches the ground. I hadn't noticed it before, but it had been like that the whole time. This time I was the one who'd forgotten. She was right. That was the exact ornament you pulled off over and over again. Not only had she remembered, but she'd hung it low enough so that you could reach it.
I realized that as ugly as this life has become, we're still doing it together. Our methods of grieving are so very different, and yet there is no denying the invisible thread that holds us together. All six of us. Daddy and I will forget things that your siblings will carry forever. They'll need us to remind them to include their little brother at times, just like any other family. We each have our special memories with you that we keep tucked away for those private moments when we talk out loud to the sky. And tonight I'm asking for your strength and love to be with us tomorrow. Help us to make it through, one breath at a time. Look for us, Baby. We're always here. And I assure you that I'll never stop looking for you. Even if it has to be tomorrow, under that Christmas tree.
Although I guess this is technically our second Christmas without you, it feels like the first. I don't know if that's because of the horribly close proximity of your death to that date last year, or if every year will feel like the first. Maybe it's just that last year was my first Christmas without breath. This one is my first without YOU. I began to feel the hole widening when I realized that time was running out for buying gifts for your brother and sisters. I remember thinking to myself, Ok, as much as you hate every aspect of this holiday, at some point you're going to wish that your children had something to open on Christmas. And not because they NEED any of the things you're buying, but just because you don't want more things to be ripped from them. So, I did it. I bought things. I found items on shelves and put them in carts and brought them home to be wrapped. I did all of those things. That seemed like enough. That should have been enough. But of course it wasn't. I couldn't buy those gifts without getting yours too. I found the greatest gifts for you. You'd love them. And actually there were times when I was buying them that something felt lighter. Something was holding me up and allowing me to enjoy that process. Part of that was the love of a friend, and part of it was you. I know you chose your gifts. But the thing is, I also had to wrap them. The paper is covered in my tears because of course I knew that the little boy who would have loved them so much wouldn't be there to open them. I know you'll never see them. I know you won't race to the living room to beat your siblings to the tree. I know you won't cuddle with me on the couch while we play with your new toys. The funny thing is, I'm very aware of all of these things and yet, I also know that the first thing I'll do when I come up those stairs is look for you.
Tonight your siblings set out their stockings. They jumped up and down with excitement and watched Christmas movies together. I sat here and watched them. All I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and never resurface, but I didn't. I'm sure my smile wasn't as broad as they'd like it. I know they recognized my pain. But what they couldn't possibly see was the war raging inside me. How could I be here watching this all unfold? I don't even like when all five of us are in a room together because it makes that missing piece of our puzzle feel so much bigger. Your piece completed us and without it, none of us seem to fit. So how could I possibly be part of something that is supposed to be full of such joy and happiness when my pieces are missing? But, still I sat there. I wanted to scream and punch something. When your sister handed me the picture she'd drawn of our family, I wanted to throw it back at her. She'd forgotten to draw you. When your Dad took your siblings to church and I sat home alone, I wanted to hate him. Why were they trying to make Christmas look the same when clearly that wasn't ever going to happen again? Why was I the only one who could see that? Why was I alone in my efforts of stopping the world from spinning?
All of these things went racing through my head, and yet, I never would have thrown that picture back at your sister. As crushed as I felt in that moment, some part of me knows her pain runs deep. And when Daddy suggested that she finish the picture by adding you, she said, in all of her adorable innocence, "Well, I didn't have time to draw the ornaments on the tree. And Eastie was supposed to be pulling the ornaments off. I'll draw him doing that. That's why I hung that yellow ornament so low on our tree this year. Remember how he always pulled that one off?" And sure enough, the bottom of the tree held a gold ornament with Santa on it. It's so low, it nearly touches the ground. I hadn't noticed it before, but it had been like that the whole time. This time I was the one who'd forgotten. She was right. That was the exact ornament you pulled off over and over again. Not only had she remembered, but she'd hung it low enough so that you could reach it.
I realized that as ugly as this life has become, we're still doing it together. Our methods of grieving are so very different, and yet there is no denying the invisible thread that holds us together. All six of us. Daddy and I will forget things that your siblings will carry forever. They'll need us to remind them to include their little brother at times, just like any other family. We each have our special memories with you that we keep tucked away for those private moments when we talk out loud to the sky. And tonight I'm asking for your strength and love to be with us tomorrow. Help us to make it through, one breath at a time. Look for us, Baby. We're always here. And I assure you that I'll never stop looking for you. Even if it has to be tomorrow, under that Christmas tree.
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