Ok, so this is basically just an "I'm a labor and delivery nurse and these are some things I need to get off my chest" post. :) Let's start with how much I love my job. I mean, I have the absolute honor and privilege of being present at one of the most incredible moments in a person's life. How cool is that?!?! The gift of that is never lost on me. Having said that, there are a few things that might be helpful to those who don't have that privilege every day.
First of all, let's talk gestation. Listen, if you're not at least 38 weeks pregnant, don't even consider saying the words, "I just want this kid out." Here's the deal, most of us know exactly how you feel. We've been there, too. It is incredibly uncomfortable past 36 weeks. Everything is uncomfortable. Sleeping? That doesnt happen anymore. Breathing is difficult, and pretty much every movement brings with it some sort of joint pain (thanks hormones). And we can even sympathize with each of these aches and pains as many of us have indeed been 38, 39, 40 and even 41 (GASP) weeks pregnant. BUT, you know what we've also seen? We've seen babies born too early who, best case scenario, have to stay in the hospital much longer than the average stay so that their lungs can develop more fully, and so that they can start gaining weight. You think you're uncomfortable now? Live in a hospital for even just a week. You'll want to tear your hair out. And that's if things go well! We've also seen babies have to be shipped to another facility to receive the care they need to become strong enough to go home, and this is while mom sits in our hospital until she is deemed OK to be discharged to go be with her baby. Talk about a crappy situation, and one that we don't wish on anyone. I can't tell you how many times I've heard "my baby can come any day" when mom has just barely reached 37 weeks. Any ob nurse worth her salt will tell you that we often see 37 weekers that do WORSE than their younger counterparts. Why? Who knows, but it happens.
Obviously, there are exceptions to every rule and some babies must come before they're due. I get that. I'm not an idiot. I realize that there are some very specific reasons for that and that in those situations, delivery benefits outweigh the risks. But, if you are healthy, and your baby is doing well, let that thing bake as long as it can! It will be worth it in the end. I promise. And while we're on this subject, if you say, "my doctor says I won't make it to my due date" just go ahead and plan on being induced on or after that due date. The truth is that none of us know when a baby is coming. Babies come when they come. Let's leave that timeline up to the big dude, ok?
Alright, now let's talk about a few myths out there that seem to be accepted as fact.
First, "I lost my mucous plug. My baby is coming." Ummmmm, well, that's not exactly how it works. You need to be in actual labor before we can say that your baby is coming. And the mucous "plug" can shed different parts for several weeks. The truth is that we have all kinds of fun, disgusting substances surrounding that cervix of ours and the closer we get to delivery, the more it comes out. Is it gross? Sure. But does it mean a child is about to wave at you from your vagina? Nope. And just for the record, if you think you've lost your mucous plug, I don't need to see it. I promise I believe you. Please don't bring it to me in the hospital in a plastic container. (Yes...this has happened)
While we're on the subject of yucky substances coming out of places you think they shouldn't, let's talk about water breaking. It's actually more rare for water to break on its own. The doctor usually has to do that for you during labor. However, it does happen. And this is actually one area where I encourage patients to come in and get it checked out. The truth is, not all water breaking looks like an epic flood. Sometimes it just slowly trickles out. And how are you supposed to know if it's fluid or urine? Honestly, it's very difficult to know. So, just let us help you figure that out. Even experienced nurses and doctors who are pregnant wonder the same thing at times. And could you have totally just unknowingly pissed yourself? Sure. But why not know for sure? If you're ruptured (water broken) for too long before delivery, you risk infection to your baby. And you know what? If you did, indeed, pee yourself, that's OK too. Any woman who claims not to have done that at least once at the end of pregnancy is just lying.
How about this one? "My baby hasn't dropped yet." Girl, that's not real. Ok, can a kid settle lower into the pelvis as birth becomes more imminent, sure. But if you don't look like you're about to literally crap a bowling ball, don't sweat it. If you've had more than one child (multip), that thing can sit in your tonsils until about 2 seconds before delivery and then come flying down like it's being shot out of a cannon. We don't care where that kid is hiding. As long as it's head down and you're in actual labor, we can work with that.
Now let's talk breastmilk. Does everyone breastfeed? No, of course not. And I'm not going home with you, so you can feed that baby any way you'd like! Formula is not poison. However, if you have any interest at all in breastfeeding, I will work with you until we're both exhausted. I believe in it. I respect it. And I do believe it's worth trying. So, there are lots of fears surrounding breastfeeding, including "not having any milk". You have milk. You do. And I can show immediately after birth that this is true. It's not the thin white stuff that you're used to, but it's there. In fact, it's better!! It's thick, liquid gold. The truth is, a good breastfeed lasts about 15-20 minutes and has periods of sucking/swallowing that alternate with periods of rest. The kid just got here! Let's give him a minute to figure out this suck/swallow/breathe thing. He'll get there. Initially he's only going to swallow once per every 9-10 sucks. Why? Because that first (awesome) stuff is colostrum and it is THICK! So, don't stress if your kid isn't a hoover, the second we hook him up to the trough. Sometimes it takes time. Usually the initial feeding ROCKS, and then they kind of appear to lose interest and want to sleep. But think about what just happened to them. Their heads just got squeezed out of something orginally the size of a grape. Let's maybe be OK with them taking a nap or two...not to mention, that kiddo is fed until that cord is cut and then it will use its own glycogen stores for the next 12 hours or so. All good here. Be patient. We can help.
Also, "I can't breastfeed because my milk hasn't come in." Ok, this isn't a "thing". It takes about 4-5 days for the milk to start changing from colostrum to that thinner substance we're more accustomed to. But that doesn't mean that you don't have milk. In fact, right now you have the good stuff! So again, patience, my friend. We'll get there. (Again, obviously there are exceptions to every rule and breastfeeding isn't always possible or even just not the best fit for everyone).
Now let's move on to epidurals. They're not the devil. They're not a white flag you wave as you "give up" or "give in". They can be totally awesome! And actually beneficial to the labor process for several reasons. Having said that, I love laboring with someone who doesn't want one. It challenges my abilities as a labor nurse and I enjoy that. I just never want people to feel like they've failed if they've gotten one. You're bringing a human life into the world, hopefully to love and care for it in the best way you know how. If that's your intent, you can't fail. So, epidural or no epidural, just be proud of what your incredible womanly body is capable of doing. It's pretty damn amazing either way.
I could wrote an entire book on this subject, but these are just a few of the things I see and hear often. I do love my job. I truly believe it's what I was born to do, and I'm so grateful for the privilege of getting to fulfill that dream. So whether you're a first time mom or this is your 10th kid, I look forward to meeting you and cultivating that unique relationship that only a patient and nurse can have. Remember there are several tests we can do during that process, including one that let's me know your water broke....just don't ask me to smell your underwear... ;)
Monday, January 30, 2017
Sunday, January 29, 2017
I Miss Him
I miss him. My god, I miss him. I miss him so much it hurts. It actually physically burns in my chest. I miss the smell of him, the weight of him in my arms, the softness of that beautifully, crazy hair. Today is not his birthday. It's not the anniversary of the day he left me. It's not significant in any way except that it's a day that he's supposed to be here. I'm his mother and he's supposed to have outlived me. That's how this works, right? I mean, that's what everyone assumes anyway. Well, it's what you assume if you've never lost a child. If you have, you no longer carry the luxury of assumption.
I want him back. I understand that he's taught me many important lessons, none of which I could have learned, had he stayed here with me. He's opened my heart more. He's made me more patient, more kind, more open. And I'm a better person because he lived. But you know what? Despite all of that goodness, the truth is that it's just bullshit that he isn't here. I watched some videos today. Those are like deceptive gifts in beautiful paper, but when opened contain knives. They cut quickly and deeply. But you can't turn away. Because there he is. Right there on the screen. It's his laugh. It's his tilt of the head.
I want him back here with me. I want to complain about the messes he's making. I want to whine about being hospitalized again. I want to throw a tantrum over having to pack my things yet again only to be fighting a losing battle.
And we fought.
God, we fought so hard. My whole family fought, but sometimes it felt like it was he and I against the world. And I was naive enough at the time to think that if I loved enough and fought enough and PRAYED enough that it would save him. That it would, indeed, BE enough.
It wasn't. He's not here.
He's not here in the way I want him to be. No, I'm not content with him being an angel. I'm not content with him guiding me from some place I can't see. I want him here. I want gooey, sticky, baby kisses and sleepless nights again.
I'm angry and I'm sad. I'm hurt and I'm confused. I'm grieving and I'm broken. And today hurts a little more than yesterday and tomorrow will hurt further still. Because each day I move forward is one day further from that last moment I held him.
I'm surviving, sure. And I'm grateful for so many things in my life, but all of that gets to live alongside this constant pain. This is a forever sentence. I will feel this ache with my last breath. And there are days that I wonder if that breath could ever come fast enough.
I want him back. I understand that he's taught me many important lessons, none of which I could have learned, had he stayed here with me. He's opened my heart more. He's made me more patient, more kind, more open. And I'm a better person because he lived. But you know what? Despite all of that goodness, the truth is that it's just bullshit that he isn't here. I watched some videos today. Those are like deceptive gifts in beautiful paper, but when opened contain knives. They cut quickly and deeply. But you can't turn away. Because there he is. Right there on the screen. It's his laugh. It's his tilt of the head.
I want him back here with me. I want to complain about the messes he's making. I want to whine about being hospitalized again. I want to throw a tantrum over having to pack my things yet again only to be fighting a losing battle.
And we fought.
God, we fought so hard. My whole family fought, but sometimes it felt like it was he and I against the world. And I was naive enough at the time to think that if I loved enough and fought enough and PRAYED enough that it would save him. That it would, indeed, BE enough.
It wasn't. He's not here.
He's not here in the way I want him to be. No, I'm not content with him being an angel. I'm not content with him guiding me from some place I can't see. I want him here. I want gooey, sticky, baby kisses and sleepless nights again.
I'm angry and I'm sad. I'm hurt and I'm confused. I'm grieving and I'm broken. And today hurts a little more than yesterday and tomorrow will hurt further still. Because each day I move forward is one day further from that last moment I held him.
I'm surviving, sure. And I'm grateful for so many things in my life, but all of that gets to live alongside this constant pain. This is a forever sentence. I will feel this ache with my last breath. And there are days that I wonder if that breath could ever come fast enough.
Sunday, November 27, 2016
Sure Momma, Sure
He was the most agreeable little boy, my Logan. He used to toddle around, literally agreeing with everything I said...."sure, Momma, sure!" His little voice was always so high-pitched and excited. Somewhere along the way, I blinked and that sweet, blonde baby turned 13. His voice is deeper, his jokes are awful, and his cologne is abundant...
He's recently become too cool for some family outings. He still goes, but he brings an ipod to prove his disinterest in happenings around him. So, I wasn't overly surprised when I met my family at the Christmas Tree farm on the day after Thanksgiving and was told by my daughter that Logan was still sitting in the van.
"Logan is being a butt, and won't come out to help us look for the tree..."
So I trudged up the hill to find him, my legs feeling like they weighed 100 pounds each. I was "trying" this time. I have been absent for the holidays the past four years and I was really trying to be present for these few moments while we found a tree. But it's a soul-crushing experience for me. Still, I was trying, so I made my way to the van to drag my tween from his hiding spot.
I looked in the window and saw him hunched around his ipod, hoodie pulled up over his head, intent on some sort of cyber-world domination, no doubt. But then he caught me looking at him and his face just fell. I opened the door and he scooted over as far as he could in the passenger seat and I sat next to him. And then, this child who is too cool, who is taller than me, climbed into my lap, laid his head on my shoulder and sobbed.
I said nothing. I just held him as his shoulders heaved beneath my hands. He doesn't like to talk about it, so we didn't in that moment, but we didn't have to. I knew. My heart was screaming too. Words were unnecessary.
He decided to ride back home with me while Jeff and the girls hauled the tree home in the van. I waited for him to talk if he wanted to, expecting nothing. We rode in silence for awhile and then...
"He should be here, Mom."
"Yes, he should be. And I'm so incredibly sorry that he's not."
"When we were waiting for you to get here, Addi kept saying, 'we have to wait for Mom to get here'...I didn't say anything, but in my head I was screaming, 'SHE'S NOT THE ONLY ONE MISSING!!'"
In that moment, as the tears spilled over, he wasn't just my little boy. He wasn't my annoying tween. He was a fellow broken heart. He knew grief. He knew it well, and I'd felt alone for entirely too long. So I thanked him. I thanked him for sharing that, for saying what my heart was screaming, for being brave enough to admit to his pain. And because he'd shared, I did too. I told him that I'm trying. That every day feels like Christmas Tree day for me. And that although I'm eternally grateful for the moments we have as a family, that I forever feel that missing piece...
"Have you noticed that we don't take family pictures anymore? It's not because I don't want them. It's because I can't. My whole family isn't here. And that's hard for some people in our family. It's hard for them to understand why I can't. And that's ok. They can't understand. And I'm glad they can't. It just doesn't change how I feel."
"I can understand that, Mom. It makes sense to me. We don't have to do them."
I thanked him again. And again and again. I thanked him for sharing and I thanked him for making me feel less lonely and I thanked him for making the tree process better for me. Without him there, it seemed as though Jeff and I were just taking the girls to get it. Neither of the boys were participating, and somehow that makes breathing easier. So, because of his bravery, and his ability to allow himself to truly feel, he'd saved me. That's how we're doing this. We aren't doing it "right." We aren't always making the best decisions, and we certainly aren't doing anything that makes sense to anyone else. But we're doing it. We're breaking when we need to, and we're saving one another when we can.
He may be taller than me. He may be too cool. But all I saw that day, as he lay in my lap, pouring his heart out was my little blonde baby telling me that what I'm feeling is ok....
"Sure, Momma, sure..."
He's recently become too cool for some family outings. He still goes, but he brings an ipod to prove his disinterest in happenings around him. So, I wasn't overly surprised when I met my family at the Christmas Tree farm on the day after Thanksgiving and was told by my daughter that Logan was still sitting in the van.
"Logan is being a butt, and won't come out to help us look for the tree..."
So I trudged up the hill to find him, my legs feeling like they weighed 100 pounds each. I was "trying" this time. I have been absent for the holidays the past four years and I was really trying to be present for these few moments while we found a tree. But it's a soul-crushing experience for me. Still, I was trying, so I made my way to the van to drag my tween from his hiding spot.
I looked in the window and saw him hunched around his ipod, hoodie pulled up over his head, intent on some sort of cyber-world domination, no doubt. But then he caught me looking at him and his face just fell. I opened the door and he scooted over as far as he could in the passenger seat and I sat next to him. And then, this child who is too cool, who is taller than me, climbed into my lap, laid his head on my shoulder and sobbed.
I said nothing. I just held him as his shoulders heaved beneath my hands. He doesn't like to talk about it, so we didn't in that moment, but we didn't have to. I knew. My heart was screaming too. Words were unnecessary.
He decided to ride back home with me while Jeff and the girls hauled the tree home in the van. I waited for him to talk if he wanted to, expecting nothing. We rode in silence for awhile and then...
"He should be here, Mom."
"Yes, he should be. And I'm so incredibly sorry that he's not."
"When we were waiting for you to get here, Addi kept saying, 'we have to wait for Mom to get here'...I didn't say anything, but in my head I was screaming, 'SHE'S NOT THE ONLY ONE MISSING!!'"
In that moment, as the tears spilled over, he wasn't just my little boy. He wasn't my annoying tween. He was a fellow broken heart. He knew grief. He knew it well, and I'd felt alone for entirely too long. So I thanked him. I thanked him for sharing that, for saying what my heart was screaming, for being brave enough to admit to his pain. And because he'd shared, I did too. I told him that I'm trying. That every day feels like Christmas Tree day for me. And that although I'm eternally grateful for the moments we have as a family, that I forever feel that missing piece...
"Have you noticed that we don't take family pictures anymore? It's not because I don't want them. It's because I can't. My whole family isn't here. And that's hard for some people in our family. It's hard for them to understand why I can't. And that's ok. They can't understand. And I'm glad they can't. It just doesn't change how I feel."
"I can understand that, Mom. It makes sense to me. We don't have to do them."
I thanked him again. And again and again. I thanked him for sharing and I thanked him for making me feel less lonely and I thanked him for making the tree process better for me. Without him there, it seemed as though Jeff and I were just taking the girls to get it. Neither of the boys were participating, and somehow that makes breathing easier. So, because of his bravery, and his ability to allow himself to truly feel, he'd saved me. That's how we're doing this. We aren't doing it "right." We aren't always making the best decisions, and we certainly aren't doing anything that makes sense to anyone else. But we're doing it. We're breaking when we need to, and we're saving one another when we can.
He may be taller than me. He may be too cool. But all I saw that day, as he lay in my lap, pouring his heart out was my little blonde baby telling me that what I'm feeling is ok....
"Sure, Momma, sure..."
Saturday, November 19, 2016
The Grief That Stole Christmas
Well, here we are...another holiday season. These damn things just keep coming. I go through so many emotions this time of year. I'm currently pissed. And of course, we all know that anger actually comes from a place of hurt. And that it does...grief HURTS. I can't describe the pain of "preparing" for yet another holiday season without my son. He'd be six now. What should I be finding to put under the tree for a six year old? But more specifically, what would MY six year old want this year?
My job is hard right now. It's difficult to hear the excitement of families as they welcome new babies into their homes for the holiday season. It's a gift to witness it, and a pain I can't describe all at the same time. So often I turn to anger during this time of year. It's easier than breaking, because once I do there will be no going back. I have recognized that my anger/hurt/desire to not participate in life right now has been difficult on some of my co-workers. I'm sorry for that, and I wish I could handle this differently, but I can't .
I'm so UNBELIEVABLY tired of living in a world without him. I don't want to do it anymore. That statement freaks people out and usually illicits some sort of side-long, uncertain glance and complete silence. Don't mistake my pain and misery for wanting to end my life. That's not what I want. I just don't want to keep living here. There is a distinct difference between the two. And I'm almost certain that if you've experienced this kind of loss, you'll feel the same. It's not such a difficult concept, really. You know where your children are, right? You know who their friends are, where their interests lie, etc. Even if they don't live in your house, you visit them. And why? Because you miss them, but also because you want to see their living space You want to see where they lay their head at night. That makes sense. I understand that. I just want the same thing.
The idea of stages of grief often make me laugh. The thought of having "stages" suggests a linear movement, and that just isn't the way this works. There have been times in the last year or so that I've been actually thriving despite the intense pain of grief that never leaves me. I'm grateful for those times, but they can't last forever. Lately, I am feeling the immense pull of debilitating grief. I'm so angry and so incredibly hurt that I can't concentrate on the simplest of tasks. I just can't. It doesn't matter how hard I try to push it down, it cannot be denied. I'm turning inside myself, and I can feel it. My insides hurt. My skin is all that's holding me together, and even that skin feels foreign. While I may carry on a conversation outwardly, inside I am screaming. Constantly.
I recently had a conversation with a fellow broken mother about the agony that is our existence. We were discussing the idea of "gratitude" in terms of life now. She quite correctly pointed out that people who grieve tend to feel some sort of obligation to prove gratitude despite their pain. And it's true. There seems to be some sort of unspoken rule that if we mention our pain, we must also mention our gratitude. That's exhausting. And the truth is, I know very few people who show gratitude for daily life as intensely as that of someone whose heart is irreparably broken. She is grateful. I am grateful. Every. Single. Day. But sometimes I'm also pissed. I have great difficulty with someone describing a grieving mother as someone who is "doing really well!" It's said with such admiration and excitement sometimes that it honestly makes it difficult for me not to punch them. And it's not because I want anyone to hurt like this. I certainly do not. But, I guess I'm writing to those of us who aren't ok. I'm writing to those of us who are sometimes so angry that we feel as though we could spontaneously combust at any moment. To those whose chests burn like fire at the thought of having to hang stockings and buy gifts for a day that will forever feel empty.
The holidays are here, and so I'll die again, just like last year and much like I anticipate I will do every year until I no longer have to endure it. I ask for patience from those around me, but I definitely don't expect it. I ask for understanding but am fully aware of some people's inability to give it. I am sorry for my inability to listen to Christmas music without feeling anger. I'm sorry for my attitude that is in direct opposition to social norms during this season. But I'm mostly sorry that I have to do this again.
My job is hard right now. It's difficult to hear the excitement of families as they welcome new babies into their homes for the holiday season. It's a gift to witness it, and a pain I can't describe all at the same time. So often I turn to anger during this time of year. It's easier than breaking, because once I do there will be no going back. I have recognized that my anger/hurt/desire to not participate in life right now has been difficult on some of my co-workers. I'm sorry for that, and I wish I could handle this differently, but I can't .
I'm so UNBELIEVABLY tired of living in a world without him. I don't want to do it anymore. That statement freaks people out and usually illicits some sort of side-long, uncertain glance and complete silence. Don't mistake my pain and misery for wanting to end my life. That's not what I want. I just don't want to keep living here. There is a distinct difference between the two. And I'm almost certain that if you've experienced this kind of loss, you'll feel the same. It's not such a difficult concept, really. You know where your children are, right? You know who their friends are, where their interests lie, etc. Even if they don't live in your house, you visit them. And why? Because you miss them, but also because you want to see their living space You want to see where they lay their head at night. That makes sense. I understand that. I just want the same thing.
The idea of stages of grief often make me laugh. The thought of having "stages" suggests a linear movement, and that just isn't the way this works. There have been times in the last year or so that I've been actually thriving despite the intense pain of grief that never leaves me. I'm grateful for those times, but they can't last forever. Lately, I am feeling the immense pull of debilitating grief. I'm so angry and so incredibly hurt that I can't concentrate on the simplest of tasks. I just can't. It doesn't matter how hard I try to push it down, it cannot be denied. I'm turning inside myself, and I can feel it. My insides hurt. My skin is all that's holding me together, and even that skin feels foreign. While I may carry on a conversation outwardly, inside I am screaming. Constantly.
I recently had a conversation with a fellow broken mother about the agony that is our existence. We were discussing the idea of "gratitude" in terms of life now. She quite correctly pointed out that people who grieve tend to feel some sort of obligation to prove gratitude despite their pain. And it's true. There seems to be some sort of unspoken rule that if we mention our pain, we must also mention our gratitude. That's exhausting. And the truth is, I know very few people who show gratitude for daily life as intensely as that of someone whose heart is irreparably broken. She is grateful. I am grateful. Every. Single. Day. But sometimes I'm also pissed. I have great difficulty with someone describing a grieving mother as someone who is "doing really well!" It's said with such admiration and excitement sometimes that it honestly makes it difficult for me not to punch them. And it's not because I want anyone to hurt like this. I certainly do not. But, I guess I'm writing to those of us who aren't ok. I'm writing to those of us who are sometimes so angry that we feel as though we could spontaneously combust at any moment. To those whose chests burn like fire at the thought of having to hang stockings and buy gifts for a day that will forever feel empty.
The holidays are here, and so I'll die again, just like last year and much like I anticipate I will do every year until I no longer have to endure it. I ask for patience from those around me, but I definitely don't expect it. I ask for understanding but am fully aware of some people's inability to give it. I am sorry for my inability to listen to Christmas music without feeling anger. I'm sorry for my attitude that is in direct opposition to social norms during this season. But I'm mostly sorry that I have to do this again.
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
Empty Nesters
I've become accustomed to tears. They happen often. Sometimes I'm ready and I know they're coming, and sometimes I'm not. What has surprised me the most throughout this grief process is actually my inability to cry about certain things. Or maybe not cry, specifically, but more my inability to worry/feel badly about certain life situations. I know that this is because the part of me that died that day took this possibility from me.
It is difficult for me to be excited about future events. As a parent, before the loss of a child, I looked forward to those milestone moments that I think we all do. Graduations, marriages, grandchildren. That's not true for me anymore. To me, those are things that highlight what is missing. I know to many, this seems like a very negative way to look at life, but I truly don't feel that way. I just don't dream about those days the way I once did. And in some ways, that makes it easier to focus on accomplishing goals for myself. Losing the illusion of control over those future events for my children has given me the freedom to simply watch them today. Enjoy them today. I honestly believe that this moment right now is all we have. And I believe that thinking that and "knowing" it are two entirely different things.
While this part of my new existence can be helpful in some ways, it also makes it difficult to be my friend at times. I have recently experienced many friends/coworkers battling the empty nest. Whether they are in the beginning stages of that phase of life or are trying to soak up every drop of that last year for their high school senior, the emotions they feel are palpable. I can't get there. I just can't. But, the point of talking about this is not to say that their feelings are "wrong". In fact, it's quite the opposite. I'm so grateful that so many experience those emotions. The alternative to that isn't worth the price you pay. I also want to be abundantly clear that this is in no way saying that you should be "grateful for every moment". People can't live that way. I understand that. What I'm saying, is that when you're experiencing some of these particular emotions, find your people. Talk to them about it, and mourn together. You're grieving too. In a different way, certainly, but your grief matters too. Find your friends, your fellow empty nesters. But that cannot be me. I'm not likely to ever share that view and I do not want to negate the importance of your pain. Know that I'm sorry for the pull on your heart, but grateful for it at the same time.
This is similar to most of the personality changes that come with grief. It hurts family members when I can't connect to their children, my nieces and nephews, the way they wish that I would. It's difficult for them to understand why I distance myself. And honestly, I understand their frustration and their pain. I just can't change it. I'm new. I'm different. Part of me is gone. Part of any grieving parent is gone. You can't retrieve them, they can't even do it themselves. And truth be told...they wouldn't want to even if they could...
It is difficult for me to be excited about future events. As a parent, before the loss of a child, I looked forward to those milestone moments that I think we all do. Graduations, marriages, grandchildren. That's not true for me anymore. To me, those are things that highlight what is missing. I know to many, this seems like a very negative way to look at life, but I truly don't feel that way. I just don't dream about those days the way I once did. And in some ways, that makes it easier to focus on accomplishing goals for myself. Losing the illusion of control over those future events for my children has given me the freedom to simply watch them today. Enjoy them today. I honestly believe that this moment right now is all we have. And I believe that thinking that and "knowing" it are two entirely different things.
While this part of my new existence can be helpful in some ways, it also makes it difficult to be my friend at times. I have recently experienced many friends/coworkers battling the empty nest. Whether they are in the beginning stages of that phase of life or are trying to soak up every drop of that last year for their high school senior, the emotions they feel are palpable. I can't get there. I just can't. But, the point of talking about this is not to say that their feelings are "wrong". In fact, it's quite the opposite. I'm so grateful that so many experience those emotions. The alternative to that isn't worth the price you pay. I also want to be abundantly clear that this is in no way saying that you should be "grateful for every moment". People can't live that way. I understand that. What I'm saying, is that when you're experiencing some of these particular emotions, find your people. Talk to them about it, and mourn together. You're grieving too. In a different way, certainly, but your grief matters too. Find your friends, your fellow empty nesters. But that cannot be me. I'm not likely to ever share that view and I do not want to negate the importance of your pain. Know that I'm sorry for the pull on your heart, but grateful for it at the same time.
This is similar to most of the personality changes that come with grief. It hurts family members when I can't connect to their children, my nieces and nephews, the way they wish that I would. It's difficult for them to understand why I distance myself. And honestly, I understand their frustration and their pain. I just can't change it. I'm new. I'm different. Part of me is gone. Part of any grieving parent is gone. You can't retrieve them, they can't even do it themselves. And truth be told...they wouldn't want to even if they could...
Monday, August 15, 2016
Don't Have to Be Superman
I've become a pretty big fan of Rachel Platten lately. So many of her songs describe, quite accurately, the relationships I have with a few very special people. I heard a new one today, and I fought tears as I listened. It's the perfect description of the man in my life, my partner, my husband.
We've had our share of roller coasters throughout our life together. No one thinks it's a good idea when you start dating your teacher at age 18. But it works. So, what should have been a rocky start was kind of one of the most beautiful times of my life. Losing our son took difficult to a whole new level. When you lose a child, your tunnel of grief prohibits you from truly "seeing" anyone else. Or at least that's the way it's been for me.
But not Jeff...that's not how he operates. Grief meant he would open himself up like a giant umbrella, sheltering everyone else around him from experiencing more pain. He poured himself into our children, our friends, our families, making sure that everyone else was "ok". All while his wife was curled in a ball, wishing that the world would stop spinning, and that death would come quickly.
I'm not saying that either of us have done it "correctly". It's just how our grief happens to work. And thankfully it did, because I'm always saying that relationships will forever be 70%/30%, you just never know who's going to be taking the 70% for the time being. And I honestly can't tell you which was which there in the beginning. Was it Jeff who took the 70, because he "pushed through" with normal life while I crumbled? Or was it me? Was it the person who felt all things deeply and openly, and sometimes loudly? I don't know. What I do know is that whatever we've done in the past 3 years has been the only way we could have done it. It's our journey and no one else's. We've had to do things our way.
I'll never understand how Jeff functioned the way he did, for as long as he did. But I'm grateful. I watched him from under my blankets as I curled inside myself and I saw him do what he needed to do to keep breathing.
Neither of us are heroes. Neither of us could begin to counsel someone on how to "do" marriage after child loss. I'm not even sure we ARE doing it some days. Sometimes we'rejust existing. But somewhere in the middle of the darkness, we reached out and have found each other. We know one another better now than ever before. I take no credit for that, because I truly believe that life just happens and you roll with what comes. I'm grateful that we rolled into one another once again.
We're not always on the same page, of course. And sometimes I bring out parts of him that he'd rather I left alone! But, despite our differences, we're surviving. One moment at a time. We're still reaching and sometimes finding one another, other times not so much. But we're reaching.
Our current life situation, involving the potential adoption of a child/children from Haiti, has stretched us even further. Somehow, in their combined brokenness, our hearts have grown bigger. We have our son to thank for that. And it is because of him that we have been able to maintain our 70%/30%. And I'm ready to take my turn. Whether that means I'm 70, or 30...I'm ready....You Don't Have to Be Superman.
If I could break away
half of all your pain
I'd take the worst of it and carry you like you carry me
You say that you're alright
when tears are in your eyes
We're strong enough for this and I need you
It's okay that you need me
So put your armor on the ground tonight
'Cause everyone's got to come down sometime
You don't have to be Superman
You don't have to be Superman
You don't have to hold the world in your hands
You've already shown me that you can
Don't have to be Superman
I know I've been gone too much
We talk about me too much
I'm selfish and distracted
But I'm here, I'm here and I'm listening
And it's just you and me and these four walls
And we are only human after all
You don't have to be Superman
You don't have to be Superman
You don't have to hold the world in your hands
You've already shown me that you can
Don't have to be Superman
And oh
You rest your eyes now, take my hand
Even heroes fall down now and then
You can let it go
You don't have to be Superman
You don't have to be Superman
You don't have to hold the world in your hands
You've already shown me that you can
Don't have to be Superman
You don't have to be Superman
-Rachel Platten
We've had our share of roller coasters throughout our life together. No one thinks it's a good idea when you start dating your teacher at age 18. But it works. So, what should have been a rocky start was kind of one of the most beautiful times of my life. Losing our son took difficult to a whole new level. When you lose a child, your tunnel of grief prohibits you from truly "seeing" anyone else. Or at least that's the way it's been for me.
But not Jeff...that's not how he operates. Grief meant he would open himself up like a giant umbrella, sheltering everyone else around him from experiencing more pain. He poured himself into our children, our friends, our families, making sure that everyone else was "ok". All while his wife was curled in a ball, wishing that the world would stop spinning, and that death would come quickly.
I'm not saying that either of us have done it "correctly". It's just how our grief happens to work. And thankfully it did, because I'm always saying that relationships will forever be 70%/30%, you just never know who's going to be taking the 70% for the time being. And I honestly can't tell you which was which there in the beginning. Was it Jeff who took the 70, because he "pushed through" with normal life while I crumbled? Or was it me? Was it the person who felt all things deeply and openly, and sometimes loudly? I don't know. What I do know is that whatever we've done in the past 3 years has been the only way we could have done it. It's our journey and no one else's. We've had to do things our way.
I'll never understand how Jeff functioned the way he did, for as long as he did. But I'm grateful. I watched him from under my blankets as I curled inside myself and I saw him do what he needed to do to keep breathing.
Neither of us are heroes. Neither of us could begin to counsel someone on how to "do" marriage after child loss. I'm not even sure we ARE doing it some days. Sometimes we'rejust existing. But somewhere in the middle of the darkness, we reached out and have found each other. We know one another better now than ever before. I take no credit for that, because I truly believe that life just happens and you roll with what comes. I'm grateful that we rolled into one another once again.
We're not always on the same page, of course. And sometimes I bring out parts of him that he'd rather I left alone! But, despite our differences, we're surviving. One moment at a time. We're still reaching and sometimes finding one another, other times not so much. But we're reaching.
Our current life situation, involving the potential adoption of a child/children from Haiti, has stretched us even further. Somehow, in their combined brokenness, our hearts have grown bigger. We have our son to thank for that. And it is because of him that we have been able to maintain our 70%/30%. And I'm ready to take my turn. Whether that means I'm 70, or 30...I'm ready....You Don't Have to Be Superman.
If I could break away
half of all your pain
I'd take the worst of it and carry you like you carry me
You say that you're alright
when tears are in your eyes
We're strong enough for this and I need you
It's okay that you need me
So put your armor on the ground tonight
'Cause everyone's got to come down sometime
You don't have to be Superman
You don't have to be Superman
You don't have to hold the world in your hands
You've already shown me that you can
Don't have to be Superman
I know I've been gone too much
We talk about me too much
I'm selfish and distracted
But I'm here, I'm here and I'm listening
And it's just you and me and these four walls
And we are only human after all
You don't have to be Superman
You don't have to be Superman
You don't have to hold the world in your hands
You've already shown me that you can
Don't have to be Superman
And oh
You rest your eyes now, take my hand
Even heroes fall down now and then
You can let it go
You don't have to be Superman
You don't have to be Superman
You don't have to hold the world in your hands
You've already shown me that you can
Don't have to be Superman
You don't have to be Superman
-Rachel Platten
Sunday, May 8, 2016
Mother's Day 2016
It's Mother's Day again. I guess it's just going to keep coming. On the bright side, it's beautiful outside right now, and as I sit here on the wall of my garden and write, I'm struck by the fact that if I weren't so broken, this wall I sit on wouldn't be here. Instead of flowers, there would be deep belly giggles. Instead of frogs and superman lawn ornaments there would be curly hair and sticky kisses. But there are flowers. There are lawn ornaments. And they are beautiful.
For the past three Mother's Days I have been holed up in my room, under covers, fighting the intense burn in my chest. Today I'm outside enjoying the breeze and listening to the chimes in my E's garden. And that isn't "strength" or something I've done alone. It is the collective love I've received today from friends and family who know my pain and love me enough to share in it on their own special day. To my sweet, soul sister who holds me and quite literally reminds me to "breathe" on a daily basis, I love you for saving me. To my beautiful friend who became a mother by chance this year, your capacity to create that "Mom space" in your heart has been breathtaking to watch. To the countless women who "mother" my children when I can't, how can I repay you?
Although today is mixed with emotions, I'm grateful for every one of them. The burn in my chest is a reminder of the intense love I continue to feel for my boy in heaven. My rubber "best friend" bracelet given to me by my 11 year old daughter, makes my heart smile and I cherish these moments that she thinks of me in that way.
I never knew just how far a Mom heart could stretch. But today, as I sit here in this beautiful garden that I would gladly give back, I recognize the capacity to love this much as a gift from my son. My mom heart is here, in the home run grin from the boy who now looks me in the eye. It is here in the contagious giggle of my eight year old. It is here in the ornery sarcasm of my Noodle (no idea where she gets that). But my mom heart is also in heaven, and the ability to stretch that far has been a long and difficult process, but it's there. And it has paved the way for stretching across the world, as today I hold my Haitian baby/babies in my heart. I'm amazed at my attachment there already. And I'm hopeful that my NEXT mother's day will not only fill my heart, but also my arms. Each day is one day closer, my little ones. Mommy is waiting for you!
For the past three Mother's Days I have been holed up in my room, under covers, fighting the intense burn in my chest. Today I'm outside enjoying the breeze and listening to the chimes in my E's garden. And that isn't "strength" or something I've done alone. It is the collective love I've received today from friends and family who know my pain and love me enough to share in it on their own special day. To my sweet, soul sister who holds me and quite literally reminds me to "breathe" on a daily basis, I love you for saving me. To my beautiful friend who became a mother by chance this year, your capacity to create that "Mom space" in your heart has been breathtaking to watch. To the countless women who "mother" my children when I can't, how can I repay you?
Although today is mixed with emotions, I'm grateful for every one of them. The burn in my chest is a reminder of the intense love I continue to feel for my boy in heaven. My rubber "best friend" bracelet given to me by my 11 year old daughter, makes my heart smile and I cherish these moments that she thinks of me in that way.
I never knew just how far a Mom heart could stretch. But today, as I sit here in this beautiful garden that I would gladly give back, I recognize the capacity to love this much as a gift from my son. My mom heart is here, in the home run grin from the boy who now looks me in the eye. It is here in the contagious giggle of my eight year old. It is here in the ornery sarcasm of my Noodle (no idea where she gets that). But my mom heart is also in heaven, and the ability to stretch that far has been a long and difficult process, but it's there. And it has paved the way for stretching across the world, as today I hold my Haitian baby/babies in my heart. I'm amazed at my attachment there already. And I'm hopeful that my NEXT mother's day will not only fill my heart, but also my arms. Each day is one day closer, my little ones. Mommy is waiting for you!
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