Right Where I am: 7 years, 9 months, 2 weeks and 3 years, 5 months and 2 weeks
June 8, 2013 at 12:44 am | Posted in life after loss, Love | 10 CommentsTags: child loss, death of a baby, grief, new not so normal, perspective, thoughts
I am, once again, joining still life with circles for right where I am. Angie started this project 2 years ago. She asked other bereaved parents to write about where they are in their grief, kind of like “a map on the road of grief.”
I am right here, 7 years, 9 months, 2 weeks since Jake died. This week I have been working in the office I returned to after my “maternity” leave with Jake. I remember walking down the halls looking for places I could duck into so that others walking by me would not see my tears. This week there were no tears. Seven years ago, I would start my sentences unsure that I could follow my own thoughts long enough to complete them. This week I know I can finish my conversations without being overtaken by missing my baby boy. The memories of Jake are safely tucked away as I continue to live my life. It is exhausting.
I am also 3 years, 5 months and 2 weeks since Sawyer died. His unknown cause of death does not preoccupy my every waking moment but I am haunted by the emptiness. My inability to protect yet another son from death still makes me want to scream (perhaps not as loudly as in year one or two). I try to stay present and not let my mind wander to the 3-year-old boy who I will never know. I do not always succeed.
I do not think of the miscarriage. There is no point.
I try to live, hope and take care of my living children. However, there is another part of me who wants to be with all of her children.
I am right here.
Missing you on Mother’s Day
May 12, 2013 at 9:14 am | Posted in Grief, Jake, Love, Sawyer | 8 CommentsTags: child loss, gratitude, grief, life after loss, mother's day, new not so normal, thoughts
Dear Jake and Sawyer,
There is not a day that I do not think of you both. I know that you are both miracles. I was lucky enough to hold you both even for just a moment. I am thankful for the time that I spent with you. I just wish there were more moments. My arms ache to hold you.
I miss you every day. Some days are just harder. Mother’s Day is one of those days. Although the logical part of me knows that this is just a hallmark holiday. The original creator, Anna Jarvis, herself was even disappointed by how commercialized the day had become.
May 5th was International Bereaved Mother’s Day. I have to confess I try not to think about these days. It is not too hard to do in May. Especially now that your brother and sister are in kindergarten. The end of the year seems to bring extra activities that make it even easier to forget about the date.
I love you both to the moon and back. I will look for you in my dreams.
I know that this day is hard for so many. There are the other mothers in the club whose arms will also ache to hold their children. There are others who are missing their mothers and grandmothers. I send hope and hugs to you all.
Maybe
January 24, 2013 at 11:48 pm | Posted in after death?, Grief, life lessons, normal? | 5 CommentsTags: baby loss, Buddha, child loss, death of a baby, grief, hope, life after loss, new not so normal, perspective, Sawyer, twins, unexplainable
Maybe (Taoist story)
There is a Taoist story of an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically.
“Maybe,” the farmer replied. The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it 3 other wild horses. “How wonderful,” the neighbors exclaimed.
“Maybe,” replied the old man. The next day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. “Maybe,” answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. “Maybe,” said the farmer.
After Sawyer died, one of Evan’s friends came over to see us. Those days were such a blur that I do not remember his exact words but I will try to give you the basic gist. He explained that sometimes things happen and we do not see or understand why at the time. We may never understand why but the fact that Sawyer died could influence someone or something in the future.
I, of course, responded that I will never understand why.
He went on to say that some events need to be looked at in different ways.
I again responded that I have examined and reexamined every angle of Sawyer’s death and could not find anything except for earth shattering pain, emptiness and never ending darkness.
However, he continued to make his point in a way that I could actually accept. He gave the example that when the twins grow up that their experience of Sawyer dying could impact them beyond my initial thoughts of how they would grow up without their baby brother. They could be perhaps go on to discover a cure for whatever caused Sawyer’s death. In that moment I grasped the fact that something good could possibly result from Sawyer dying. Maybe, just maybe.
Stuff
January 16, 2013 at 9:16 pm | Posted in Death, Grief, life after loss, normal? | 6 CommentsTags: child loss, death of a baby, grandparents, grief, Jake, life after loss, new not so normal, Sawyer
Very often “get rid of clutter” is at the top of my to do list. Okay, sometimes I put it at the top of Evan’s to do list. I am overwhelmed by the piles of paper, toys, laundry, and stuff in general which seems to fill up the world. However, there is some clutter that I just cannot part with. The hospital bracelets from Jake’s tiny ankles, the smallest “sunglasses” which covered his sensitive eyes, every little thing that touched his body came home with us.
Sawyer had a lot more stuff. Right after he died we packed up, donated or got rid of most of the things he never wore or used. The things he did wear and use stayed on a shelf. Year after year Sawyer’s stuff did not move. Except for the sock.
I recently went on a business trip and when I got home Sawyer’s stuff was not on the shelf. I backed out of the room and went in again. It was still not there. I yelled for Evan. He calmly explained that he moved it. Just like that. He moved it to the same place where Jake’s stuff is kept.
Logically, I know that it is all just stuff but these are the only things that we will ever have that were Jake’s and Sawyer’s. I thought about these things as I threw out garbage bag after garbage bag of stuff as I helped to clean out my grandfather’s home. Why did I find it so easy, even therapeutic, to throw away his things?
I decided that my lifetime of memories with my grandfather made all the material things not necessary. I do not need stuff to remember him.
On the other hand, I had such a short time with Jake and Sawyer. There are not so many memories or stories to tell. So, I will hold onto the stuff that I can.
Reality Bites
January 8, 2013 at 10:54 pm | Posted in Death, Grief, mourning, normal? | 9 CommentsTags: child loss, grandparents, grief, holidays, life after loss, new not so normal, Sad, thoughts
Today it has been 1 week since I held my grandfather’s hand as he took his last breaths. He is no longer suffering. The funeral is over. He was 100. His death was not a shock. Death is part of life. I repeat these statements to myself several times a day. So, why do I still feel like I am walking around in an alternate universe?
Evan, the twins and I have returned to work, school and life in general.
People ask “How were your holidays?” I want to scream, my grandfather died on New Years Day. Sawyer died the day after Christmas 3 years ago. I officially hate the holidays!!! However, I instead take a deep breath and respond, “Fine, how were yours?”
My thoughts are scattered. It took me less than 1 day to lose the new insurance card Evan handed to me. I got lost driving somewhere I go almost every week.
I am figuring out another new normal.
The Circle of Life
January 2, 2013 at 4:44 pm | Posted in Grief, life lessons, Love, mourning | 14 CommentsTags: centenarians, child loss, grandparents, grief, holidays, hospice, life after loss, new not so normal
I always knew that I would outlive my grandfather. It is the way that life is supposed to go. I made peace with my feelings about death in 2005. After Jake died, defying the circle of life, I quickly came to terms with my own mortality. I am not going to do anything to speed it up but I know I will die one day. And, I knew the day would come when my grandfather would die. No one lives forever.
He died yesterday. I know that he was 100 and lived a (mostly) beautiful life but the last part of it was so excruciatingly painful for him. I would have given anything to spare him the suffering he endured.
I am so very lucky that I was able to spend so much time with him. The twins got to know him. I believe they will have memories of their wonderful great grandfather.
I am hoping and praying that he is now resting in peace with my grandmother. And maybe, just maybe he will meet and play with his other 2 great grandchildren .
A light in the darkness
December 8, 2012 at 9:46 pm | Posted in Grief, Love | 3 CommentsTags: Candle Lighting, child loss, Compassionate Friends, dark days, death of a baby, grief, hope, new not so normal, quotes, ways to honor the memory of your child
The Compassionate Friends is an organization which was formed to support families after a child has died. Its founder, Simon Stephens, states that the mission is “about transforming the pain of grief into the elixir of hope. It takes people out of the isolation society imposes on the bereaved and lets them express their grief naturally. With the shedding of tears, healing comes. And the newly bereaved get to see people who have survived and are learning to live and love again.”
The Compassionate Friends created a worldwide event to unite “family and friends around the globe in lighting candles for one hour to honor and remember children who have died at any age from any cause.” December 9th at 7 pm will mark the 16th Worldwide Candle Lighting.
Stuck
November 26, 2012 at 10:48 pm | Posted in Death, Grief, life lessons, normal? | 17 CommentsTags: child loss, dark days, death of a baby, grief, Jake, miscarriage, new not so normal, perspective, quotes, Sad, Sawyer, thoughts
Thank you Brooke from by the brooke for writing about the book, Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar. The book is written by Cheryl Strayed, who was formerly the anonymous online advice columnist, Dear Sugar. The book is a collection of letters written to Dear Sugar and her responses.
One letter is from a bereaved mother, Stuck. Stuck’s baby died. I want to share the wisdom that Sugar so powerfully offers. The following is part of the advice that Sugar wrote to her:
Dear Stuck,
I’m so sorry that your baby girl died. So terribly sorry. I can feel your suffering vibrating right through my computer screen. This is to be expected. It is as it should be. Though we live in a time and place and culture that tries to tell us otherwise, suffering is what happens when truly horrible things happen to us.
Don’t listen to those people who suggest you should be “over” your daughter’s death by now. The people who squawk the loudest about such things have almost never had to get over anything. Or at least not anything that was genuinely mind-fuckingly, soul-crushingly life altering. Some of those people believe they are being helpful by minimizing your pain. Others are scared of the intensity of your loss and so they use their words to push your grief away. Many of those people love you and are worthy of your love, but they are not the people who will be helpful to you when it comes to healing the pain of your daughter’s death.
They live on Planet Earth. You live on Planet My Baby Died.
It seems to me that you feel like you’re all alone there. You aren’t. There are women reading this right now who have tears in their eyes. There are women who have spent their days chanting daughter, daughter or son, son silently to themselves. Women who have been privately tormented about the things they did or didn’t do that they fear caused the death of their babies. You need to find those women. They’re your tribe.
I know because I’ve lived on a few planets that aren’t Planet Earth myself […]
This is how you get unstuck, Stuck. You reach. Not so you can walk away from the daughter you loved, but so you can live the life that is yours — the one that includes the sad loss of your daughter, but is not arrested by it. The one that eventually leads you to a place in which you not only grieve her, but also feel lucky to have had the privilege of loving her. That place of true healing is a fierce place. It’s a giant place. It’s a place of monstrous beauty and endless dark and glimmering light. And you have to work really, really, really hard to get there, but you can do it. […]
You will never stop loving your daughter. You will never forget her. You will always know her name. But she will always be dead. Nobody can intervene and make that right and nobody will. Nobody can take it back with silence or push it away with words. Nobody will protect you from your suffering. You can’t cry it away or eat it away or starve it away or walk it away or punch it away or even therapy it away. It’s just there, and you have to survive it. You have to endure it. You have to live through it and love it and move on and be better for it and run as far as you can in the direction of your best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by your own desire to heal. Therapists and friends and other people who live on Planet My Baby Died can help you along the way, but the healing–the genuine healing, the actual real deal down-on-your-knees-in-the-mud-change–is entirely and absolutely up to you. […]
Yours,
Sugar
I have been living on Planet My Baby Died for 7 years. I do not know if there is a separate Planet for when a second child dies. If so, I have been on that Planet for almost 3 years. Either way, here I am trying to live.
A Walk to Remember
October 14, 2012 at 10:32 pm | Posted in Grief, life after loss, Love, normal? | 9 CommentsTags: child loss, death of a baby, grief, Jake, miscarriage, new not so normal, October 15, Sawyer, twins, Walk to Remember
Every day 13 babies will be lost to SIDS and other sudden, unexpected infant deaths.
One horrible day in December 2009 our baby, Sawyer, was one of those 13. We remember Jake and Sawyer every day but today Evan and I participated in our 7th Walk to Remember.
The first year it was just the two of us. Jake had died a few months before the walk. Evan and I could barely talk about our child’s death let alone listen to the other sad stories parents were sharing about their losses.
Today we had the twins with us and we were there for Jake and Sawyer.
I can now talk about Jake and Sawyer. I listen to others as they tell about their sons and daughters. I still wish none of us had to live in a world without our child/children.
Tomorrow is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. As part of the day, everyone is invited to light a candle at 7 pm in all time zones, all over the world. The idea is that if everyone lights a candle at 7 pm and keeps is burning for at least 1 hour, there will be a continuous wave of light.
It is complicated
August 8, 2012 at 9:26 pm | Posted in after death?, Grief, life after loss, Love, normal? | 10 CommentsTags: child loss, death, grief, hope, Jake, quotes, Sawyer, twins
It is complicated to explain. Or maybe it is not. The twins are doing and will continue to do things that Jake and Sawyer never did and never will. This is a fact. A bittersweet part of our lives.
There will be no first days and no last days. And nothing in between. Sometimes I play the pointless “What if” game. What if there were more time with Jake and with Sawyer?
I just read True Compass: A Memoir by Ted Kennedy. He included a letter his father Joseph Kennedy Sr. wrote to a friend whose son had just died:
Dear Jack,
There are no words to dispel your feelings at this time, and there is no time that will ever dispel them. Nor is it any easier the second time than it was the first.And yet I cannot share your grief, because no one could share mine. When one of your children goes out of your life, you think of what he might have done with a few more years and you wonder what you are going to do with the rest of yours.
You never really accept it; you just go through the motions. Then one day, because there is a world to be lived in, you find yourself a part of it again, trying to accomplish something–something that he did not have time enough to do. And, perhaps, that is the reason for it all. I hope so.
Sincerely, Joe
I hope so too.
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