Monthly Archives: August 2017

Heart Pains

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Today, Chris and I were both in a bit of an end-of-summer blues type of mood. Tomorrow officially marks the end of the summer for this teacher household and we return for professional development in the morning. It’s obviously an inevitable shift, yet, it always ends up feeling as if we must say good-bye to our carefree summer selves. Nothing to mourn, I suppose, but our self-care must become much more intentional once this next cycle of school begins. I’ve been oh-so-grateful for this time to care for myself, work around our home, grieve freely, and just be “Jess”, but everything must progress, so it’s off to work we go! Anyway, since I have to get up early, I’d better make this quick.

We went driving around today, running errands, and we also checked our last item off our Summer Bucket List. We found a place that serves dip cones! We ate like kids with our messy ice cream dripping down our hands and giggled at the messes we’d made (no worries, we ate outside and then cleaned it up!). It was simple and fun, and an attempt to chase our little blues away.

We also went to the grocery store… that’s where the heart pains flared up again for me.

The thing is, no matter how much I’ve come to realize that this grief journey is full of waves that ebb and flow, those waves can still come unexpectedly. And they still knock the breath out of me. Heart pains will do that.

I was doing pretty well with grief today, as I had lots of other things on my mind with work starting back up again. But then, a big wave lambasted me at the grocery store and revved up those heart pains. There was a dad with his two little ones, a boy and a girl. The little boy looked to be about 4 and was walking next to the cart, and the little girl, with blonde curls, was under two years old. She was a cutie, and I was doing just fine with it. We’d passed them in a couple of aisles and it was okay. Then, I glanced up and saw them again, when I heard “Mama!” in this sweet little voice. My heart lurched, I jerked my head up, and that little girl made eye contact with me and smiled. She must have thought I looked like her mama, at least that’s what it seemed like. I cannot describe the sharp sadness that jolted through me when I looked up and that child locked eyes with me for a moment and thought I was her mommy. It was devastating. I felt that familiar lump click back into place in my throat, and my face got hot. I mustered a smile at that cute little girl, and couldn’t look at her again after that. She was so sweet. It was all I could do not to start crying right there in the store. (We all know it wouldn’t have been the first time that has happened!) I longed for my Lucy in the most intense, terrible way. Oh how I wish she were here to call me Mama. But– in the moment, I held it together. I have to say I am proud of myself for actually being able to contain myself. Only a few inconspicuous tears escaped (Chris hardly even noticed), and I made it. I didn’t fall apart. Now, just because I didn’t crumble doesn’t mean that it hurt any less than any other heart pain I’ve endured since losing Lucy, but I was strong enough to overcome it and move past it. I have grown stronger, more resilient.

I’ve been thinking about those moments since. It’s unbelievable how much things like that can hurt, but it’s also unbelievable that I have survived that pain, that I AM surviving it. I don’t believe there’s ever going to be any recovering from my baby dying… there will be moments like this to catch me by surprise for the rest of my life. I will always have to ponder things similar to what happened today. I’ll always wonder what Lucy would have sounded like as she smiled and called me ‘Mama’. There are some things that will always cause my heart pain. But that’s part of being a bereaved mommy, I guess. In spite of those excruciating heart pains, Lucy is and will always be worth it.

My New Awareness of the “Taboo” of Talking About Infant Loss

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The taboo surrounding conversations about infant loss has become clearer to me as time has gone by in this loss journey. Sometimes, I feel like I have to justify talking about Lucy… maybe not out loud always, but it’s certainly something I do in my mind often. I hate it. I’ve come to accept two things: 1) our situation makes many people uncomfortable, and continuing to talk about it doesn’t change that, and 2) life goes on, and people don’t like to dwell on that which is sad.

I’ve frivolously taken the time to make up the pie chart you see in the photo. Yes, it’s a bit lopsided, and yes, it gave me an excuse to play with gel pens whilst avoiding housework and back-to-school prep! I guess what inspired me to do that is my latest article that went up for Still Standing. (It’s right here) I know the dangers of relying at all upon social media to determine the worth of something, but I couldn’t help but do a little reflection and analysis when I checked out the numbers. I hesitated to post the article on my personal Facebook page but ended up doing it anyway. I’m not doing it for attention or ‘likes’, but to be REAL, as in here’s my life, and here’s what I’m up to lately, ugliness and all. I was super raw in the writing of the “Welcome to My Reality” article, and I’m actually rather proud of it. I did some comparison with this piece and my first one, “Mailbox Triggers” (that’s right here) and there was a stunning difference in reader responses. The mailbox article was much less in-your-face, and it ended up getting lots of comments and thought from my friends and family on Facebook, yet very little response from the loss community. I think this is because I wasn’t being as real as I could have been. This latest one had exactly the opposite impact: LOTS of great feedback and response from the loss community and very little engagement from the people who know me personally (except for those who seem to fall into the small percentage shown in pink and blue on the pie chart!). I believe this is because it’s so honest and real. And THAT kind of ‘realness’ is too much for most people.

Here’s the thing, I don’t begrudge any of those people for their lack of response. In fact, I don’t blame them. It’s easier to carry on with positivity when you aren’t immersing yourself in things that are sad, uncomfortable, or negative. I understand why they’d scroll on past or just not know how to respond. It’s a lot to take in, and it’s a lot to have to continuously read. I cannot honestly say I’d have been any different if I were an outsider to infant loss. It’s a terrible truth to face, and it’s also natural to wonder just how long someone could grieve like this. What I’m learning from these people is that life does indeed carry on, in spite of the fact that I lost my little baby. It must. This is my reality to bear, not theirs. The ‘majority’ group typically does feel sympathy for our situation, but empathy is harder to come by in situations like ours. Empathy requires a deeper understanding, and most people are afraid to put themselves in the shoes of the loss parent because that reality, that kind of horror, is unbearable. Unimaginable. I believe the only way to know what it’s like is to become part of the club, so I am okay with the fact that so many people simply cannot imagine it. Because if they could, then it would mean they’ve been through it too, that more babies have died, more families have been shattered by infant loss. I would never want that. It’s an odd thing, feeling so isolated, yet being grateful that more people DON’T understand what we’re going through.

I’ve decided, since starting these reflections about the types of people being exposed to my talk of loss, that I will no longer be sharing my articles from Still Standing where the only audience is those who haven’t experienced infant loss. I realize that by doing this, I am probably upholding this ‘taboo’ of talking so openly about infant loss. I don’t know if I can stop feeling the sting of isolation when I put something so real and personal out there and it is ignored. As an English teacher, I am always reminding my students to remember who their audience is for any given piece of writing, and for now, I’m going to take my own advice. I will reserve my writing of loss and missing Lucy for the audience that intentionally seeks it out. That works for this blog, Still Standing, the Lucy Rose’s Light Facebook page, and my Instagram (I’ve found such a community there! Their posts have made many a day better since losing Lucy.). Those places are my reach, my audience, my fellow seekers of comfort in this loss community. Anyone looking in those places is intentionally going there to hear my story, so those are the ones I write for. It’s hard to accept some of this, because there IS so much avoidance of this topic from the general population, and there’s little I can do about it. I feel my vulnerability amplifying itself when I share the rawness of loss with those who aren’t necessarily asking to hear it. It makes me feel like a nuisance and a crazy person. I have a valid voice, but that voice apparently does not belong in the general population. I feel judged, which also makes me feel defensive, which in turn, stunts my own personal growth and healing. I cannot make others understand unless they want to, and I must be okay with that. This makes me feel even more powerless, but it is what it is.

And so, referring back to my lopsided gel-penned pie chart, I will write for the pink and blue categories. That’s my audience right there, and I appreciate them immensely. They are the exception to the majority, and that’s where my voice can do the most good. I should specify that I will only be sharing the raw, ugly sides of grief with this group. I will likely still be sharing the hopeful, healing parts of grief, but I will hesitate to be ‘real’ with the rest because I don’t think anyone really wants to hear about the dark sides of it all unless they are seeking it out intentionally. I think I am feeling okay about this, and I believe it will help me to narrow my focus and produce better writing, at least for now. Someday maybe I will get back to working more productively toward overall awareness of Pregnancy and Infant Loss, but for now, I will keep focusing on connecting to others like me and comforting others who’ve lost their babies. I will help them remember that they are not alone in their pain. That’s a purpose I can embrace and be proud of.

Hope and Appreciation

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Yesterday was the International Day of Hope. Started by Carly Marie (check out her site here), a fellow loss mom, a prayer flag project takes place through social media all over the world each year on August 19. I really love that this project is modeled after the symbolic Tibetan prayer flags that are said to deliver hope, love, compassion, wisdom, strength, and all kinds of positive concepts into the universe through the wind that flows around them. I think it’s a beautiful notion and I was excited to participate in this for the first time. I ended up finding the perfect materials around the house and in my craft bin, and since I’m pretty handy with a glue gun, it turned out to be a lovely tribute to Lucy, if I do say so myself. I felt a sense of purpose and calm as I created Lucy’s flag. When I placed it in her garden early yesterday, the morning sun illuminated it and a quiet breeze fluttered the ribbons along the bottom. I was soothed and felt connected to her. The flag whispered her name into the wind, along with my feelings of peace, love, and hope. The thought that so many other loss parents were doing the same thing around the world and in their own sacred spaces, honoring their children too, is magical to me. I truly did feel renewed hope, and such immense love.

Today, a renewed appreciation has come over me. This began with a message from a kind woman who found a Lucy Rose’s Light bracelet in a parking lot, looked up the Lucy Rose’s Light Facebook page, and was determined to find the owner of the bracelet. I was taken aback by the heartwarming happiness that washed over me when I read her message, so excited that Lucy’s story was heard by someone who didn’t know us, and likely wouldn’t have had she not found the bracelet. We’ve found the original holder of the bracelet, but before we did, I asked the sweet person who’d found it to please keep it as a reminder of the beautiful light she has within and to take an extra moment to reflect on the good things in her life. I hope I wasn’t too preachy with it, but I just wanted her to have it and to know a little bit about the light our little girl brought to the world during her short stay in it. When I shared this story in order to find out whose bracelet was lost, quite a few people responded, and now I have the privilege of sending out even more bracelets to others who requested them. It’s stuff like this that really makes my heart feel better… being able to share little Lucy with others makes the loss of her a little easier to bear. I am always, always thankful for those opportunities. Mostly because it’s the only way I can actively parent her. Keeping her memory alive is vital to my existence in this new normal.

Thinking back to Lucy’s birthday last week also brings to mind my love for the community that surrounds Chris and me. That ‘community’ is made up of our family, friends, actual members of the community in which we live, the loss community, and so on. Unable to help myself on her birthday and remembrance day, I asked others to share things with us that remind them of Lucy… I was absolutely overcome with gratitude as a result. That little baby has impacted more people and things than I could have imagined. Because of that, she continues to live on in different ways. I have our community of support to thank for that. So much of this past year has been swallowed up by grief and depression; every single day has been a struggle. Without this community of people to help reveal glimpses of Lucy’s impact and love she left behind, I don’t know how we could have made it through this.

Tonight my heart is filled with more warmth and lightness than its felt in quite some time. I see now that hope can indeed float and carry us through the darkest of times. I’m thankful for this day of hope.

A close up of Lucy’s prayer flag.

The perfect addition to Lucy’s Garden on a beautiful summer day.

Working on Self-Acceptance

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This probably won’t sound like a big deal to anyone else, but I did something today… I actually wore a bathing suit to the beach… Without something over it. One may ask why this is a noteworthy thing, but it is, it just is. Grief has made something so small, so seemingly insignificant, a big deal to me.

Since I started this grief journey, my body image and opinion of myself have plummeted. I blame it on grief. Grief rocks your world, it changes you. It magnifies your insecurities and steals away your confidence because it goes hand in hand with vulnerability. I believe that grief from infant loss is an even more menacing monster, at least when it comes to view of oneself. It has been that way for me. As a woman and mother of an infant that is no longer here, I have struggled with my body image. (I’ve talked about this in a previous blog, which you can find here) Since I carried Lucy to full-term, I have ALL of the physical evidence of being pregnant and giving birth. Even a year later, the stretch marks and extra weight hang on. Things haven’t shrunk back to their original places, and everything looks a little different. Totally normal, but it doesn’t feel normal when there’s no beautiful baby on your hip after a pregnancy. I think that many (or most) moms are probably hard on themselves and their postpartum bodies, but in my experience as a loss mom, I think this has been amplified about a thousand times. It may sound like a mere excuse, but this grief has made it extraordinarily difficult to whip my body back into shape. The depression has been so intense and it’s been tough to motivate myself to “get my body back”. I have tried to remain active over the past year, but it’s not always consistent. Sometimes, I have a hard time even getting out of bed, so a workout doesn’t always feel feasible. I have decided to quit giving myself so much crap over this and give myself a little bit of grace. I will eventually get back “in shape”, whatever that new shape is.

I have been so cruel to myself. I’ve insulted my character and my body on a daily basis. I have sneered at my reflection in the mirror. I have said the crummiest things to myself, things that, if spoken by another person, would have been absolutely unacceptable. I’ve even been saying these things aloud, where Chris can hear them. You’d think it would have been a wake-up call when my husband told me that he’d kick someone’s ass if they talked to me like that, but no, I still continue to verbally abuse myself. Somewhere deep down, a part of me still blames myself for Lucy’s death. The abruption happed inside my body, so it must be my fault, right? That’s what I have been telling myself. That resentment of my own body manifested into the awful self-loathing I’ve been engaging in for a year now. I know that I’m doing it, yet I cannot stop. It’s truly a terrible thing, and something I am having a rough time overcoming.

This is another piece of this that may sound weird, but I am sharing it nonetheless. On Lucy’s birthday, I was doing an ordinary task when this routine of self-loathing I’ve been engaging in took a positive turn. I was drying my hair with the hairdryer, just thinking to myself. I was thinking specifically about how I do need to listen to Chris and my therapist Julie. They both keep telling me, “BE NICER TO YOURSELF”. I know they’re right, and I know that what I’ve been doing to myself is not okay. I was pondering that when, somewhere from another part of my mind I heard, “Do that for my birthday, Mommy”. I know this sounds crazy, and maybe it was just something that was working on a subconscious level, but it felt like something Lucy was trying to say to me. To be kinder to myself, that she would want that. I won’t do this for me alone, but when the added idea of doing that for Lucy becomes part of the equation, well… how can I ignore it? Back when I first realized I was pregnant with a little girl, I remember trying to have a pep talk with myself about how my daughter would be learning from me. If I couldn’t say kind things to myself and my daughter heard those unkind things, how might she talk to herself? I tried to tell myself that I would eliminate all of the negative self-talk for my daughter. When she died, I guess somehow that promise to myself changed, even though it shouldn’t have. I feel now that I am working toward more self-acceptance, because that’s what I’d want to teach my daughter if she were here. So now I am bound to it. I have to try.

Today, when we decided we’d take our dog Waggs to the lake, Chris encouraged me to put my bathing suit on so I could go in the water. Typically, I’d say no; today, I hesitated and thought I’d try doing what’s difficult instead. And you know what? No one cared! No one judged me, no one thought I was disgusting, no one gave it a second thought. It was all fine. I wore my bathing suit in public, and none of those people looked at me and said, “Eww”, or “Oh wow, that woman is obviously a loss mom”. No one at that beach knew anything other than that there was a nice couple on the beach throwing a Frisbee for their dog enjoying the summer day. There it is… one more step toward self-acceptance. I can wear a bathing suit at a public beach. I can talk kindly to myself. I can accept that I’ve been through hell and am still going strong. I can change the way I view myself. I can be a loss mom and still feel good about myself. It all probably seems simple to someone looking in upon my situation who’s never lost a baby, but to me, it’s been a year of trying to accept and love myself again.

I am one step closer. One step closer to being my own best friend again.

A squinty-eyed sun photo, but proof that I am working on accepting myself for who I am now, even in a bathing suit!

Angelversary

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The emotions of the heart must be felt. There’s no option to just ignore or fast forward through them, though sometimes I wish I could. Yesterday, Lucy’s ‘Angelversary’, was one of those days in which my heart had a lot to say, but no way to say it. I wanted to write, but couldn’t. I wanted to talk about it, but couldn’t. And so, I just felt my way through Lucy’s remembrance day. It’s difficult with that day immediately following her birthday. Both sad, for similar yet different reasons. I couldn’t sleep Thursday night; insomnia was in full force. I was up well past 4 AM, unable to turn my brain off, powerless to stop the flashbacks from one year ago. I suppose even my body remembers what happened exactly one year prior, and it doesn’t want to forget either. I was totally wired, so I spent some time in the nursery writing in my journal and looking at Lucy’s photo book. I wish I could explain how I was feeling, but it’s truly impossible. Such a mixture of sadness and feeling like a lost, wandering soul. There’s nothing easy about this, nothing at all. Like I said, I am truly at a loss for words, so this is a short post. I just wanted to acknowledge the day, to note that Lucy’s angelversary happened and I survived it.

I also want to note that so many people reached out to let us know they were thinking of Lucy, especially on her birthday. I don’t think I could have gotten through the day well without the love and support. Though I really wish more than anything that we could just have our daughter back, I am thankful that her short life still matters not just to us, but to others as well. In that, we are truly blessed.

To Lucy, On Your First Birthday

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My dear sweet Lucy,

Happy birthday, beautiful baby. As always, you are on my mind and in my every waking thought. Though I am so incredibly sad, and missing you more than mere words could say, I am also strangely comforted. I feel you near me today; your sweet energy is reaching me. Even though you aren’t physically here with us, I know you’re here. I believe that you know us and can feel our love for you. That’s the thing about love, isn’t it? It can be felt, no matter what. I can feel yours.

I had so many hopes and dreams for you, my baby daughter. I wish so much that you were still here, living out a beautiful, long, healthy life. It would have been one of many birthday wishes I’d have had for you today. Even so, I still have wishes for you. I hope that no matter where you are, you feel peace and love. I hope you understand that I’d know you anywhere, because our souls will forever know each other. I wish you could know the impact that your short life has had upon the world around us… I have seen so much evidence of that these past few days. You are a gift.

I’ve been spending a lot of time looking at photos of you and of us today. It’s tough to believe it’s been a whole year since we last held you. Those were the most precious moments of my life, and nothing can ever diminish that, nor the love I have for you. I’ve said it already today, but I would choose YOU again and again. Thank you for choosing me to be your mother; it’s the greatest privilege I’ve ever had. You may be my missing piece, but you are also what completes me. I love you so much, and I am always with you.

Happy Birthday, Lucy.

With All of My Heart,
Mommy

You’re in my heart, always.

Your name in the sand

We love you, Lucy.

Just like the waves will never stop kissing the shore, we will never stop loving you, Lucy.

Mommy and Daddy love you!

Renewed Sorrow

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Lucy’s first birthday is less than three days away… how can it have been a year already? As Thursday approaches, I feel the renewed sorrow and fear creeping in. I am depressed, irritable, tired, discouraged. The sadness and anger keep coming in separate waves, though sometimes crash over me at the same time. This is so hard. I can’t escape; all of my thoughts are consumed by missing her. It hurts so much.

Chris and I have both been feeling the stress of what this week brings. I know his birthday yesterday was particularly hard for him. Deep down, we’d both hoped that maybe this month would have brought a birthday gift for him and Lucy… but no such luck. Right now, we’re just immersed in the hurt of it all, wishing that instead of a quiet household, that our little one-year-old would be causing a joyful ruckus. The pain is pretty raw right now.

I did see my Lucy in a dream the other night. Since losing her, I’ve had many dreams with babies in them, but rarely have I had dreams with Lucy in them. That’s always broken my heart a little. But this time, I am certain it was her. It was a very brief dream, but it gave me so much. In the dream, I think someone handed Lucy to me. She was about a year old, so I held her on my hip. I said something like, “Lucy! It’s you. Let me see your eyes, baby… you’re so beautiful, I love you so much!” I had never had the chance to look into her eyes when she was born, so I have always wondered. She had her daddy’s deep-set eyes, all steely blue. I could see she had my face shape and chin, and a sweet button nose. Her hair was a dark blonde, curling just so around her little ears that looked so much like mine. She tipped her head back with a gleeful laugh, the most beautiful laugh (I have always longed to know what her laughter would have sounded like). She put her little hands on the sides of my face and looked at me, eyes shining. Then it was over, and she was gone. I woke up with a surge of emotion- love, pride, happiness, sorrow, longing. Missing her, yet thankful for a visit. My sweet one year old… I know it was her. So much love.

Right now, I am doing my best to survive this week. It’s definitely turning out to be as hard as I’d imagined, and then some. I’m looking for Lucy’s light, and it’s the only thing getting me through.