Category Archives: Grief

Happy 3rd Birthday, Lucy

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Happy Birthday, my sweet girl. We begin another year of shoulds and hearts full of unrealized wishes. Our thoughts rest on you so often each day, but especially today. I’m really feeling your absence these past few weeks, and missing you hurts more right now than it has in a while. Watching your baby brother grow into the sweet, hilarious, wonderful little boy that he is has shown us firsthand what kinds of things we’ve missed with you. I appreciate Everett even more because of it, but can’t help but be sad when I see all the amazing things we might have seen you do too. Our family won’t ever be completely whole without you here, but we make up for it with love and determination. Although it’s now been a few years, and a lot of people might wonder how we can still be so sad sometimes, your light shines through so many others and in all of the beautiful things surrounding us. You continue to be one of my reasons for doing my best to be a better person daily. You know all the rest.

I love you infinitely, my little daughter, and I wish you were here to celebrate the beautiful day you were born with cake, gifts, and three-year-old giggles. I imagine what it’d be like, and it makes me smile with tears in my eyes. You are loved, you will always be loved. No matter where you are, my heart will find you. Happy birthday, Lucy Rose… we love you so much.

Love Always,

Mama

Summertime Shadows

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As summer creeps in, so do the shadows of time, of grief. It’s as if the body has annual remembrance rituals honoring what was lost. My remembrance days begin as the days grow. I feel it in my bones. The long evening shadows that fade as the fireflies silently light up the dusk bring me ever closer to the shadows and aching in my heart for the little girl who should have been. The desire to weep overtakes me in deep tides and tears flow more freely as the temperatures rise and the birds call to one another through the rustling leaves.

The ‘reminder children’ born around my Lucy’s birth grow and thrive as they glide to the next milestones she’ll never reach. I face their images now with a melancholy curiosity, marveling at the length of their shining locks or taking note of the continuing cherubic chubbiness of their hands and little forearms. As they all begin to turn three, I’m wistfully imagining my sweet toddler girl traipsing around in the summertime shadows of the backyard, singing nonsensical tunes in a bell-like voice. I yearn for her though I never had the chance to know her in this way.

Even as I celebrate the coexisting joy ever present in life, my now familiar companion, Grief, grasps my fingertips tightly and skips me down the stony path of broken dreams. It is there, in the warm sunbeams of Summer, where I sit for awhile, breathing in the memories, misplaced wishes, and everything that might have been.

Missing The Innocence

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A photo popped up today on my social media, taken two years ago on this day. In it, I’m fully immersed in the glory of first-time pregnancy, with an unmistakable glow lighting me up. I smiled as Chris took several photos, the sun shining in my eyes. I look at it now, longing for so many things. For the daughter we lost, for that same kind of peace of mind, for the innocence and naivety I felt during my pregnancy with Lucy. I long for the time captured in the photo when I was ignorant of what was to come less than four months after it was taken. I miss being innocent.

Losing Lucy has reshaped much of my life and who I see looking back at me in the mirror. I’ve aged, both outside and in. I’ve gained a kind of wisdom about life that I wish I could undo. I’ve become stronger, yet more vulnerable. More resilient, yet undeniably fractured. Braver, yet more fearful. I know what can be lost with no warning, no hesitation. Everything can shatter in the blink of an eye.

As I cautiously tiptoe through this pregnancy after loss, I am grateful, but I am also struggling each day to keep my terror at bay. It’s like swimming upstream against a powerful current, and sometimes, it’s tough to stay afloat in the waters of grief and fear. I’m scared that no matter how real my hope is that we’ll bring this rainbow baby home, the fear and devastation could win. The reality of our loss has changed the reality of this pregnancy. In the very same moments we held our daughter for the first time, we were simultaneously facing every parent’s worst nightmare. I’m so scared we’ll have to do it again.

When I’m not living in fear, I truly am enjoying pregnancy. I’m so thankful for another chance. I love this baby as much as I love his sister. I want so much what I cannot have: to have both of them, living and healthy, together. It’s hard to think about the idea that the four of us can never physically be together as a family; and, I don’t know if this little boy would be on the way if we’d gotten to keep our Lucy. Most of the time, I’d rather not consider that. I just know that I love both of my children immensely, and I simply wish I could have them both.

In spite of the brokenness, LOVE is the center of our little family… that love is what’s going to get us through.

April 2016, 23 weeks along with Lucy.

 

Hope in 2018

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My intention for 2018 is HOPE.

Kristen Wood, author, fellow loss mom, and contributor over at Still Standing Magazine, mentioned that each year, rather than make resolutions for herself, she chooses a word as a theme for the year.  (You can find her at @authorkristinwood on Facebook, and on the Still Standing Writer’s Page)  I really like this idea, because I feel that choosing a word as a guiding principle is much more feasible than a handful of resolutions that I have the potential to fail at achieving. I’m embracing this now because I believe it’s an uplifting, lovely way to begin a new year.

So, ‘Hope’ it is.  In 2018, I HOPE TO…

  • find my Lucy’s light in all things, ordinary and extraordinary.
  • share more of Lucy’s light with others. In 2017, I didn’t necessarily do enough of this because the darkness felt so vast.
  • feel alive again.
  • embrace possibility and to celebrate it, no matter what the potential outcome may be.
  • open my heart more to others again.
  • let go of the guilt I’ve been hanging on to. Losing Lucy wasn’t my fault; it’s time to stop punishing myself.
  • begin loving the person that I am now. She’s endured a lot and she deserves love!
  • strengthen my relationship even further with my husband.
  • stop censoring my grief and be more confident in speaking about my experience.
  • keep letting hope float up.
  • live a life that would make Lucy proud.

 

Photo by Ron Smith on Unsplash

Those are my New Year’s intentions for 2018.

Hope is tenacious. It lights the way through the darkest of human experiences. It’s the quiet voice that says, “I won’t give up. There are better things ahead.”

Though hope has been something I’ve struggled to keep in the front of my mind through my loss experience, its resiliency has not failed me. It’s what has made me keep going when I’ve wanted to quit, forced me to pick myself up from the floor of despair and shown me that there’s more. There’s hope.

Time to embrace it!

Disgruntled Rantings of a Member of the Worst Club Ever

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Here’s the thing about being a member of the Infant Loss Club– it sucks. Joining is not a choice. No one wants to be here, and the entrance fee is incredibly steep.

Membership package includes:

  • A lifetime guarantee of ‘should haves’ and ‘what ifs’
  • Awkward silences from friends and acquaintances at the mere mention of your deceased child
  • Abrupt subject changes from others when you relate something to your loss
  • The plight of having to pretend you’re fine when you’re never fine
  • Burning jealousy of people who have normal things, for example: living children
  • Simmering rage and extreme sensitivity
  • A jaded view of the world
  • A potential reputation for being totally crazy
  • Inability to “get over it already”
  • Compromised relationships with people in various areas of your life
  • Constant disappointment
  • Frequent, unexpected triggers
  • Post-Traumatic Stress
  • Avoidance from people who used to talk to you
  • A heartache that never goes away
  • A warped body image
  • Allergic reactions to pregnancy announcements and newborn photos
  • Extreme irritation with society’s taboos on talking about infant loss
  • Discomfort in ordinary social situations
  • A penchant for being consistently misunderstood
  • Desire to isolate oneself from others
  • Acute anxiety
  • Phobia of grocery stores, home improvement stores, restaurants, or other random public places where there may be lots of babies
  • Insomnia
  • A kind of suffering you never imagined possible
  • Distaste for faith-based, godly advice that indicates your child is “in a better place”, their death is simply “part of god’s plan” or that “heaven needed another angel”
  • A low tolerance for BS
  • Overall hopelessness
  • A grief that is much bigger than you and completely unpredictable
  • A life sentence of being without your beloved child

…and much, much more!!

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I realize I’m coming across negatively right now, but come on, does anyone really think that there’s only good to be gained from the death of your child?? Does anyone really believe that?  Sometimes it needs to be acceptable for bereaved parents to shine a light on the ugliness that makes up the reality of infant loss. It’s hellish, and most of the time, it feels as if there’s absolutely nothing good to focus on, no matter how hard we want to. I honestly believe the ugly stuff needs to be acknowledged just as much as the strength and hope that eventually manifests from these situations. I can create a beautiful story from all of this… in fact, I don’t need to create it, because Lucy’s brief life IS a beautiful story. It holds a tragic, heart-wrenching, unfair ending, but it is still beautiful. What isn’t beautiful is the tendency of society to simply push the grief of the bereaved along merely because it doesn’t like sad things. Hurry up and grieve already, move forward, move on, live your life, inspire others, think positive, look for the beauty in the pain, share only goodness, don’t make us sad….  Heaven forbid anyone else should be uncomfortable for a few brief moments.

Though grief exists because there was first love, grief isn’t always beautiful.

Losing Lucy turned our world upside down; her death has impacted many people close to us. However, as time goes by, I continue to see so many bereaved parents’ broken hearts get swept under the rug by the people in their lives. The averted eyes, the uncomfortable shift of the energy in the room when it’s mentioned, the pure avoidance of the topic in general… it’s all a dismissal of that pain and experience. No, not every single moment of my life is defined by Lucy’s death, but much of it is. We’ve lost so much more than our baby, we’ve lost everything she might have been, and that continues to impact the very fabric of who we are every single day. I’m tired of feeling that my continuing grief is an inconvenience to others who can’t handle the truth. I’m not afraid to share it anymore, even if it makes someone else a little uncomfortable for a minute.

Am I like this all the time? No, truly I’m not. I do my best every day in this life after loss to be kind, to inspire others, to avoid causing anyone even the mildest discomfort, and to share the light and love that my Lucy left behind her. There is so much love, really there is. I see my blessings, I really do. Unfortunately, being authentic means that I end up sharing some of my pain and frustration sometimes because those things are part of my experience too, part of who I am. Even here, I am apologizing for being genuine about my grief. I’ve conditioned myself to do so, because even here, in MY space, I feel as though there’s something wrong with my expression of grief. This has to stop. Time to reveal the good, the bad, and the ugly. Time to be real.

 

“What happens to a dream deferred?”

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Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore–
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?
…………………

My Dream Deferred…

My dream? My dream was shattered. Our dream was obliterated.

This deferred dream sits, perched heavily upon my heart, pressing its weight into me, squeezing out my breath. It bears down, gnashes its teeth, and sets its vision fixedly upon my sanity. It chips away at my exterior, slowly, yet swiftly at the same time.

Who might she have been? We’ll never know. Who might I have been if she had lived? We’ll never know. I am the ruins of a sad soul left longing for the past and haunted by an unwritten book of memories never to be.

It’s Not Easy Right Now

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I’ve been having a hard time lately. We’ve been having a hard time lately. Coping with grief and dealing with disappointment on top of grief is so difficult. It’s hard for Chris and I to keep our chins up… we haven’t been dealing well with getting bad news each month. “More of the same” is a common phrase in our house, one we used to say in conjunction with the long winter parts of the school year (sort of like a “Groundhog’s Day” film reference, you know, the same day repeating over and over again…), but now, it’s used to describe our lives entirely. Only it isn’t funny anymore.

I’m starting to worry that there’s something wrong, starting to wonder if we’re not meant to have another pregnancy. I know, I know, I shouldn’t be thinking so “irrationally”, but the hope is running out. We’ve become conditioned to accept disappointment, and let’s face it, to expect the worst. It feels like I am completely out of control of everything in my life. I’m tired of feeling like I’m just a passenger on a runaway bus. From my job to my fertility (or lack thereof) to my sleeping habits to my entire life in general, I feel completely out of control. I don’t know how to feel better about any of it right now. I hate this existence. Grief touches all corners of my life, and it’s killed my motivation, my drive, my give-a-damn. I feel like a prisoner in my own life.

I miss Lucy, and lately, I feel so far away from her and that scares me. It’s hard to articulate how I’m feeling– I’ve had a serious case of writer’s block. I just don’t know how to say what I need to say. I barely made my deadline for writing my Still Standing article due out on the 12th, and even after finishing it, I am intensely self-conscious about it. I’ve been doubting myself, and I don’t know how to regain trust in myself. I am a lost soul these days.

I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning; my first thought was, “My life is legitimately a living hell”. I feel guilty for saying that, I do, but I just don’t know when it’s supposed to get better. I am so blessed in so many ways- I know this- but I am barely getting by. I thank my lucky stars daily for my husband… without him, I wouldn’t have survived this grief, no way. He’s been picking me up and pushing me through, loving me when I cannot love myself. I can’t imagine my life without him. I just wish I could be stronger for him so he wouldn’t have to carry so much of this burden. I keep trying to center my thoughts on how much I love Chris and Lucy, and it’s what makes me capable of surviving each day.

The holiday season is making things much more difficult… I can’t stand the idea of another Christmas without Lucy, but I have no choice but to deal with it. We did get a tree for her again; I love sitting in the glow of the tree lights, thinking of her. Mostly, I try to imagine all of the memories we should be making now.

But mostly, I’m just sad.

The Truth Of It…

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Things aren’t great. I sat in my living room on October 15, which is Infant Loss Remembrance Day, and I realized something. Not only did it hurt just as much fourteen months into the journey as it had two months in, but there I was: in exactly the same spot on the same couch in the same room, looking at the same candle flickering its memorial flame, on the same date at the same time… and NOTHING HAS CHANGED. Nothing has changed since losing Lucy over a year ago. I can’t let go, I can’t adapt.

More than 14 months in and here’s the REAL truth of it all…

It still hurts now as much as it did one year ago.

I can’t even remember most of the past year; so much of it is a blur.

There isn’t a morning that dawns when I actually want to get out of bed. Facing the day means facing the truth. And no matter how much time passes, it’s still just as hard today to face the fact that our child died.

I am irritated by everyone else’s happiness. It just makes my own misery so much more visible to me.

It’s hard to see little children, both in real life and in photos, because I can only wonder what our child should look like at that age.

My job is absolutely draining the life out of me. My patience for the rudeness and complaining of my students has dwindled, and I am weary of trying to parent other peoples’ children (when all I really want is to parent my own child). I feel as if I am failing with every action I take in my teaching role, and that I am letting down all of the students that truly want to be in my classroom. I am simply not the sweet Mrs. O. that I used to be. How could I be??

Sometimes, I simply have nothing positive to say.

I really don’t want to talk to anyone lately. I have become a hermit and a recluse, and that’s how I want to be. The idea of even picking up the phone to call family and friends causes me an unnatural amount of anxiety, and once again… I have nothing to say. What would me calling someone do other than depress them?

With every month that passes, I am losing more hope. Hope that things will ever be different or better than they are now. I can’t think of much to look forward to. With every month that passes and we see no rainbow, I lose more and more of my faith in the idea that it will ever be better.

I am having a hard time coping. I take sleep aids every night. I drink too much. I don’t know if it’s going to get better.

I feel like a freak most of the time, some grief monster that no one understands. How can it have been this long, and I’m still not “better”? There is no “better” in a grief like this.

The one thing we want is to give Lucy a sibling, and I’ve made such a mess of myself that I’d be surprised if it ever happens.

The truth is, life is hard right now. I can’t always see the light. I can’t always think positively.

Sometimes, I do wish I could just disappear.

I know I have let my baby daughter down so much by living like this. Grief has turned my life upside down… turned me into someone I don’t recognize or even like at all. I am lost, and I don’t know if I will ever find my way again.

It’s hideous, but here it is… the truth.

Sunrise Blessing

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October is Infant and Pregnancy Awareness Month. This year, I’m going to do my best to participate daily in the Capture Your Grief Project. There may be a few days here and there I might miss, but I’ll try to stay caught up. The Capture Your Grief Project is a series of photo prompts, one for each day in October. Last year, I just couldn’t finish it… the grief was still too fresh, too new, for me to do all of it. I’ll still give myself an out if I need it, because as a loss mom, I never really know just how something might impact me until it’s already happening. So, here’s Day 1…..

Day 1: Sunrise Blessing
As the early morning sunlight streams through the trees, illuminating the leaves in greens and yellows, I see that it also gently shines through the hearts hung in honor of my Lucy. I feel closest to her in these quiet few minutes after I awake, listening to my own heartbeat, as the sun casts its light, her light, over everything. Just like the sun, my sweet baby’s light touches everything, guiding me through the day.
#captureyourgrief2017 #whathealsyou #lucyroseslight #infantloss #babylossawareness

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Today’s a good day for me to focus on blessings of ANY kind, because I’ve truly felt like a lost, tired, sad soul this week. Sometimes, the blessings are hard to focus on when it feels as if the universe is trying its best to prevent Chris and me from being happy. It’s so difficult sometimes, and no matter what I do, I just can’t seem to shake the feeling that things are never going to change for the better. Whenever we get to a point that appears to hold hope and promise of new joy, it’s snatched out from under us.

In my family, it’s been a rough week because my Grandma has been ill and in the hospital. One of the blessings I can count is that she’s still here, and has been discharged from the hospital and is getting settled back in at home. BIG blessing!

Unfortunately, the “non-blessings” have been coming in abundance, lately, or so it seems. We spent two days in our house this week thinking that we might be pregnant again. We cautiously embraced the idea, knowing full well that nothing is ever guaranteed, but the possibility was so beautiful, just the same. I believe I may have had another chemical pregnancy, which of course, feels like a swift kick in the gut. Things like this are so hard to bounce right back from, and it feels like we’re being punished with disappointment again and again. So often, I want to ask ‘why?’, but then I know there simply is no reason. After how easily we ended up pregnant with our Lucy, this secondary infertility is perplexing. We’re deciding on our next steps and going from there. We so badly want Lucy to have a little sibling, but it just isn’t happening yet. It continuously adds more dimensions to our grief, and it gets more and more difficult to feel optimistic about anything. Everything is an uphill climb, and nothing comes easily for us lately. I’m hoping to start seeing more blessings in our lives, so I’m doing my best to intentionally look for them. The light is always there, it’s just hard to see sometimes.

Sometimes, It’s Just Too Real.

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Sometimes, out of nowhere, it hits me all over again with renewed intensity. Our baby died. She died. And nothing can bring her back to us.

Sometimes, I see photos of other parents who got to keep their babies, and I feel gutted. The first birthday photos. The snuggles. The messy, smiling faces. Shining eyes after a day full of play. The contentment on the mommy and daddy’s faces. Joy. Normalcy. Happiness. None of which my husband and I were allowed to have.

Sometimes, the anger makes me shake. My joy was stolen from me, ripped away with wretched, evil claws. My body tenses up with sorrow and the relentless tearing of my heart makes me want to smash everything that can be broken. Even though it is me that is broken, shattered, shredded.

Sometimes, I wish I were anywhere but here. I want to fly away and never look back. I long for a comfort I can never, ever have. All that’s left are the scattered remains of who I once was, and I’m burdened with the impossible task of trying to piece them back together. It isn’t working, there are too many missing fragments.

Sometimes, I can’t believe this nightmare is my life. Yet I am expected to go on as if nothing ever happened. I’m forced to accept that those wasted dreams, the happy life that was almost within my reach, were never mine to have.

Sometimes, like right now, the pain is just too real.