Tag Archives: Life After Loss

Loss In My Life After Loss

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For the past six months, as I’ve made the treacherous trek through the landscape of grief, I have been doing all I can to make it through each day still standing. Every day has had its challenges, but every day, I have somehow managed to get out of bed and make my way on to the next one. Most of the time, my daily survival is consuming enough to leave little room for personal reflection, or even to stop and notice how my world has changed around me. Losing our baby has irrevocably changed everything. It is easy to be so consumed by loss and grief that all of the other things that have slipped away from me go unnoticed for a time. Grief is selfish that way, demanding all of your energy, blocking everything else out. There isn’t a minute that passes in which my Lucy isn’t present in my mind somewhere. However, there are moments when the fog lifts and I become aware of what else I have lost in the wake of loss. That’s the thing about a loss like this- it doesn’t stop at the initial loss, there’s often more loss to follow.

Here are five things I’ve personally lost since losing Lucy:

1. My innocence. Never again will I be able to invest my absolute trust in anything in this world. I will forever step cautiously through my life because I know that at any given moment, no matter how ‘safe’ everything seems to be, disaster can strike. Nothing is certain. I find myself often jealous of others who have the ability to experience unbridled joy and hearty laughter; those days are gone for me. There will always be something missing, and everything will always be a little less than complete.

2. My tolerance. By this, I mean my tolerance for petty things, complaining, noise commotion, big crowds, insensitive comments, menial tasks, pointless drama, spending energy on people who’ll never return it, rudeness, and a myriad of other things. The one thing I’ve become the least tolerant of is hearing others complain about their children. I’d give everything to have my child wake me up out of a deep sleep at 5:00 AM, so I cannot stand to hear such utterances from other parents. They got to keep their precious child(ren), I didn’t. I used to be an exceptionally tolerant person, but now, my perspective on so many things has changed, and I know that life is too short to be spent in additional discomfort. My patience is simply not as strong as it once was, and I think that’s okay.

3. My previous ideas about faith. I’ve never necessarily identified with a specific religion, but I’ve always believed that there must be something greater than all of us. Part of me still does, but not in the way I once did. I also used to believe in the concept of karma; now I am absolutely convinced that it does not exist. What goes around comes around? Really? Nope, I don’t think so. My perfect baby died, but there are still rotten individuals who do terrible things walking around, wasting their lives, making the world a harsher, more awful place. My husband and I have done our best to live honestly, be good to others and try to make the world around us a better place, and we’re ‘rewarded’ with the ultimate loss. How does that work? For the past six months, I’ve been prayed for, encouraged to talk to god, encouraged to find god… and nothing. I won’t go into all of this now, but in spite of my own efforts and the efforts of others, nothing about my loss is better because of these things. Even if I did ‘find god’, would my situation change or hurt less? I don’t believe so. Now more than ever, I simply believe that there is energy within each of us that never dies, it just changes form. That energy is then a part of the bigger picture, a part of everything. That makes sense to me. That’s why I still believe that my sweet baby will never truly be gone… she’s gone from me, but never truly gone. At least now, I no longer need to argue with myself about whether or not to believe in certain things. What I do believe in, above all else, is love. It’s love that has kept my heart beating and the rest of me anchored. THAT is where my faith is at.

4. Connections with people. This is a tough one to approach, but if I’m being totally honest with myself, and anyone who reads this blog, it’s true that I have lost some connections with others entirely along my grief journey. Not all of them are completely lost or gone, but they have completely changed. For example, my two sisters have become strangers to me, and I to them. This is simply speculation, but I think they, along with many others, just don’t know how to approach me. So, we don’t talk. I can’t say that I blame them. No one is really at fault. I know that I’m different now, I know that not everyone is comfortable with that or even understands it. It does make me terribly sad, but I guess it just is what it is. When it comes down to it, I’ll always be more sad about losing my daughter. I can’t help that. I also can’t help the sneaking suspicion that some people think I should be “getting over it by now”, or think something is off with me because I’m still so heartbroken, and that’s a major bummer. Some of my changing relationships are solely my fault, because I just can’t handle some of the things that come along with them, like babies or pregnancy. This makes me feel helpless and out of control of my feelings. I absolutely despise myself for this weakness, but right now, I’m not handling those things very well. Those things were taken from me and I desperately want them back. It’s the worst feeling in the world to suddenly realize that you’re at all envious of someone you love dearly, and that you have an uncontrollable emotional reaction whenever they begin to talk about the most important, happiest things in their lives. Those people deserve every bit of their good fortunes, and they should be shouting it from the rooftops, but for some reason, it still hurts. Distance, for now, seems to be the only way to protect my heart from such things, but my greatest fear is that those precious people won’t still be there when this fog clears from my life. I just hope they don’t totally give up on me. That brings with it an entirely new dimension of grief and fear in the wake of baby loss.

5. The ability to just ‘BE’. This particular loss has pros and cons. The biggest pro is that I am never without my Lucy, she is always with me in both my heart and my thoughts. I’ll never be able to let go of her, no matter how much time passes. I don’t want to. The amount of grief I feel can be measured by the amount of love I have for my baby girl, which is endless. Therefore, I can never just ‘be’, because my thoughts will always be mingling with some amount of grief and sadness. Because of that, simple conversations and social niceties like, “How are you?” and “Have a good day” are no longer easy things to respond to. How am I? My go-to answer these days is, “I’m surviving.” Often, I get a sympathetic nod and sometimes a semi-understanding chuckle, but for me, it’s always this multi-dimensional, difficult thing. I may have good days, but they’ll never be quite as good as they were before our loss. Sometimes even well-meaning remarks can hit me in all the wrong ways, and I end up feeling hurt whereas before, I never would have even noticed. I will forever read into things differently than I did in my past life, which really can be difficult.

I know that there have been many other little losses following our Lucy’s departure, but I have learned to accept those things, no matter how much it hurts. Most of the losses I’ve mentioned here aren’t my fault or anyone else’s, I think it just goes along with the territory. Along with the additional loss, there has also actually been a lot that I’ve gained. I’ll focus on sharing those things soon. The certainty here though is that my life will never be the same. For most parents, the most important thing in their life is their child. The same is true for us loss parents, it’s just different. Lucy is still the most important thing in my life, but because she is no longer physically here with me, I’m forced to adjust so that I can still parent her somehow. It’s a tough path to be on, and one that will never end.

Juggling

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This past week has been a jumbled, emotional rollercoaster. I have found all too quickly that juggling work and feeling the full weight of grief is some pretty strenuous work. I leave work feeling absolutely exhausted (and often a little discouraged about life in general); all I want to do is go home, climb in bed, and shut out the rest of the world. The constant interaction with others all day long is so very tiresome. I haven’t been able to set aside any exclusive time to spend with grief and thoughts of Lucy, which seems to be making my emotional state weaker and much more vulnerable. It’s already always bubbling beneath the surface and now not having a convenient way to release it is taking its toll.

After seeing my therapist yesterday, I realize how important it is to carve out some time, even if only in very short intervals, to spend with Lucy somehow. Balancing all of the demands of teaching is hard already, but to add on top of that the missing of Lucy and having few ways to express that, and no private place to retreat to during the day, is so trying. It even feels like the time at home, in my safe zone, hasn’t allowed for me to do what I need to do to continue processing. The days are so short now, and are only growing shorter (it’s dark at an impossibly early time now- sigh), so a rushed walk with the dog is actually a luxury. By the time I get back from that, if I haven’t stayed too late at work, Chris is often working on some house project, so I like to try to compensate by getting dinner ready. As soon as we finish dinner, get things cleaned up, and get stuff ready for work the next day, it’s time to crash into bed and I’ve had no time to do anything healing in the least bit. I have felt so truly depressed lately, and it doesn’t show many signs of getting better in the immediate future. The sudden cold snap, new fallen snow, and holiday season are NOT helping. My students and so many others around me are getting excited about the holidays, and all I want to do is press a fast forward button so they’ll be over with.

I should be proud of myself though, as I’ve only had one emotional meltdown at work, and at least it was on my planning hour. I think my greatest fear is having a meltdown I can’t bounce back from right away while at school, or worse, one in the middle of class. I don’t think it’s going to happen, but my threshold for stress isn’t where it used to be, and when I get flustered, I have a tough time coming back down and I start screwing things up. I do have a great group of students, and mostly things are fine, but there’s just. so. much. to. do. In my head, I feel like I’m failing at every turn. I know this is not true, and that it really does look like I have a handle on things, but inside I’m in a screaming panic the majority of the time I’m in the classroom. I am working on deep breathing when things get to be too heavy or I start feeling the panic of impending failure, or emotional meltdown. It seems to be helping me get a grip. I keep telling myself that I’m getting through one minute at a time… and that a lot of little things just don’t matter. I’m doing my best to leave work at work when I can, and I keep trying to remember that no matter what, I always get it all done. And that it’s going to be okay.

Yesterday was Lucy’s alleged conception date, one year ago. She has existed for one year. And, today marks 101 days that she’s been gone. One year of loving her with my whole being, and over 100 days of aching for her with my shattered heart. I found myself in a moment of hurt on Friday at school, and randomly grabbed a file from a folder attached to my bulletin board, and stuck to the bottom of it was a photograph of a butterfly. I remember having received the photo from our former custodian like two years ago, but I definitely don’t remember how on earth it ended up there. It was exactly what I needed right at that moment though, and I thanked my sweet Lucy out loud and couldn’t help but feel a little better. She shows up every now and again in the sweetest, most unexpected ways. At least I have that.

The butterfly photo that just happened to appear at just the right moment...

The butterfly photo that just happened to appear at just the right moment…

Lack of Sparkle

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I’ve lost my sparkle. It’s been extinguished. I have never felt so apathetic in my life… I don’t care about much of anything. I guess I thought my return to work would bring some kind of happy feeling back into my life, and it turns out, I’m coming up short. It’s been good to see my students and a few of my colleagues, but really, all I find myself doing is faking smiles and feeling tired. I’m going through the motions; it’s like I never left. It’s only day four and I feel like I’ve been here since the first day of school. I’m cynical, sad, and unmotivated. I’ve become a very talented actress this week and I think people even believe me when I say, “It’s good to be back.” The wind has simply gone out of my sails. I feel a weariness in my bones and I ache all over. I hope I can keep up the charade, especially for the rest of this evening, since I’m technically at parent teacher conferences. Shame on me right, I’m blogging while on duty and I don’t even feel remotely guilty. It’s a slow afternoon so far anyway.

One of the things that has snuck up on me is the despair I’ve been feeling after interacting with some of my students… some of them are truly awesome young people, and the realization hits me continuously that we will never get to know our daughter in that stage of life, or ANY stage. It hurts. Do their parents know how lucky they are? It isn’t fair.

Added to all of that is the fact that Lucy would be three months old today. Another milestone never met. I think it’s safe to say I’m depressed. Once again, I marvel at how the world just continues turning and time keeps moving forward in spite of the fact that Lucy isn’t here.

“Then gradually time awakened again and moved sluggishly on.”

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I had a quote that kept rolling around my head this afternoon, and for some reason I just couldn’t place it… my memory isn’t always so great these days, but I finally figured it out. Every year, I love reading Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men with my ninth grade classes. And every year, the same lines from the text grab me and pull me into a greater appreciation of the language of pure, great literature. Here’s what’s been sticking in my brain: “As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment. Then gradually time awakened again and moved sluggishly on.” The past three months since Lucy passed has felt absolutely, exactly like Steinbeck described in those lines. That time had stopped. Movement had stopped. The world stopped for more than a moment. And now… now I’m at the point in the story in which time has gradually awakened again and is moving sluggishly on. It’s both promising and undeniably heartbreaking all at once. For some reason, I see my return to work as the next step, the next turning page. It breaks my heart. However, after going in to work for the past two days, setting up my classroom again and bracing for my return, I feel like the pause button has been released and time is simply continuing on, and I’ll be back in my niche as if nothing has changed. There is little time to think of anything else in my job, and in some ways that will be both healing and heart-wrenching. The paradox of life as a loss parent (and teacher). Time is now moving sluggishly forward and I have little control over it. I must return to exactly the way things were, even though nothing is truly the same. Time goes on, with or without us, doesn’t it?

Lucy, I promise to keep finding ways to spend time with your memory and spirit, little one, no matter how much time moves forward. I love you so much…

Turning Another Page

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Well, the time has come. I’m going back to work on Monday, and in doing so, am turning another page in my grief and life journey. If I’m being completely honest, I have mixed feelings and emotions about it, and some lurking doubts about my ability to handle it. I have done the best I can these past few months to take care of myself and find a way to function in the ‘real’ world again. One of the popular mottos for teaching has often been that ‘you can’t take care of your students if you don’t take care of yourself’… I hope that I can still continue to care for myself with grief in the right ways in order to function the best I can in my classroom. It’s not the interactions with students and staff that are giving me anxiety, it’s mostly the tasking bit. There are thousands of tiny decisions that must be made in the course of a school day, and all of them generally feel like an ’emergency’ that must be addressed immediately. On one hand, I feel that all of that will allow me to take some focus away from the underlying sadness of missing Lucy and that might actually be good for me. On the other hand, what if it is all too much? I know my threshold for stress is different than it used to be. I’d like to think that because I’ve been through the worst, so everything else is minor, right? Deep down, I think I’ve got this and that everything is going to be just fine, and I will keep telling myself that.

There are many advantages to teaching in such a small community, one being that most everyone cares. With some of my sweet students and Chris just down the hall, I should be alright. Maybe I’ll even surprise myself. I should most definitely surprise my principal, because as it stands now, I think she expects a blubbering mess. It seems that way anyhow, though I know what she’s said and offered already come from a place of concern and care. She offered for me to be ‘exempt’ from conferences next week (meaning, I could shut my classroom door and do lesson planning) and also offered to speak to all of my classes ahead of my return about etiquette for these types of situations. For conferences, she fears I will be bombarded by parents who want to share condolences. I’ve worked with my therapist on how to handle that if it gets overwhelming, and I’m willing to face it. What I’ve noticed so far in my interactions with others since Lucy’s passing is that the first ‘sighting’ is often uncomfortable for others because they don’t know what to say or do, but once they realize Chris and me are still pretty much the same people on the surface, it’s all fine and they aren’t weird after that. The parents that typically show up for conferences are ones that I am going to see often throughout the year, so it’s best to just rip the Band-Aid off, so to speak. One example of this is my interactions with a former student who works at the breakfast place just up the road… I saw her two weeks ago when I went to breakfast with two of my friends and then again this morning when Chris and I met up with another friend. When she saw me for the first time, she acted like a deer in the headlights and didn’t say much to me, though I attempted to carry on a brief conversation with her. I know it’s because she simply didn’t know what to say or how to act. Today, she came up and gave me a big hug and shared with me what she’s doing these days, and it was all fine. I know that it’s tough for others and that they don’t always know how to act around me, so (though it can seem like a lot of work sometimes) it’s up to me to make sure they take their cues from me. I intend to do this for my students on Monday. By the way, I shared with my principal that I DO NOT want her to go in and discuss etiquette on how to act around me with my students… I mean really, how to you address students on how to act around their teacher with the deceased baby? Yikes. That’s the best way to make things absolutely awkward for my poor students. I politely declined that as well, and hope that she will follow my wishes. I think most of my students are going to be just fine, and no one is going to say anything too outrageous. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m just a ticking emotional time bomb. As long as I can keep my emotions in check while at work, I know that I have my safe haven here at home if things get rough. I’ve always been good at putting on the face and switching into teacher mode, and hopefully I still can.

I received a beautiful letter from one of my students this week (pictured below) telling me that she didn’t want to be one of the people to bombard me as soon as I am back in the classroom, so she wrote a letter instead. She explained how often she thinks of me, that we didn’t deserve what happened, and that we are very loved at LHS. It was very touching and sweet and made me realize that it’s all going to be okay because there are a lot of wonderful students and colleagues who are all a part of a bigger support system than I’d realized we had. It will be another safe place to be. I just hope I can maintain the confidence that I have in this moment when I go back to the old routine.

While work is going to be familiar territory to navigate again, I still realize that nothing will truly ever be the same. I heard that song “Pompeii” by Bastille the other day… the lyrics spoke to me: “And if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing’s changed at all? And if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like you’ve been here before? How am I going to be an optimist about this…?” There are moments when I close my eyes and it really almost, almost feels like nothing has changed, and that I’ve been here before… but that façade always crashes down around me immediately. So, like those lyrics, I continue to ask myself “how am I going to be an optimist about this???” I am finding ways as I go along, but it’s so difficult sometimes. Lucy is forever a part of me, my whole heart. I still find comfort in the little signs she seems to leave behind. Today I saw both a dragonfly and a butterfly, and yesterday even a little heart note (I keep finding SO many random heart shapes these days!) on the bathroom counter (also pictured below)… these tiny things bring me comfort when I need it. It made my heart smile today when Chris said a dragonfly landed on him yesterday and he felt like it was from Lucy… she continues to be a part of our constant lives, which makes me feel like maybe I can be optimistic through this somehow. There is more love for her every single day.

A heartfelt letter from my thoughtful student.

A heartfelt letter from my thoughtful student.

A Lucy note in the form of a heart-shaped water droplet on the bathroom counter...

A Lucy note in the form of a heart-shaped water droplet on the bathroom counter…

A Sigh of Relief?

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Yesterday was hard, but today is easier. I woke up and almost felt myself heave a sigh of relief. Halloween is over. Last month, on the first, I was having a hard time because suddenly it was even more glaringly obvious that time keeps moving us away from our moments with Lucy. I think on this day, November 1, I am simply feeling some relief because Halloween is over. Of course, there’s the ‘Halloween hangover’ to contend with, which consists of all of the adorable little children in their adorable costumes in all of the adorable Halloween photos all over Facebook and Instagram. I know I would have done the same thing if Lucy had been here for her first Halloween experience, so I do not fault those parents for doing so. I do however, fault my own weakness of looking at the damn pictures in the first place, knowing that it would sting. I finally asked myself, “What the hell am I doing?” and promptly closed down Facebook. Might need to disconnect for a day or two until the hoopla dies down. And, in thinking of that, I breathe another sigh of relief. I have to protect my heart when I can. The only babies I could stand looking at are those I know to be rainbow babies, from a couple of the blogs I’ve been following. I find comfort in following the stories of other women who’ve been where I’m at and go on to have another child. It’s been my intention for some time to link to a few of those blogs by the way, so I’m going to do that now.

As Long As I’m Living

Still Born and Still Breathing

The Reluctant Aviator

Jensen Grey

Each of these women have been an inspiration to me, and I read everything I possibly could on each of their blogs as quickly as possible. The first site I stumbled upon was Lindsey Henke’s Still Born and Still Breathing, and I couldn’t get enough of it… I was so devastated, and her message of hope was really something I needed at the time (and still do). I’ve also started reading her PALS (Pregnancy After Loss Support) site (link here), and find inspiration there too… I hope to be a PAL mom in the near future. Amanda’s As Long As I’m Living blog is one I found just a few weeks ago, right around the time she was anticipating her rainbow baby. Again, I went ahead and read everything she’s written and was happy when her little rainbow boy was born. It gives me hope that I too will be in that position at some point. I truly have been inspired by her story, and reading about her continuing experience has done my heart a lot of good. The Reluctant Aviator blog also comes from a loss mom, Janice, who’s just recently had her rainbow baby as well. Again with that whole sigh of relief thing… when I read the words of these women, I breathe a sigh of relief because there’s proof that we can and will get through this, and that there’s the potential of a rainbow in our lives too. Danielle is a loss mom who writes her blog, Jensen Grey- His Story, to process her grief and honor her son; I’ve found a lot of comfort from her perspectives as well. I do hope that someday, my blog might help even one person to see that there is hope, that this can be survived and joy can coexist with grief.

Another sigh of relief I’ve exhaled has been for returning to work next week. Now, I realize even now that I might come to refute this after getting back into the thick of it all, but for now, I am feeling okay about it. The upside is that there will be routine and purpose again in my daily life, meaning that I won’t have time during the day to wallow in the depths of my grief… but the downside is exactly that too. There is no time for reflection or grief in the classroom because everything moves so quickly and is so fragmented. It will also be a loud reminder that life moves on, and there’s no stopping it. I don’t believe I would have been emotionally and mentally prepared to go back to work any sooner than now. I know that it’s been a huge advantage to me to be able to take this time, as not everyone gets that luxury. I think I’m ready. I feel that I’ll have a different attitude this year; I just need to let some things go and realize that it’s okay to be imperfect, and okay to relax. Already, I’m starting the mantra: “I can do this. I can do this because I’ve already been through the worst.”

So, for today, I will continue to try to breathe these sighs of relief, make some more lesson plans in the online gradebook, and try to be kind to myself. All I can do is just take one day at a time and get through each one as well as I can, with Lucy safe in my heart.

If Only

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If only Lucy were here. If only everything could have gone as ‘planned’. If only my baby girl were growing and thriving. If only she had a chance to live. If only I had a chance to actively be her Mommy. If only Chris had a chance to actively be her Daddy. If only Lucy had the opportunity to become who she might have been. If only my heart could be whole again. If only there were a way to turn back time and fix this. If only if only if only.

My head is constantly full of the ‘if onlys’. It’s hard. Every day it’s tough. Somehow, after nearly three months though, I guess I’ve figured out how to begin living and grieving Lucy at the same time. I was picking up sticks outside in our yard today, admiring the interestingly warm Fall weather, and the thought hit me again, “I’m doing ordinary things, continuing to live, and my baby died. How am I doing ANY of this?” It has occurred to me that there were only two choices when Lucy died… 1) I die too, or 2) I keep on living. That’s it. Morbid, yes I know, but it’s really what it boils down to. Once I made the clear choice to keep on living, then I had another choice to make: 1)Continue on the road to despair, or 2) Pursue the path of hope. I have chosen choice #2 there. Because Chris and I are two people who’ve always figured out how to make the very best of what we have to work with, there it is… we must find a way to make the best out of what our lives now consist of. Unfortunately, it consists of having no Lucy to hug, love, and parent. We have been devastated by this, but we have no choice but to make the best of it, because that’s what we do. I am not intending to simplify our grief here, because it is absolutely a deep, never-ending process with unpredictable twists and turns, it’s just that I keep realizing how time continues to pass whether we’re ready for it to or not, and it’s amazing how life just keeps going. It still seems as though the world should have stopped spinning when Lucy took her last breath. I guess it did for us, but even we are unable to stop time for much more than a moment. If only things were different.

Yesterday was a healing day. I met with my aunt Rosie, and my mom joined us as well. I don’t think my aunt realizes what an important role her rock collecting has played for me (and my mom too really, with her Petosky stones) with her heart-shaped rocks. I think we had a little visit from my precious girl while we were all out looking for special stones on the beach. I know my mom snapped photos, but being there in the moment was really impactful. Call me crazy, but there was this piece of plastic that was on the beach, in one of these tractor tires out there (sounds weird and ugly, but really it isn’t), on it were different lines, and I noticed it when I walked by it. About five minutes later, I passed by the same spot again, and there was the shape of an “L” imprinted in the sand, presumably from the plastic object that had moved. It made sense at the time, and felt like another little note from Lucy, trying to leave an imprint of her L name behind. To solidify that, there was a little heart-shaped disruption in the sand just outside of that tire. It was cool for the three of us to see those little signs, and we all felt that it was my sweet baby girl, saying hello. If only instead of searching for these signs, Lucy were here in my arms instead. If only, if only, my sweet baby. Oh, if only.

So here’s some of the other bizarre/ not-so-bizarre things I’ve been thinking. Although Lucy’s life was short, I am certain that it has made an impact. I found myself thinking of the butterfly effect earlier… this idea of how Lucy’s life and death has impacted everything that Chris and I have done since. And our actions in turn impact the world around us. I think about the idea of me returning to work a marking period early, or the idea that everything we are doing right now is different than what we might be doing otherwise… every step we take from here on out is different than it would have been if Lucy had survived. Different people may be affected or impacted by our actions due to the timing or deviated path we are now on. I can only hope that these different actions end up having a positive impact upon the world around us. I’d like to think that me returning to work early might have a positive impact on some of my students. Maybe the potentially positive things that result from that could end up being little gifts from Lucy. My positive actions in turn could be Lucy’s positive impact. I don’t know, maybe I sound crazy; I just wish I could make sense of all of this. I have moments still when I’m so fucking mad that this has happened to our little girl, to us… I know there is nothing we can do to change it, but it still stings and hurts so much sometimes. It suddenly hits me out of nowhere (Chris too), and I realize there’s not a damn thing we can do to change what happened, and I get mad all over again. If only we could change it, but we can’t. Again, I guiltily and reluctantly resign myself to the fact that all we can do is move forward and try to create something good out of what remains. We are doing our best, because it’s all we know how to do. If only we were making the best out of our situation with our lovely daughter… but we can’t. I hate this. We’ll keep going though, because it’s what we do. *Sigh* I miss my baby.

Every Step

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No matter where I go or what I do, she is with me every step of the way. This morning, I’m in a reflective mood as I sit here watching the flame of Lucy’s candle dance along playfully. My mind has become a busy place… I can think a thousand different thoughts in the span of mere seconds. Naturally, the majority of those thoughts are connected to my Lucy. I’ve found that the knowledge that she’s with me in everything I do to be a comfort, and this helps me to accept that time has moved along a bit and it’s okay to do the same. The remembering and loving of Lucy is always going to be there, right alongside the sadness that comes from missing her… I know that there is no danger in my ever forgetting my sweet baby. She’ll always be with me.

I’ve reached a point where I am having good days again. At first, I felt bad about this, as if I was betraying Lucy somehow, even though logically I knew it wasn’t true. Is every day a good day? NO, but there are more of them mixed in and they aren’t as shocking to me as they were. I know that going on to find some happiness and enjoying things is really another way for me to honor Lucy. That’s easier said than done, of course. I know that there are some very challenging things ahead in the near future (ahem, the holiday season, just to name one…), and for those things, I’m just going to handle them in the ways that feel right to me, without giving myself a mega guilt trip. People will either understand or they won’t. I know I need to just keep going with what feels right.

Speaking of increasing good days and such, I should give a quick update on the mini road trip up north. I am so glad that I went. The scenery alone was so healing… I cannot believe just how beautiful the state I live in is. Pure Michigan! I saw reminders of Lucy in all of the beauty around me. It was great to connect with a new friend and get to know her better. There was a steady flow of good conversation and it was easy to just ‘be’. It took my mind off much of the heavy sadness I’ve been carrying around, and reminded me again that it is okay to laugh and feel happy when those things appear in front of me. I won’t lie and say it was easy to be away from Chris and the comfort zone of home… it wasn’t. I missed him and was truly happy to arrive back at home, but I’m glad that I took the opportunity to go on a mini adventure. It has helped my perception of things; I realize more now that I am strong and I can handle anything that comes my way from here on out. I’m sure that feeling is likely to ebb and flow like my grief, but overall, I feel that I’ll manage things with a greater ease than I ever did before. After you’ve been through the worst hell you can imagine, everything else is easier, right? I have one week left before I return to work, and I am going to keep that concept in mind if/when things become stressful. Inevitably, with teaching in the current education system, there will be stress. BUT- I can handle it. Everything else will seem easier to me now than what Chris and I have been through. I will say that I’m looking forward to getting back to feeling a sense of purpose through my work, though I will have to be much more intentional about setting time aside to reflect and ‘spend time’ with Lucy. Back to ‘teacher me’… once again, it’s so strange how nothing has changed, yet everything has changed. It’s likely to be a crazy ride, but having Lucy constantly in my heart will hopefully allow me to face it gracefully.

Inspiration Point

Inspiration Point

Lucy's name in the sand on the beach at Betsie Point Lighthouse.

Lucy’s name in the sand on the beach at Betsie Point Lighthouse.

The view from the trail near Sleeping Bear Dunes

The view from the trail near Sleeping Bear Dunes

Near Sleeping Bear Dunes

Near Sleeping Bear Dunes

Ebb and Flow

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It’s been seventy-three days since we lost our beautiful Lucy. Looking through the span of time that has passed, I almost find it hard to believe that I’ve gotten up each day and lived through all of those sunrises and sunsets. Most days lately, it’s easier to breathe and function. There are still moments of insurmountable pain that suddenly wash over me (like yesterday), but I recover from those setbacks better and more quickly than I was. I can get out of bed in the morning without feeling as if I’m forcing myself to do so. I have embraced the idea of the ebb and flow of my grief, knowing that however I am feeling is perfectly okay. I’ve already overcome the harshest, most crushing emotions many times over, so I know that I can handle them as they continue to appear in future days. I don’t always feel strong, but I’m making progress and am content in the knowledge that I’ve possessed the strength to get this far and more importantly, haven’t given up or caved to bitterness and anger. I maintain optimism that our story still continues from here.

There really is a daily ebb and flow of grief… every day is a different experience, and I can’t always predict when some of the waves of overwhelming sadness will arrive. I just do my best to go with the flow, feel it, and keep trying to go on with my day. There’s a vast emptiness within me that exists because of Lucy’s physical absence, a space that can never truly be filled. I suppose that in time, my heart with simply become larger and fuller as I make room for more love. I miss the feeling of unbridled joy that often accompanies love, but I continue to hope that one day I will feel it again, like the old me once did. I can’t believe that my heart felt that kind of joy only seventy-four days ago… it feels like several lifetimes ago. Yes, I can laugh a bit, smile, and even sing along to a random tune on the radio, but I am just not who I once was. There will always be a tinge of sadness in my eyes and an intense longing in my heart. And I guess that’s okay. Sadness is a companion I will live with for the rest of my life (as if there really is a choice), one I will continue to embrace like a close friend. Immense grief and the sadness that accompanies it is the result of great love. I know that my pain is simply a testament to how much I love (and continue to love) Lucy. It is so hard though, not having her with us. It will never make sense, never be right, never be okay that she isn’t here with us. My heart feels so heavy and burdened when I think of all of the things we should have with Lucy both now and in the future. I won’t ever understand it, but I know my only choice is to accept it and do my best every day. I miss my daughter and all she would have been every moment… I guess with that, there’s comforting reassurance that she is the biggest part of my heart.

I think the hardest part, aside from the horrible pain of loss, is the paradoxical idea that nothing has changed yet everything has changed. Our lives look no different than they did before, but that is what makes it so crushing. Sometimes I get a clear glimpse of what our lives should be like right now with a two and a half month old Lucy, and it crushes me. It’s not even babies so much that bother me anymore, it’s the idea that OUR baby should be here too. I still feel envy when I think of or see families who have all of their little ones, and I don’t think I’d do well just yet being in close proximity to a baby born around the same time as Lucy, but really it just boils down to wanting HER. That will never go away, whether there are more children in our future or not. That’s a hard thing to accept. We’ll never stop missing her and wanting her, but we will never stop loving her either. For now, we just have to keep going with the ebb and flow of it all and hope that the pain lessens a little in the future. img_20161017_105900_1792

Today’s Meltdown Brought to You By…. ?

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I have no idea what triggered today’s emotional meltdown. I went out for a great breakfast with two dear friends this morning and was feeling pretty good. When I got home, Waggs was so, so happy to see me; she really amped up the doggy greeting theatrics and made her elation extremely clear by throwing her pup self on the floor, wriggling all over. I was chatting with her and petting her, laughing at her crazy movements, when suddenly WHAM! A monumental wave of sadness hit me out of nowhere and totally dragged me into the undertow. It was as shocking as it was sudden; within a moment, I was sitting on the floor sobbing. I have no true idea of where it came from. The distinct thought, “Things are supposed to be different right now” loudly repeated itself in my head. I had the urge then to go into the nursery. I went directly to Lucy’s memory box in the drawer and untied the ribbon that holds it closed. That isn’t something I’ve done often since we came home without her in our arms, but today it felt necessary. I cried big crocodile tears and just looked through her stuff. Sweet little hand and foot prints, the clay imprints of her precious little hands and feet, her tiny flower headband, her identification band from the hospital and a couple other little keepsakes are stored in there. I unfolded the little outfit we put on her before we held her for the first and last time, tried to catch her scent from it, and just held it here on my lap. And then I just let myself really cry it out, let the noise just flow from me. After I collected myself, I carefully put her things away, tied the box shut again, and tucked it back into the drawer until next time. Then I sat in the rocker and read one of the books meant for her (Guess How Much I Love You). I felt the calm settle back over me and felt better for having embraced the sadness for a little while. It turns out, I just needed to do these things today. It’s impossible to know when the waves are going to slam against you when you’re sailing through the grief journey. I’m learning that no matter how much I think I have it together, there will be times when suddenly the pain and sadness demands to be dealt with, and that’s okay. I’ve been exhausted since, but I do feel better. Waggs convinced me that a walk was the best thing to do after a nice healthy emotional unraveling, so, we took one step and then another and continued on with the day, looking for signs of our precious Lucy.