Tag Archives: loss mom teacher

Somehow

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Somehow, I’ve survived. Somehow, I’ve adjusted. Somehow, I’m capable. Somehow, I’ve kept right on living. Somehow, I rise each morning and go through my day. How? I don’t really know how… just… somehow.

There is nothing that could have prepared Chris and I for the most painful loss of our lives. Is anyone ever prepared for such a thing? No, I can tell you that- NO. In those first weeks, I never thought I’d ever take another breath that didn’t hurt, smile sincerely again, laugh, get through a day without a breakdown, or look at my life as something I wanted to continue living. Somehow though, I can now do all of those things. I absolutely still think those thoughts on more occasions than I really want to admit, but now that the smoke has cleared just a little, I feel okay more often than not. I’m not certain of when the ‘okayness’ became the dominating way of being, it happened slowly, gradually. I still have terrible days, and I am still not who I used to be (I never will be again). I still feel like I want to quit everything- my job, my responsibilities, even life sometimes, but somehow, I keep going because I know I’ll get back to being ‘okay’. Every day, even more than five months later, feels like I’m walking through a bad dream, one I keep hoping I’ll wake up from. Though I’ve completely accepted the reality of living without my beautiful child, every day is still filled with longing and heartache. That’s the thing about grief, you carry it with you through everything. Some days, the load is a little lighter, but on others, it’s so heavy that the strain of taking a step is more than you can bear. I have surprised myself by my ability to carry this sadness with me; the fact that I can get through each day, doing all of the things I needed to do in the “Before” phase of my life, is at least noteworthy.

This “After” existence is a hard one, and it has required all of my strength and focus. It hasn’t been easy, and I’ve changed a lot. I’ve developed some odd habits and tendencies, I’ve distanced myself from most people in general (and some have distanced themselves from me), I care much less about a lot of things that I used to care about. I used to think that being a teacher was one of the things that defined who I was… now, not so much. For me right now, getting through a full day of teaching, interacting kindly with everyone who walks through my classroom door, executing good classroom management, keeping up with an overwhelming amount of paperwork, grading, etc., and essentially being an actress on a stage for eight hours a day is an accomplishment. It is often all I can manage to do in a day; when I get home, there’s not much left of me. I have become terrible at returning phone calls and texts, because often, I just don’t have any energy left to interact. I used to carry work home with me, literally and mentally/emotionally; now, it is left at school. I do not have the capacity to take it home with me any longer. Home is my safe place, our sanctuary. When I am here, I am free to grieve, reflect, and take care of myself. Here, I can work on my ‘okayness’. Unfortunately, right now, it’s not a place where my work self can live too. I don’t know how this might impact my teaching effectiveness in the long run, and most days, I’m not sure that I even care. When I am at work, I work hard. I treat my students with respect, and I teach to the best of my ability. For the sake of my sanity, I just can’t bring it home. I know it won’t always be like this, but the ‘okayness’ could not exist in my life if I didn’t work on it. Home is my place to do that.

Reflecting on the past five months, I see how my priorities have shifted. I don’t know that I truly knew just how amazing my husband is, and how lucky I am to have found him. While I love each person in my life, I have grown to love Chris more than I had ever even imagined I could. I love him more than I love myself (and yes, I know I need to work on loving myself more), and I have serious doubts about my ability to get through something like this without him. Love for Chris, love for Lucy, love for everyone in my life is what keeps me going. It is the most powerful force in my life. Though life has been excruciatingly unfair to us lately, I still love the life I’ve created.

I think the most powerful lesson I’ve learned through all of this is that somehow, life goes on. It’s a harsh yet comforting lesson. I’ve been thinking about this a lot in the past week or so. No matter what happens, life goes on. There are times that I feel guilty that I’ve continued living and have found ways to enjoy life again here and there. Then I have to remind myself that my baby would probably want me to be happy. I’ll get there again. Life moves on, and I won’t always feel like this. I will feel peace again. I won’t ever get over Lucy; there will always be scars on my heart, but they’ve become perhaps the most beautiful part of me. Sadness will always be part of my life, but it will coexist with joy.

I’m going to try to enter this next week with optimism. I’ll keep looking ahead to better times, and applaud myself for the strength I’ve developed through this journey. Somehow, I’ll keep getting through.

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…