I wonder...
Would you be the fearless little boy who bravely ventures off into the world, trying to keep up with your sister and brothers? Or would you keep close by, tucking behind my legs as you peek out into the great world?
Would you be quiet, with just a few words like your speech-delayed brothers at this age? Maybe, somehow you would be the loudest of our children speaking non-stop?
Curly blond hair like your Dad as a child? Light brown straight hair similar to the others?
Would you sleep alone all night, or would I hear the thud and patting of your feet as you shuffle into my room at 3am...
Would you sneak all sorts of junk food with Ryan? Or only eat healthy foods like Caroline?
Would I hear you slide down the stairs on your belly while I cook dinner? Perhaps you would have been cautious and called for help stranded at the top of the stairs.
Maybe you would have been out of diapers for more than a year already, like your siblings. Or would you have been the one to go at your own pace?
3 means throwing shoes out of car windows as you drive down the road. you know, just cause you can.
3 means finding your voice and using it a lot. with awkward questions about people you pass in the grocery store or see at the Y. As a parent it means holding my ground longer than before as I wait your tantrum out because you don't want to put your socks on.
3 means playing organized t-ball and soccer for the first time. Getting your very own uniform t-shirt just like your older siblings and being so proud of it.
3 means preschool. Actual "big kid" school. Where you proudly waddle through the door with a backpack that is almost as long as you are tall.
3 means wanting to do everything on your own. Saying you don't need help, and moving slow as molasses to buckle your own seat belt or carry that bag of groceries into the house.
It means a big-kid bike with training wheels and giving that tricycle to a "little" kid in some other family.
3 means you are growing up. Except for you this year on your birthday you aren't. Your absence is noted completely.
Would you like oatmeal for breakfast like Ryan? Toast like Jackson? Or strawberries in your cereal like Caroline?
Most days I function and thrive quite well. That doesn't mean I long for your less. But now that most days are the good days, when I pause to appreciate my reality...that I birthed you and watched your body fail you unbelievably so...it takes my breath away.
So 3 years old is coming up. How the hell have I survived these 3 years? And how the hell am I so happy now? Mostly... That's a miracle maybe you orchestrated. Shout out to you.
xo....
Mom
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Friday, November 14, 2014
I'm the other NICU mom.
NICU moms and dads relate to one another in ways traditional birth parents do not. Cannot, really. It's this little club, albeit one that no one opts into willingly. NICU parents talk and compare birth weights in grams, not pounds and ounces. They compare how many weeks and days gestation they were when they delivered, where non-NICU parents simply state whether they delivered early or late.
Most NICU parents had a room full of doctors and nurses as they delivered, not just the 2 or 3 in attendance for traditional births. NICU parents know what it's like to go home from the hospital without their baby, calling every few hours for updates.
NICU parents know the "other side" of delivery and parenting newborns. They know what it's like to parent their newborn through a giraffe isolette (and they know that those fancy isolette's cost as much as a new BMW), rather than a plastic bassinet. They know what each lead and beep means, what Brady's are and how to change diapers around wires galore.
NICU parents talk about the day their children were able to come home. How much they need to bathe in Purell and hibernate for half of the year during germ season. NICU parents can support one another in ways non-NICU parents cannot. We get it. The anxieties. The fears. The what-if's... NICU parents have support groups through hospitals, non-profits such as The March of Dimes, and social media. Where details of adjusted ages and developmental milestones are the topics.
I'm the other NICU mom. The one whose baby didn't get to go home in a car seat after passing that car seat test. I'm the NICU mom who's friend, also a funeral director, brought my son home for me. I'm the NICU mom whose baby died.
I wonder if most NICU parents saw me. The mom of the sickest baby there. Were my tears visible to you? Perhaps my reality - an unbelievably sick child requiring a team of providers surrounding us constantly - was too terrifying for you. If so, I fully get it. But now that you are out of the NICU, do you see us? The other NICU moms. The ones not on the Facebook NICU support sites. The ones who do not define our child as a miracle because they survived such challenging odds at the beginning of his or her life. Because our children are just as miraculous as those who lived.
Do you choose to see us now? The NICU parents who are quiet as discussions meander back towards such topics? Do you choose to acknowledge us at The March of Dimes events?
Please see us. We are still NICU moms and dads. We are still, and always will be, parents. Please see us in the corner of this NICU club. We are here.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
I parent you still.
I parent you still.
I'm sure you hear me. Sometimes aloud. More often my inner voice.
It's quite special to be able to speak to you this way. I never feel alone now.
Being pregnant was my most favorite thing. Truly, I cannot recall a time in my life that I loved deeper. For several reasons. But the biggest was having that intimate, almost secret bond with my children. It was just ours. Your little kicks, rolls, hiccups. When parts of my day were hard I would place my hand over you and remember that none of that other stuff mattered. Like people say, a job is just a job. Money stresses were nothing to dwell upon. That little miracle growing inside of me, that was what was important. The 3 little kids and partner at home, that was the focus. So whenever things didn't go smoothly in my world I would turn inward. And relish in that mother-child bond I had going on. The private one that pregnancy allows, before the world can witness it and attempt to interfere.
When you died it felt as if that bond was ripped away from me. With no warning literal alarms rang across the floor of that hospital. Announcing it was time for your birth. I birthed you. I sang you happy birthday. I changed your diaper. I whispered to you...I parented you.
In death I parented you. Ensuring a peaceful, painless death that you deserved. How I wish that could have come decades later. I put aside my selfish need for more time with you and walked away. Because it was the right decision for you. As other new parents swaddle and rock their newborns to sleep I planned your burial. Chose the books we would read to you after spreading you ashes among nature's beauty. I parented you.
I bake you cupcakes and sweep up the sprinkles spilled by your sister and brothers off the floor every May 19th. I parent you.
I hang your stocking each Christmas, and sneak down in the morning to fill it with flowers. I buy a little boy somewhere a Christmas gift that I think you would have enjoyed. I parent you.
I answer a seemingly mundane question with my real answer. I have 4 children. I patiently wait as eyes search for the fourth kid. And I bravely and proudly speak of you when asked. I parent you.
I speak to you while on my runs. Ask you for help when you siblings are sick and not breathing well. I keep our relationship in the present tense. I parent you. And it is my honor to do so.
Every day I parent you. It doesn't matter that you aren't visible to the world around me. You have changed the way I breathe. The way I feel. The way I touch. The way I see. The way I live.
I may have held you just once in my arms, yet forever in my soul. Two plus years out I can tell you that our mother-son bond is not broken. It is greater than death.
I will go on parenting my 4 children. With a smile on my face.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Remembering
20 minutes after Ethan died I gingerly walked around my hospital room, trying to pack up my things...trying to give back the hospital grade breast pump that I had just rented 4 hours ago and somehow no longer needed. I remember Josh telling me to let him do everything. I remember looking out of the corner room view, 9 stories high, as twilight settled in over the triple deckers that are a Boston staple. I had forgotten what fresh air felt like. It had been 2 weeks since I had been outside.
I'm not very good at sitting still, aside from the bed rest mandated during that pregnancy, I'm always moving. I just walked around that little room. Sitting down carefully - no longer feeling the countless stitches from my complicated c-section. The shock was setting in. I sat down. Stood up. Nurses walked in the door one by one, offering their condolences. These had been the people who watched me shuffle to and from the NICU. The people who brought me water the night after I delivered when I was in too much pain to get it myself. Josh was back in New Hampshire, staying at home with our other 3 little kids. One nurse tried to gently remind me not to pick up my 34 lb 11-month-old alive baby at home. He was too heavy for my stitches or something. All I knew was that he was alive. Unlike the baby I had just let go 20 minutes before. My favorite nurse Sally stayed with us as I wandered around the room. A mom who was lost. With nothing to do.
Josh pulled out a pen for me to sign something. Discharge papers perhaps? Can't remember. The pen said Kent and Pelczar Funeral Home on it. Ironic. They were the ones to pick Ethan's body up the next morning. Sally, my favorite postpartum nurse, offered to drive us home. We weren't a blubbering mess. We weren't even crying at this point. The fog of shock was settling in nicely. This wonderful woman offered to leave her shift early and drive our car to another state for us. I have no doubt she would have done that either, if we had accepted. When I remember this offer I wonder how she would have gotten home? Would she have called her family or friend to follow us to NH? I have no idea. Sally told us that her nephew lost their baby 6 months before, to a similar reason.
I remember thinking that I was functioning rather well given what had just happened. I remember not crying as we packed up. As I was wheeled out in that huge wheelchair they make postpartum moms sit in. The kind with the space in the back for your boppy, bags and balloons people brought to you while they visited. I remember Sally calling down quietly to the valet, telling them what had happened to us, to our baby. So they wouldn't charge us for parking or say congratulations to us I guess. Or ask where our baby was? I remember sitting in the wheelchair, and the nice transport kid (he was so young) got lost on our way out. Nurses had told him to have us leave through the ER exit, rather than the main exit ... an attempt at some privacy for the parents who may break down at any moment I guess. He took a wrong turn and tried to take us out at the ER ambulance door. No worries, I had been at the Brigham enough to know how to get back to the ER.
I remember fresh air. Cold air for late May. Sitting in the front seat of the highlander instead of the usual back seat, looking over a baby. Music for the first time in 2 weeks. Driving home...and for some reason we stopped at Chipotle to get some food? We weren't hungry. But hadn't eaten that day and was taking narcotics that made me throw up on an empty stomach. And we drove away from Boston. Away from the life where babies always lived. Away from my life where my children didn't die.
Towards a new life. One I didn't want. Yet one I have. There is beauty in my life. The hard days I just have to look for it. But it's always there, waiting...
Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass...it's about learning to dance in the rain.
~ Vivian Greene
Maybe Vivian's baby died too.
I'm not very good at sitting still, aside from the bed rest mandated during that pregnancy, I'm always moving. I just walked around that little room. Sitting down carefully - no longer feeling the countless stitches from my complicated c-section. The shock was setting in. I sat down. Stood up. Nurses walked in the door one by one, offering their condolences. These had been the people who watched me shuffle to and from the NICU. The people who brought me water the night after I delivered when I was in too much pain to get it myself. Josh was back in New Hampshire, staying at home with our other 3 little kids. One nurse tried to gently remind me not to pick up my 34 lb 11-month-old alive baby at home. He was too heavy for my stitches or something. All I knew was that he was alive. Unlike the baby I had just let go 20 minutes before. My favorite nurse Sally stayed with us as I wandered around the room. A mom who was lost. With nothing to do.
Josh pulled out a pen for me to sign something. Discharge papers perhaps? Can't remember. The pen said Kent and Pelczar Funeral Home on it. Ironic. They were the ones to pick Ethan's body up the next morning. Sally, my favorite postpartum nurse, offered to drive us home. We weren't a blubbering mess. We weren't even crying at this point. The fog of shock was settling in nicely. This wonderful woman offered to leave her shift early and drive our car to another state for us. I have no doubt she would have done that either, if we had accepted. When I remember this offer I wonder how she would have gotten home? Would she have called her family or friend to follow us to NH? I have no idea. Sally told us that her nephew lost their baby 6 months before, to a similar reason.
I remember thinking that I was functioning rather well given what had just happened. I remember not crying as we packed up. As I was wheeled out in that huge wheelchair they make postpartum moms sit in. The kind with the space in the back for your boppy, bags and balloons people brought to you while they visited. I remember Sally calling down quietly to the valet, telling them what had happened to us, to our baby. So they wouldn't charge us for parking or say congratulations to us I guess. Or ask where our baby was? I remember sitting in the wheelchair, and the nice transport kid (he was so young) got lost on our way out. Nurses had told him to have us leave through the ER exit, rather than the main exit ... an attempt at some privacy for the parents who may break down at any moment I guess. He took a wrong turn and tried to take us out at the ER ambulance door. No worries, I had been at the Brigham enough to know how to get back to the ER.
I remember fresh air. Cold air for late May. Sitting in the front seat of the highlander instead of the usual back seat, looking over a baby. Music for the first time in 2 weeks. Driving home...and for some reason we stopped at Chipotle to get some food? We weren't hungry. But hadn't eaten that day and was taking narcotics that made me throw up on an empty stomach. And we drove away from Boston. Away from the life where babies always lived. Away from my life where my children didn't die.
Towards a new life. One I didn't want. Yet one I have. There is beauty in my life. The hard days I just have to look for it. But it's always there, waiting...
Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass...it's about learning to dance in the rain.
~ Vivian Greene
Maybe Vivian's baby died too.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
2 years
2 years ago I laid on my left side looking out at the Boston sky. 8 stories up the occasional butterfly visited my window. Those butterflies were among my visitors during those 10 days on my left side. A state away from my husband and 3 other children.
2 years ago tonight we laid in bed together for the last time. Thanking Jesus and my Lord for every moment with you. For every passing temperature check, blood pressure, heart beat check that passed as healthy on 4 hour intervals (that's day and night mind you). 2 years ago tomorrow morning I awoke feeling sick. It was almost shift change, my overnight nurse was pregnant - I remember that part clearly. I asked her if it was of concern that I felt nauseous? She said no. But I knew otherwise. 7 meant shift change and I waited 20 minutes for the nurses starting their day to round quickly. Then I pressed the button for my nurse. I happened to have 2 nurses assigned to me that day, both with more experience than I thought possible. These were the women, Kathy and Marty, who had educated me 10 days ago that I would be the first one to know if an infection was setting in. The NST and temperatures would say everything was fine at first, though I would say otherwise. 2 years ago tomorrow they were right. As an infection quickly spread throughout my body, infecting you and causing a dangerous case of sepsis for me. 2 years ago tomorrow I was hearing my doctor tell me "everything is alright BUT..." they couldn't stop the bleeding in the middle of my c-section. Me telling Josh it would be OK. Tomorrow I will celebrate your life, and also how lucky I am to have survived that day myself.
I didn't realize that over the next 4 days I would learn where those butterflies came from. I would have an answer to my wondering. Wondering why these butterflies were frequenting such a high window. 2 years ago tomorrow I became a NICU mom. And would learn that there is a butterfly garden in the NICU parents' patio - 7 floors up. The garden is in memory of babies who passed away in that NICU. 2 years ago this week your soul would join those in flight, fluttering 8 and 9 stories up.
2 years ago tomorrow I quietly sang happy birthday to you, surrounded by 10-12 people I had never met. Tomorrow I will sing you happy birthday Ethan. Caroline, Jackson and Ryan will spill sprinkles on the table and floor as they decorate your cupcakes. They will blow out your candle for you. As I tucked Jackson into bed tonight he said he wished you could eat your cupcake tomorrow. I wish that too.
You have taught me more in these 2 years than I could have imagined. Our relationship has grown strong. I am proud of you Ethan. Proud and lucky to be your mom. Happy 2nd Birthday...
Love,
Mom
2 years ago tonight we laid in bed together for the last time. Thanking Jesus and my Lord for every moment with you. For every passing temperature check, blood pressure, heart beat check that passed as healthy on 4 hour intervals (that's day and night mind you). 2 years ago tomorrow morning I awoke feeling sick. It was almost shift change, my overnight nurse was pregnant - I remember that part clearly. I asked her if it was of concern that I felt nauseous? She said no. But I knew otherwise. 7 meant shift change and I waited 20 minutes for the nurses starting their day to round quickly. Then I pressed the button for my nurse. I happened to have 2 nurses assigned to me that day, both with more experience than I thought possible. These were the women, Kathy and Marty, who had educated me 10 days ago that I would be the first one to know if an infection was setting in. The NST and temperatures would say everything was fine at first, though I would say otherwise. 2 years ago tomorrow they were right. As an infection quickly spread throughout my body, infecting you and causing a dangerous case of sepsis for me. 2 years ago tomorrow I was hearing my doctor tell me "everything is alright BUT..." they couldn't stop the bleeding in the middle of my c-section. Me telling Josh it would be OK. Tomorrow I will celebrate your life, and also how lucky I am to have survived that day myself.
I didn't realize that over the next 4 days I would learn where those butterflies came from. I would have an answer to my wondering. Wondering why these butterflies were frequenting such a high window. 2 years ago tomorrow I became a NICU mom. And would learn that there is a butterfly garden in the NICU parents' patio - 7 floors up. The garden is in memory of babies who passed away in that NICU. 2 years ago this week your soul would join those in flight, fluttering 8 and 9 stories up.
2 years ago tomorrow I quietly sang happy birthday to you, surrounded by 10-12 people I had never met. Tomorrow I will sing you happy birthday Ethan. Caroline, Jackson and Ryan will spill sprinkles on the table and floor as they decorate your cupcakes. They will blow out your candle for you. As I tucked Jackson into bed tonight he said he wished you could eat your cupcake tomorrow. I wish that too.
You have taught me more in these 2 years than I could have imagined. Our relationship has grown strong. I am proud of you Ethan. Proud and lucky to be your mom. Happy 2nd Birthday...
Love,
Mom
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
What Love Is...round 2.
How I define Love.
* Love is singing Happy Birthday, out loud, to a friend's baby gone too soon from a beach on Cape Cod. Love is talking to Ethan, and asking if he liked the 4th of July fireworks, as if he were a child of your own. Thank you Beth.
* Love is a friend reflecting upon the loss of her baby sister, and now as an adult, offering me support in the way I am speaking about and including Ethan with his sister and brothers. Thank you Wendy. And separately, thank you Alison.
* Love is taking family photos for me during Ethan's month. Refusing to be paid. And traveling across country to do so. Thank you Chelsea.
* Love is performing assistant photographer duties during the above-mentioned photography session. Carrying lots of bags, laughing instead of rolling your eyes when my kids threw tantrums, and shoving gummies at my kids as bribes for smiling. Thank you Val.
* Love is walking in memory of Ethan in a non-profit walk to support and raise awareness around babyloss. Thank you Kristen.
* Love is sending my family on the Boston Duck Tours last summer. Knowing that we have always wanted to do so, but couldn't really stretch the dollar to do it on our own. Seeing how healing simple family experiences can be for us. Thank you Anonymous friend.
* Love is sending Christmas gifts "with Ethan in mind." Thank you Lawlers. Thank you Theresa. Thank many of you who have done so.
* Love is thinking of sweet Ethan, with a butterfly, rainbow, the beach or something else. And sharing that you thought of him. Love is remembering. Thank you Laura. Thank you Daphne. Thank you Julie. Thank you over and over to lots of people. Love is being able to say "lots of people" in this circumstance.
* Love is walking with me in the March for Babies in Ethan's honor last May. For hobbling around the walk with a back injury. For seeing my PTSD and grief freak-out coming from a mile away...and carrying me through it. For coming up with a funny "code word" with me that day, code for "get me the hell out of here." Thank you Val and Chelsea.
* Love is pretty much yelling at someone who gave me a hard time during that March for Babies, because you understand. Thank you Michele and Dan.
* Love is telling people that I have 4 children. Love is telling people my REAL number, without prompting from me to do so. Thank you Raeanne.
* Love is giving me your mother's lilac bush, knowing I remember Ethan with lilacs - my favorite bush and it blooms in May. Love is not getting upset with me that the bush didn't transfer well and in fact, died. Ugh... Thank you Kathy.
* Love is taking the time to read my silly little journal here. Love is actually thinking about what I have to say, rant about, swear about, and celebrate. Love to all of you.
* Love is taking the time to comment or reply. To reach out about something I shared here. It translates to me that you love me. Thank you all.
* Love is having a willow tree angel overnighted to me after hearing my cries that it had crashed on my floor. Thank you Mary.
* Love is boldly telling me that you wish for me to have the peace a mother deserves, knowing that I had done all I could to save my son's life. Thank you Gabe. And thank you others.
* Love is making me a memory box to hold Ethan's few belongings in. So they no longer sat in that empty diaper box. Thank you Jenn.
* Love is making time, no questions asked, for your spouse to talk with me on the phone as I cried...again. Thank you Bob. Thank you Jess and Brandon. Thank you Mike and Jenn.
* Love is fighting for a stronger marriage. For finding our way through this storm together, sometimes differently, but always returning together. Thank you Josh.
* Love is giving your mom an out-of-the-blue hug, with an extra-tight squeeze. Thank you Caroline. Thank you Jackson. Thank you Ryan.
* Love is praying for us. Thank you all.
* Love is allowing Ethan's brief life and ongoing legacy, inspire great love in you. And for sharing how that translates for you.
* Love is singing Happy Birthday, out loud, to a friend's baby gone too soon from a beach on Cape Cod. Love is talking to Ethan, and asking if he liked the 4th of July fireworks, as if he were a child of your own. Thank you Beth.
* Love is a friend reflecting upon the loss of her baby sister, and now as an adult, offering me support in the way I am speaking about and including Ethan with his sister and brothers. Thank you Wendy. And separately, thank you Alison.
* Love is taking family photos for me during Ethan's month. Refusing to be paid. And traveling across country to do so. Thank you Chelsea.
* Love is performing assistant photographer duties during the above-mentioned photography session. Carrying lots of bags, laughing instead of rolling your eyes when my kids threw tantrums, and shoving gummies at my kids as bribes for smiling. Thank you Val.
* Love is walking in memory of Ethan in a non-profit walk to support and raise awareness around babyloss. Thank you Kristen.
* Love is sending my family on the Boston Duck Tours last summer. Knowing that we have always wanted to do so, but couldn't really stretch the dollar to do it on our own. Seeing how healing simple family experiences can be for us. Thank you Anonymous friend.
* Love is sending Christmas gifts "with Ethan in mind." Thank you Lawlers. Thank you Theresa. Thank many of you who have done so.
* Love is thinking of sweet Ethan, with a butterfly, rainbow, the beach or something else. And sharing that you thought of him. Love is remembering. Thank you Laura. Thank you Daphne. Thank you Julie. Thank you over and over to lots of people. Love is being able to say "lots of people" in this circumstance.
* Love is walking with me in the March for Babies in Ethan's honor last May. For hobbling around the walk with a back injury. For seeing my PTSD and grief freak-out coming from a mile away...and carrying me through it. For coming up with a funny "code word" with me that day, code for "get me the hell out of here." Thank you Val and Chelsea.
* Love is pretty much yelling at someone who gave me a hard time during that March for Babies, because you understand. Thank you Michele and Dan.
* Love is telling people that I have 4 children. Love is telling people my REAL number, without prompting from me to do so. Thank you Raeanne.
* Love is giving me your mother's lilac bush, knowing I remember Ethan with lilacs - my favorite bush and it blooms in May. Love is not getting upset with me that the bush didn't transfer well and in fact, died. Ugh... Thank you Kathy.
* Love is taking the time to read my silly little journal here. Love is actually thinking about what I have to say, rant about, swear about, and celebrate. Love to all of you.
* Love is taking the time to comment or reply. To reach out about something I shared here. It translates to me that you love me. Thank you all.
* Love is having a willow tree angel overnighted to me after hearing my cries that it had crashed on my floor. Thank you Mary.
* Love is boldly telling me that you wish for me to have the peace a mother deserves, knowing that I had done all I could to save my son's life. Thank you Gabe. And thank you others.
* Love is making me a memory box to hold Ethan's few belongings in. So they no longer sat in that empty diaper box. Thank you Jenn.
* Love is making time, no questions asked, for your spouse to talk with me on the phone as I cried...again. Thank you Bob. Thank you Jess and Brandon. Thank you Mike and Jenn.
* Love is fighting for a stronger marriage. For finding our way through this storm together, sometimes differently, but always returning together. Thank you Josh.
* Love is giving your mom an out-of-the-blue hug, with an extra-tight squeeze. Thank you Caroline. Thank you Jackson. Thank you Ryan.
* Love is praying for us. Thank you all.
* Love is allowing Ethan's brief life and ongoing legacy, inspire great love in you. And for sharing how that translates for you.
Monday, January 13, 2014
What you may not understand.
There are lots of things people may not get about grief. I can only speak intimately of a mother's grief for her baby. And for that matter, of my grief for Ethan. I don't speak for every mom missing their baby. I've had ups and downs with how other's view my grief and healing process. And I know I'm not alone with this struggle. It's hard enough to grieve, to experience that all-consuming pain, but to feel judged for how you are surviving such tragedy...that can push someone right over the edge. It is pretty clear that some people think there is a healthy timeline for grief. A time period that allows for someone to grieve honestly, openly without eyebrows being raised. Without loved ones questioning if the bereaved individual is "healthy."
I'm no longer a hot mess. Maybe on rare occasion, but not very often really. I do still feel waves of sadness, some days the waves hit harder than others. The love and longing for Ethan always feels the same though. He's one of the first things I think of when I wake up and one of the last before I fall asleep. And I like it that way. Maybe it's just that I'm learning to walk in my "ugly shoes," as that poem says.
When someone older than a baby dies there are memories associated with that person. Birthdays, milestones, trips to the beach, holiday memories and all of the day-to-day things that fill a life. These are the memories that bereaved loved ones can remember. Can reflect upon "the good times" when grief rolls over them. And when someone is grieving a baby who never made it home from the hospital, there are none of those "good times." Good times free of trauma and sadness. So, when grief washes over me I search for ways to remember Ethan. Just as others do when they are missing their parent, their sister, their grandparent. I search for ways to remind myself that he was real. Is a part of my family. And how do I do that? Well, some of the ways may actually lead my loved ones to the question I mentioned above. "Is she healthy?" Or has her grief stalled? And as well-intentioned as those questions may be, this is how the bereaved may receive that - "when is she going to move on?" And that's not going to leave anyone feeling better.
So to those who care enough to pay attention to how your loved one is grieving - thank you. Thank you for not running for the hills, when their baby died. Thanks for sticking around and paying attention. Not everyone does that, so you get points right there. And since you do love them, consider the possibility that your bereaved loved one can still be healthy and finding ways to keep their baby's memory alive. Even if that makes others feel uncomfortable on occasion. Even if it leaves you questioning if they are "healthy." I say this gently, but genuinely...It's not about you, it's about them. And their process towards healing through grief. The through grief is vital here - if someone is working their grief, for as long as that takes them - perhaps forever in ways, that's OK. And healthy even. So sit back, take care of yourself along the way - so you don't get vicariously traumatized. But hang in there, hang in with the one you love. They need your presence more than ever. And not so much your questioning of their grief. Chances are, they are doing that for themselves already.
Here are some things that may have raised an eyebrow or two this past year-and-a-half. See it through my eyes...
* If I sign Ethan's name to a holiday card, or a birthday card/gift, it's my way of including Ethan in our family. It's not creepy to do so. It's validating and inclusive to me.
* If I tell people my REAL number. That I have 4 children when I am asked. I'm honoring Ethan's existence. His spirit. Affirming that he was real. I'm being truthful. And maybe, such honesty, may inspire others to feel comfortable to speak about their losses. I'm not stuck in my past or living in an unhealthy delusion. I still have 4 kids - they just aren't all physically here with me.
* If I speak of what my hopes and dreams for Ethan were, beyond the first year after his death, I'm finding ways to honor and remember that an entire lifetime was lost when he died.
* If I drive around with an angel baby sticker on the back of my car, I'm finding an accurate way to represent Ethan in our family. It's not creepy. It's my truth. And it helps the outside world recognize the atypical shape of my family. A family just the same.
* If I hang photos of Ethan throughout my home, I'm providing opportunities for my family to speak of Ethan. For those who enter our home to learn about him. Opportunities for Ryan to learn that he is, in fact, a big brother. What happened to our family was surreal, particularly for our living children who were all too young to grasp the concept of abstract thinking and death for that matter. Integrating Ethan's photos allows the door to remain open for our living children to ask about what happened to him, when they are ready to process it in their own time. To keep him a part of our family going forward in a healthy way. It's not disturbing to me that all of my son's photos have lots of tubes and wires, so why should it be for others? It's not disturbing that the few photos of him without such medical supports show him as his body is failing him, looking sick. Look into his eyes - he was as alive as ever.
* If I hang a stocking for Ethan each Christmas, it's one small way to outwardly secure his place in our family.
* If I look to include Ethan in day-to-day conversation, I'm searching for ways to include him. Most parents get to celebrate what their children are doing daily, I'm just trying to find a way to celebrate my son as well. I'm not focusing on the negative if I bring Ethan up. His love will always be larger than his death. If you feel uncomfortable around death, try not to let it influence how you view someone's journey through grief and healing. Maybe some discomfort could be lessened by watching how brave the bereaved are.
Everyone's grief is individual to them. The grief therapist in me assures you that research says there is no set time frame to "wrap it up and move on." The bereaved mother in me knows that the stages of grief aren't necessarily experienced in a neat, linear fashion. Be patient with the bereaved. They are doing the best they can.
I'm no longer a hot mess. Maybe on rare occasion, but not very often really. I do still feel waves of sadness, some days the waves hit harder than others. The love and longing for Ethan always feels the same though. He's one of the first things I think of when I wake up and one of the last before I fall asleep. And I like it that way. Maybe it's just that I'm learning to walk in my "ugly shoes," as that poem says.
When someone older than a baby dies there are memories associated with that person. Birthdays, milestones, trips to the beach, holiday memories and all of the day-to-day things that fill a life. These are the memories that bereaved loved ones can remember. Can reflect upon "the good times" when grief rolls over them. And when someone is grieving a baby who never made it home from the hospital, there are none of those "good times." Good times free of trauma and sadness. So, when grief washes over me I search for ways to remember Ethan. Just as others do when they are missing their parent, their sister, their grandparent. I search for ways to remind myself that he was real. Is a part of my family. And how do I do that? Well, some of the ways may actually lead my loved ones to the question I mentioned above. "Is she healthy?" Or has her grief stalled? And as well-intentioned as those questions may be, this is how the bereaved may receive that - "when is she going to move on?" And that's not going to leave anyone feeling better.
So to those who care enough to pay attention to how your loved one is grieving - thank you. Thank you for not running for the hills, when their baby died. Thanks for sticking around and paying attention. Not everyone does that, so you get points right there. And since you do love them, consider the possibility that your bereaved loved one can still be healthy and finding ways to keep their baby's memory alive. Even if that makes others feel uncomfortable on occasion. Even if it leaves you questioning if they are "healthy." I say this gently, but genuinely...It's not about you, it's about them. And their process towards healing through grief. The through grief is vital here - if someone is working their grief, for as long as that takes them - perhaps forever in ways, that's OK. And healthy even. So sit back, take care of yourself along the way - so you don't get vicariously traumatized. But hang in there, hang in with the one you love. They need your presence more than ever. And not so much your questioning of their grief. Chances are, they are doing that for themselves already.
Here are some things that may have raised an eyebrow or two this past year-and-a-half. See it through my eyes...
* If I sign Ethan's name to a holiday card, or a birthday card/gift, it's my way of including Ethan in our family. It's not creepy to do so. It's validating and inclusive to me.
* If I tell people my REAL number. That I have 4 children when I am asked. I'm honoring Ethan's existence. His spirit. Affirming that he was real. I'm being truthful. And maybe, such honesty, may inspire others to feel comfortable to speak about their losses. I'm not stuck in my past or living in an unhealthy delusion. I still have 4 kids - they just aren't all physically here with me.
* If I speak of what my hopes and dreams for Ethan were, beyond the first year after his death, I'm finding ways to honor and remember that an entire lifetime was lost when he died.
* If I drive around with an angel baby sticker on the back of my car, I'm finding an accurate way to represent Ethan in our family. It's not creepy. It's my truth. And it helps the outside world recognize the atypical shape of my family. A family just the same.
* If I hang photos of Ethan throughout my home, I'm providing opportunities for my family to speak of Ethan. For those who enter our home to learn about him. Opportunities for Ryan to learn that he is, in fact, a big brother. What happened to our family was surreal, particularly for our living children who were all too young to grasp the concept of abstract thinking and death for that matter. Integrating Ethan's photos allows the door to remain open for our living children to ask about what happened to him, when they are ready to process it in their own time. To keep him a part of our family going forward in a healthy way. It's not disturbing to me that all of my son's photos have lots of tubes and wires, so why should it be for others? It's not disturbing that the few photos of him without such medical supports show him as his body is failing him, looking sick. Look into his eyes - he was as alive as ever.
* If I hang a stocking for Ethan each Christmas, it's one small way to outwardly secure his place in our family.
* If I look to include Ethan in day-to-day conversation, I'm searching for ways to include him. Most parents get to celebrate what their children are doing daily, I'm just trying to find a way to celebrate my son as well. I'm not focusing on the negative if I bring Ethan up. His love will always be larger than his death. If you feel uncomfortable around death, try not to let it influence how you view someone's journey through grief and healing. Maybe some discomfort could be lessened by watching how brave the bereaved are.
Everyone's grief is individual to them. The grief therapist in me assures you that research says there is no set time frame to "wrap it up and move on." The bereaved mother in me knows that the stages of grief aren't necessarily experienced in a neat, linear fashion. Be patient with the bereaved. They are doing the best they can.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Fallout
I have a few journal entries started, not yet finished, that aren't me being a grump or a downer. I swear, I'm not all that unhappy. It just happens that when something hurtful happens to me it fuels me to blog, to journal it out. And the good times present with less urgency for me to do so. But it doesn't mean they are less important, or less frequent. I assure you. As an aside, I was playing around (my first mistake there) with the settings on my blog the other day. And now these silly ads are on my blog and I cannot figure out how to remove them successfully. Just X out of them for now, bear with me. I've got skills, what can I say. With that said, here's one of those entries that presses with urgency on my heart.
There's this concept. One where tragedy presents itself and shines a light on those around you. This light highlights the beauty in so many of them. And those beautiful relationships, whether old or new, are the ones you hold onto during the storm. Those are the ones that assure you that you aren't a giant turd the world wants to avoid because your son died and you grieve openly. I've written about these beautiful relationships before in What Love Is, and intend to write another post about them soon.
Then there is the other side. There is the friend fallout. I've lost 3 friends, close ones at that, since Ethan died. My son dying sucks. A lot. Beyond description. The nuances are countless. But the idea of losing relationships that have brought me such laughter, love and support sucks too. And I fought for these friendships too. Relationships are a two-way street. I see my role in them. I get that I'm a loaded friend right now. That I was even more so last year. But the truth is, if you can only be a fair weather friend what good is that? Perhaps such relationships were more acquaintances all along, guised as a true friendship. And when that light shined on them, the truth came out. Not saying that they are bad people, but they are not people who I can call my friends right now. So tonight I am sad. Sad that I've lost friends. And that I think they were lost because they couldn't handle all of me, bereaved mom included.
The first friend I lost sent me a letter, intentionally having it delivered on the first anniversary of Ethan's death. The letter was quite nice, and then it told me that the sender was pregnant again. And could I hopefully come around and feel comfortable enough to call her again so she can tell me over the phone. As she wanted to "tell the world." How nice for you... Now go away, it's the first anniversary of the hardest day of my life.
The second friend I lost was someone who called me family. And vice versa. During the Christmas week she mailed me a letter that said the following: "We hope and pray you are soon able to find Peace with Ethan's life everlasting and trust in the Lord that Ethan is not on Appledore. We hope - for the Love of your understanding husband and your three beautiful living children - that you can do this soon - as they too must be suffering by your continued great sadness and continued grief..." Ah - she hasn't been in touch with me since I moved a year ago. By her choice. So she cannot possibly know what my grief looks like right now. Does she think I'm still a puddle on the floor? Well, I'm not. Even if I were, it's none of her business. And to say that my family is suffering from my grief - that's bullshit. They aren't suffering from their son and brother being included in the day to day discussions of our family. It's not unhealthy to say that Ethan is part of our family. I'm not the one causing suffering. Any suffering that is experienced is caused by his death. And just because I believe his spirit lives on after his death, it doesn't erase the grief here in the physical world. And lastly, I know he's not on fucking Appledore Island. You don't have to remind me that my son is not hiding away in some other part of the physical world. And it's not wrong of me to desire to visit, one day, the place we spread his ashes.
The third friend I lost was just today. The history here is that this friend and I were quite close. I supported her while her son had multiple surgeries over the course of a year. The same year I first grieved Ethan. And she supported me. It was filled with lots of love, laughs, swears and tears. But then things just stopped. Little reciprocal communication from her. She had not returned any calls, messages, texts, etc. for a few months. I had asked her to do so - thinking it's reasonable to have some effort made, to no avail. So, I chose to "unfriend" her on facebook. (I had prayed for a long time about focusing my energies on relationships that were going to offer healing.) For a few months she never called, emailed or messaged me to ask why I did so. Though she did notice I had unfriended her right away - evidenced by a simple sent friend request right after. To which I declined. And then today, she chose to reach out. But not with intentions to see what happened. To see if we could salvage the friendship. Instead she told me she was pregnant again. How nice for her...and now it's that same old trigger. If I have set boundaries why does she think I care for them to be disregarded only to share news that remains my largest grief trigger? Which she acknowledged in the message. We have few mutual friends, and those who are, know not to talk with me about other's pregnancies and babies yet. We no longer live near each other, and are not in each others' lives. I could have very well be ignorant to her pregnancy (though I am happy for her) and that would have been much gentler on me. More things were said, few of which felt good. It's sad though... I'm pretty sure she still loves me, and I know I still love her. But some relationships just aren't a healthy focus for my energy.
With some distance I can see the friend fallout. As if a baby dying wasn't sad enough, now friendships end as well. It is what it is. Trying to forgive discretions while moving forward. Some days that's hard for me though. But I'll keep trying.
The first friend I lost sent me a letter, intentionally having it delivered on the first anniversary of Ethan's death. The letter was quite nice, and then it told me that the sender was pregnant again. And could I hopefully come around and feel comfortable enough to call her again so she can tell me over the phone. As she wanted to "tell the world." How nice for you... Now go away, it's the first anniversary of the hardest day of my life.
The second friend I lost was someone who called me family. And vice versa. During the Christmas week she mailed me a letter that said the following: "We hope and pray you are soon able to find Peace with Ethan's life everlasting and trust in the Lord that Ethan is not on Appledore. We hope - for the Love of your understanding husband and your three beautiful living children - that you can do this soon - as they too must be suffering by your continued great sadness and continued grief..." Ah - she hasn't been in touch with me since I moved a year ago. By her choice. So she cannot possibly know what my grief looks like right now. Does she think I'm still a puddle on the floor? Well, I'm not. Even if I were, it's none of her business. And to say that my family is suffering from my grief - that's bullshit. They aren't suffering from their son and brother being included in the day to day discussions of our family. It's not unhealthy to say that Ethan is part of our family. I'm not the one causing suffering. Any suffering that is experienced is caused by his death. And just because I believe his spirit lives on after his death, it doesn't erase the grief here in the physical world. And lastly, I know he's not on fucking Appledore Island. You don't have to remind me that my son is not hiding away in some other part of the physical world. And it's not wrong of me to desire to visit, one day, the place we spread his ashes.
The third friend I lost was just today. The history here is that this friend and I were quite close. I supported her while her son had multiple surgeries over the course of a year. The same year I first grieved Ethan. And she supported me. It was filled with lots of love, laughs, swears and tears. But then things just stopped. Little reciprocal communication from her. She had not returned any calls, messages, texts, etc. for a few months. I had asked her to do so - thinking it's reasonable to have some effort made, to no avail. So, I chose to "unfriend" her on facebook. (I had prayed for a long time about focusing my energies on relationships that were going to offer healing.) For a few months she never called, emailed or messaged me to ask why I did so. Though she did notice I had unfriended her right away - evidenced by a simple sent friend request right after. To which I declined. And then today, she chose to reach out. But not with intentions to see what happened. To see if we could salvage the friendship. Instead she told me she was pregnant again. How nice for her...and now it's that same old trigger. If I have set boundaries why does she think I care for them to be disregarded only to share news that remains my largest grief trigger? Which she acknowledged in the message. We have few mutual friends, and those who are, know not to talk with me about other's pregnancies and babies yet. We no longer live near each other, and are not in each others' lives. I could have very well be ignorant to her pregnancy (though I am happy for her) and that would have been much gentler on me. More things were said, few of which felt good. It's sad though... I'm pretty sure she still loves me, and I know I still love her. But some relationships just aren't a healthy focus for my energy.
With some distance I can see the friend fallout. As if a baby dying wasn't sad enough, now friendships end as well. It is what it is. Trying to forgive discretions while moving forward. Some days that's hard for me though. But I'll keep trying.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Merry Christmas Ethan
I will tuck a note inside your stocking on Christmas Eve. I've already wrapped the small gifts and treats to fill your sister and brothers' stockings...but there was nothing to wrap for you. There will never be anything to wrap for you, and that sucks.
You are with us. This I know. And I'm so thankful I feel you. It means more than I can say really.
I bought a puzzle, one of the nice Melissa and Doug ones, for a one-year-old boy at Ryan's early intervention program. It should be yours. I'm sure you would have liked it. Heck, I liked it. It would have been nice to have it in our home. I'm sure that little boy will enjoy it too. So that brings a smile.
I miss you E. A lot tonight. In a sad way. Not just in the beautiful, loving, warm way that has (thankfully) frequented my days.
I have the beach stones we painted for your apple tree back now. I think I will put your name stone under the Christmas tree. I don't know what else to do with it. Not yet at least.
So on Christmas Eve I will tuck a little note from me to you in your green stocking monogrammed with a white E on it. I'm thinking of filling your stocking with flowers on Christmas day this year. A celebration of your beautiful life and the continued presence you have in ours. It shouldn't be look empty, for it is filled with love and beauty...inspired by you.
Love you E, always. -- Mama.
P.S. Be sure to pop in when the kids run downstairs and open their gifts under the tree. It's the best moment of the year. So you need to be there too :)
You are with us. This I know. And I'm so thankful I feel you. It means more than I can say really.
I bought a puzzle, one of the nice Melissa and Doug ones, for a one-year-old boy at Ryan's early intervention program. It should be yours. I'm sure you would have liked it. Heck, I liked it. It would have been nice to have it in our home. I'm sure that little boy will enjoy it too. So that brings a smile.
I miss you E. A lot tonight. In a sad way. Not just in the beautiful, loving, warm way that has (thankfully) frequented my days.
I have the beach stones we painted for your apple tree back now. I think I will put your name stone under the Christmas tree. I don't know what else to do with it. Not yet at least.
So on Christmas Eve I will tuck a little note from me to you in your green stocking monogrammed with a white E on it. I'm thinking of filling your stocking with flowers on Christmas day this year. A celebration of your beautiful life and the continued presence you have in ours. It shouldn't be look empty, for it is filled with love and beauty...inspired by you.
Love you E, always. -- Mama.
P.S. Be sure to pop in when the kids run downstairs and open their gifts under the tree. It's the best moment of the year. So you need to be there too :)
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
The Price of a Teeth Cleaning
I consider myself a healthy person. I love to run. I have a healthy weight, blood pressure and all that jazz. Yes I love my sweets but eat salads too. The only thing I have really slacked at is going to the dentist over the past years. With that said, I am neurotic about brushing and flossing...I just haven't made the time or had the money to go for regular dental appointments. But today I finally went.
Truthfully I was a bit anxious as to whether I would be shamed for waiting so long. Thankfully this new dentist was really nice about it. In fact, I am a big fan of him. Didn't hurt that I have no new cavities.
Before I went to the appointment this morning I saw another friend's birth announcement. We all know how this goes by now, right? How nice for them. Cue my sadness. But, whatever...on with my day.
New patient paperwork. Us women get grilled (OK, perhaps it just feels that way for me given everything) as to whether or not I could be pregnant. Understandably they don't want to give x-rays if I could be pregnant. It's the first medical question on the paperwork. Followed by have I ever been hospitalized? Answer: Yes. Reason: Other. Nothing that could affect my dental care.
Apparently they needed more details so the administrative assistance asked me loudly in the waiting room. So much for HIPPA. "Was it just child birth?" Well no, I thought. A bit more complicated than that. I told her it was related to a past pregnancy and medically a non-issue going forward.
Back in the exam room they wanted to start with x-rays. The hygienist was very thorough and asked me twice if i could be pregnant. I wanted to yell "NO I CAN'T BE PREGNANT ANY LONGER! STOP ASKING ME!" Poor lady, she had no idea.
The hygienist starts asking me if I have children. Yes. How many? 4. You can see where this is going. Ages? Fast forward to me saying that my son died as a baby a year ago. No tears, no wavering voice.
Now I'm stuck in the chair while my teeth are being picked at listening to this rather nice lady talk a lot. I mean the nice thing...she is rather nice, just clueless as to how her words can hurt a bereaved mom.
It's part of the job I guess. Having mainly one-way conversations with people who cannot respond as their mouths are open. Somehow her conversation went to "at least you have your other 4 children." I had to take a break from the teeth cleaning to clarify that when I had answered I have 4 children I was including my son who died. She had assumed I did not include him in that number. And there's some hurt on my part. That other's don't consider my son, because he's dead, worthy of inclusion. Yeah, that's how it feels on my end. Even if that's not what's intended on the other end. Back to the picking and I skipped over the "cheer up! you have other kids at least" line. She went on to share that her mother lost a child, and still talks about it. And that her sister had a loss as well. This rather one-way conversation ended with "it takes some time to get over it." My response, "I will never 'get over' it."
From there the conversation went to her beliefs that evolution is not scientifically supported as she finished picking my teeth. It was an odd experience. At the end of which though, I still found myself liking this woman overall. Just not her comments. I continue to be amazed that people, good people, are capable of such idiocy. And it causes me to hold a mirror and acknowledge that I must hold the same idiotic capabilities. So, to all I have hurt through my idiotic comments...I am truly sorry.
Well, my teeth are now clean :)
Truthfully I was a bit anxious as to whether I would be shamed for waiting so long. Thankfully this new dentist was really nice about it. In fact, I am a big fan of him. Didn't hurt that I have no new cavities.
Before I went to the appointment this morning I saw another friend's birth announcement. We all know how this goes by now, right? How nice for them. Cue my sadness. But, whatever...on with my day.
New patient paperwork. Us women get grilled (OK, perhaps it just feels that way for me given everything) as to whether or not I could be pregnant. Understandably they don't want to give x-rays if I could be pregnant. It's the first medical question on the paperwork. Followed by have I ever been hospitalized? Answer: Yes. Reason: Other. Nothing that could affect my dental care.
Apparently they needed more details so the administrative assistance asked me loudly in the waiting room. So much for HIPPA. "Was it just child birth?" Well no, I thought. A bit more complicated than that. I told her it was related to a past pregnancy and medically a non-issue going forward.
Back in the exam room they wanted to start with x-rays. The hygienist was very thorough and asked me twice if i could be pregnant. I wanted to yell "NO I CAN'T BE PREGNANT ANY LONGER! STOP ASKING ME!" Poor lady, she had no idea.
The hygienist starts asking me if I have children. Yes. How many? 4. You can see where this is going. Ages? Fast forward to me saying that my son died as a baby a year ago. No tears, no wavering voice.
Now I'm stuck in the chair while my teeth are being picked at listening to this rather nice lady talk a lot. I mean the nice thing...she is rather nice, just clueless as to how her words can hurt a bereaved mom.
It's part of the job I guess. Having mainly one-way conversations with people who cannot respond as their mouths are open. Somehow her conversation went to "at least you have your other 4 children." I had to take a break from the teeth cleaning to clarify that when I had answered I have 4 children I was including my son who died. She had assumed I did not include him in that number. And there's some hurt on my part. That other's don't consider my son, because he's dead, worthy of inclusion. Yeah, that's how it feels on my end. Even if that's not what's intended on the other end. Back to the picking and I skipped over the "cheer up! you have other kids at least" line. She went on to share that her mother lost a child, and still talks about it. And that her sister had a loss as well. This rather one-way conversation ended with "it takes some time to get over it." My response, "I will never 'get over' it."
From there the conversation went to her beliefs that evolution is not scientifically supported as she finished picking my teeth. It was an odd experience. At the end of which though, I still found myself liking this woman overall. Just not her comments. I continue to be amazed that people, good people, are capable of such idiocy. And it causes me to hold a mirror and acknowledge that I must hold the same idiotic capabilities. So, to all I have hurt through my idiotic comments...I am truly sorry.
Well, my teeth are now clean :)
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Today
I'm 1.5 years out now. For the most part people have stopped asking how I am doing. That's OK I guess. Until it's not.
What does my grief, my life look like now?
Lots of days are fine.
Some days are not.
A few rare days are great.
My eyes are open for the signs that Ethan is with me. The songs that come at just the right time. I'm listening to Jackson, really listening to him, when he teaches me about his brother. As he shares about their visits. Just the other day Jackson said Ethan continues to hang out with him around bedtime. All along speaking about these visits as completely normal and of course they would be happening. And then asked me "what's the round thing around his head?" - while using a finger to draw a circle around his head. I guess it might be a halo of sorts.
Tears still flow. Often with a smile. Often not.
Some aspects of my grief have simmered down. Bubble up every now and then, but return to a simmer. One thing that hasn't simmered is the pain that comes up when someone tells me they are pregnant.
Here's how it goes.
If I see a pregnancy or birth announcement on Facebook I've been punched in the gut. Breathing immediately becomes painful. Really painful. Breathing gets faster and shallower. I suddenly feel hot, yet cold. And tears instinctively well.
I think "how nice for them" while crumbling to pieces myself. Oddly, like the trauma victim I am, I search for the details. Is the baby a boy or a girl? Is this their fourth? Is the due date in May? Lord please, don't let it be in May. Not a boy in May.
If I feel moved to, I offer kind words to the new parent(s) and then block them from my news feed. Blocking them is a necessity. One I have learned from repeated mistakes. A few friends I haven't blocked...the friends who have been extra supportive to me in my grief.
If I hear someone is pregnant or had a baby in person the visceral response remains the same. But now someone sees my tears. Or hears the catch in my breath and break in my voice as I say "how nice for them/you." There is no computer to hide behind this time. Not that I try to hide my grief, it's not my way. But some people would find it more comfortable to have a buffer from my grief I am sure.
In person or on the phone I see the surprise that registers with the other person. That such happy news doesn't evoke happiness for me. Instead evokes my personal devastation to be honest. Not that it necessarily takes much for that to happen.
Seeing that others are surprised about this hurts. It's painful enough to be brought back to my trauma, and face my loss knowing I will never again have a pregnancy or give birth. Kind of feels like I'm being kicked when I'm down. Having to explain to people (usually third parties who tell me of others pregnancies) that YES, I'M STILL GRIEVING. And then these third parties try to backpedal. Oh, of course you are sad. But what it reinforces to me is that most people cannot have a fucking clue how pervasive this loss is for me.
Some days it's rough being 33 and surrounded by friends having babies.
Perhaps one day this will be gentler. But it's not yet. Not at all.
What does my grief, my life look like now?
Lots of days are fine.
Some days are not.
A few rare days are great.
My eyes are open for the signs that Ethan is with me. The songs that come at just the right time. I'm listening to Jackson, really listening to him, when he teaches me about his brother. As he shares about their visits. Just the other day Jackson said Ethan continues to hang out with him around bedtime. All along speaking about these visits as completely normal and of course they would be happening. And then asked me "what's the round thing around his head?" - while using a finger to draw a circle around his head. I guess it might be a halo of sorts.
Tears still flow. Often with a smile. Often not.
Some aspects of my grief have simmered down. Bubble up every now and then, but return to a simmer. One thing that hasn't simmered is the pain that comes up when someone tells me they are pregnant.
Here's how it goes.
If I see a pregnancy or birth announcement on Facebook I've been punched in the gut. Breathing immediately becomes painful. Really painful. Breathing gets faster and shallower. I suddenly feel hot, yet cold. And tears instinctively well.
I think "how nice for them" while crumbling to pieces myself. Oddly, like the trauma victim I am, I search for the details. Is the baby a boy or a girl? Is this their fourth? Is the due date in May? Lord please, don't let it be in May. Not a boy in May.
If I feel moved to, I offer kind words to the new parent(s) and then block them from my news feed. Blocking them is a necessity. One I have learned from repeated mistakes. A few friends I haven't blocked...the friends who have been extra supportive to me in my grief.
If I hear someone is pregnant or had a baby in person the visceral response remains the same. But now someone sees my tears. Or hears the catch in my breath and break in my voice as I say "how nice for them/you." There is no computer to hide behind this time. Not that I try to hide my grief, it's not my way. But some people would find it more comfortable to have a buffer from my grief I am sure.
In person or on the phone I see the surprise that registers with the other person. That such happy news doesn't evoke happiness for me. Instead evokes my personal devastation to be honest. Not that it necessarily takes much for that to happen.
Seeing that others are surprised about this hurts. It's painful enough to be brought back to my trauma, and face my loss knowing I will never again have a pregnancy or give birth. Kind of feels like I'm being kicked when I'm down. Having to explain to people (usually third parties who tell me of others pregnancies) that YES, I'M STILL GRIEVING. And then these third parties try to backpedal. Oh, of course you are sad. But what it reinforces to me is that most people cannot have a fucking clue how pervasive this loss is for me.
Some days it's rough being 33 and surrounded by friends having babies.
Perhaps one day this will be gentler. But it's not yet. Not at all.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
A Pair of Shoes
A Pair of Shoes
I am wearing a pair of shoes.
They are ugly shoes.
Uncomfortable shoes.
I hate my shoes.
Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair.
Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step.
Yet, I continue to wear them.
I get funny looks wearing these shoes. They are looks of sympathy.
I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs.
They never talk about my shoes.
To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable.
To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.
But, once you put them on, you can never take them off.
I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes.
There are many pairs in this world.
Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.
Some have learned how to walk in them so they don't hurt quite as much.
Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt.
Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman.
These shoes have given me the strength to face anything.
They have made me who I am.
I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost a child.
~ Author Unknown
Monday, October 7, 2013
Finding Security
I am prefacing this post. Remember, this is my personal journal. So these are just my opinions. Opinions that may change in the future, or may not. I recognize many don't agree with what I offer below...and that is more than OK. But in the face of many platitudes offered my way as I grieve, this is my response. Believe whatever you believe. Whatever gets you through the shit days and allows you to smile on the beautiful ones.
People would tell me how lucky I was to have 3 healthy children before everything went down with Ethan. And I would graciously smile and say, "Yes, we are very blessed." Internally I would think "it's not luck...those are blessings."
And now, my eyes see things differently. Having my 3 healthy children are blessings, but also the result of great luck.
I've been mulling this over for months now. Praying about it, trying to understand. The difference between luck and blessings. Sometimes they overlap. But I do not believe they are synonymous. Somehow, attributing things to luck disconnected me from my Christian faith in the past. The idea that luck played a primary role in the big things in life, well, I found that disconcerting. And therefore ignored it.
The "everything happens for a reason," the "God doesn't give you more than you can handle," and the idea that God orchestrates everything offered me great security. And I grabbed right onto to it.
When Ryan was 4 weeks old he was hospitalized for a fever of unknown origin. Doesn't sound that bad, right? Being my third child I didn't alarm myself, but was surprised when the pediatricians said he needed to be hospitalized and tests had to be run immediately. What kind of tests? Oh, the spinal tap, multiple chest x-rays, starting IVs into a chubby baby with difficult veins, and multiple catheterizations kind of tests and procedures. In my mind I kept telling myself that the Lord wouldn't let something really bad happen. That night the pediatrician told me "great news! It's not leukemia." Oh, my mind hadn't even considered cancer as an option. Because somehow, in my naive way I thought that wouldn't happen "to us." A friend offered support to us during those few days and said "don't worry. God doesn't mess with people like you." And you know what? I grabbed right onto that false sense of security. Today, I look back upon that logic and think how narcissistic could I be? I mean seriously. I worked in the oncology department of that same hospital Ryan was in. Saw the ugly side of bad luck daily. And knew it wasn't the result of the type of person you are. Leukemia and meningitis aren't punishments that my loving God doles out. They are bad things that just happen.
Fast forward less than 2 years and our next son dies. We didn't get that "great news!" report from the doctors this time. My false sense of security set sail right over the ocean of tears I cried. I was a faithful Christian who no longer believed many of those Christian platitudes.
My personal faith is large enough, is strong enough, to hold the concept that luck plays a HUGE role in life.
Luck. A concept that implies there is no way to control it. This idea of chance floating around. A chance for good or bad things to happen to people. It's a sobering thought. You don't get that same warm, fuzzy feeling as you do with many platitudes. In fact, I think it's so scary that many people pretend that luck doesn't play a primary role in life. I used to be one of those people.
This post isn't a bitter woman talking. It's an honest reflection. As I write this, I'm not angry at God. (Though, my relationship with God is strong enough to handle some anger). I'm not angry at much actually. Shit happened to my family when Ethan died. And that shit was bad luck. I'm not bitter. I'm devastated. Please note the difference.
The idea that "what doesn't kill us makes us stronger." For many, absolutely. Many grow through tragedy, standing on their resilience, becoming stronger people. (I pray that this is me most days) But how can we honestly apply that idea to everyone? The idea that God won't give someone more than they can handle - what about those in such pain that they take their own lives? Respectfully, I don't think it's fair to offer these platitudes and pretend that they apply to everyone. There seem to be plenty of people who struggle with pain and don't come out of things "stronger."
It's OK to be a Christian and not believe that God has a plan where babies die. It doesn't make me less of a Christian. It's OK to be a Christian who believes in the glorious power of our Lord without believing that God orchestrates such painful tragedies. My Lord can still work wonderful things out of tragedy, and it doesn't mean he caused such pain. I believe in a God of love. My God walks beside me and lifts me up when the pain knocks me down. This unfaithful partner is my Lord. And this unwavering love and presence is where I now find my security.
I am a blessed woman. I have experienced great luck and, undeniably, very real bad luck. My eyes have opened to both and think I am a stronger Christian for it.
"There is nothing you can do to make God love you more. There is nothing you can do to make God love you less. For God is love, and you are God's beloved." -- I've never found out who actually said this. But for me, it is everything. God is Love. And he can surely handle me and this post.
People would tell me how lucky I was to have 3 healthy children before everything went down with Ethan. And I would graciously smile and say, "Yes, we are very blessed." Internally I would think "it's not luck...those are blessings."
And now, my eyes see things differently. Having my 3 healthy children are blessings, but also the result of great luck.
I've been mulling this over for months now. Praying about it, trying to understand. The difference between luck and blessings. Sometimes they overlap. But I do not believe they are synonymous. Somehow, attributing things to luck disconnected me from my Christian faith in the past. The idea that luck played a primary role in the big things in life, well, I found that disconcerting. And therefore ignored it.
The "everything happens for a reason," the "God doesn't give you more than you can handle," and the idea that God orchestrates everything offered me great security. And I grabbed right onto to it.
When Ryan was 4 weeks old he was hospitalized for a fever of unknown origin. Doesn't sound that bad, right? Being my third child I didn't alarm myself, but was surprised when the pediatricians said he needed to be hospitalized and tests had to be run immediately. What kind of tests? Oh, the spinal tap, multiple chest x-rays, starting IVs into a chubby baby with difficult veins, and multiple catheterizations kind of tests and procedures. In my mind I kept telling myself that the Lord wouldn't let something really bad happen. That night the pediatrician told me "great news! It's not leukemia." Oh, my mind hadn't even considered cancer as an option. Because somehow, in my naive way I thought that wouldn't happen "to us." A friend offered support to us during those few days and said "don't worry. God doesn't mess with people like you." And you know what? I grabbed right onto that false sense of security. Today, I look back upon that logic and think how narcissistic could I be? I mean seriously. I worked in the oncology department of that same hospital Ryan was in. Saw the ugly side of bad luck daily. And knew it wasn't the result of the type of person you are. Leukemia and meningitis aren't punishments that my loving God doles out. They are bad things that just happen.
Fast forward less than 2 years and our next son dies. We didn't get that "great news!" report from the doctors this time. My false sense of security set sail right over the ocean of tears I cried. I was a faithful Christian who no longer believed many of those Christian platitudes.
My personal faith is large enough, is strong enough, to hold the concept that luck plays a HUGE role in life.
Luck. A concept that implies there is no way to control it. This idea of chance floating around. A chance for good or bad things to happen to people. It's a sobering thought. You don't get that same warm, fuzzy feeling as you do with many platitudes. In fact, I think it's so scary that many people pretend that luck doesn't play a primary role in life. I used to be one of those people.
This post isn't a bitter woman talking. It's an honest reflection. As I write this, I'm not angry at God. (Though, my relationship with God is strong enough to handle some anger). I'm not angry at much actually. Shit happened to my family when Ethan died. And that shit was bad luck. I'm not bitter. I'm devastated. Please note the difference.
The idea that "what doesn't kill us makes us stronger." For many, absolutely. Many grow through tragedy, standing on their resilience, becoming stronger people. (I pray that this is me most days) But how can we honestly apply that idea to everyone? The idea that God won't give someone more than they can handle - what about those in such pain that they take their own lives? Respectfully, I don't think it's fair to offer these platitudes and pretend that they apply to everyone. There seem to be plenty of people who struggle with pain and don't come out of things "stronger."
It's OK to be a Christian and not believe that God has a plan where babies die. It doesn't make me less of a Christian. It's OK to be a Christian who believes in the glorious power of our Lord without believing that God orchestrates such painful tragedies. My Lord can still work wonderful things out of tragedy, and it doesn't mean he caused such pain. I believe in a God of love. My God walks beside me and lifts me up when the pain knocks me down. This unfaithful partner is my Lord. And this unwavering love and presence is where I now find my security.
I am a blessed woman. I have experienced great luck and, undeniably, very real bad luck. My eyes have opened to both and think I am a stronger Christian for it.
"There is nothing you can do to make God love you more. There is nothing you can do to make God love you less. For God is love, and you are God's beloved." -- I've never found out who actually said this. But for me, it is everything. God is Love. And he can surely handle me and this post.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Why I no longer say congratulations.
Someone has a baby, you say congratulations right? I used to. But I can't any longer.
Congratulations can imply something was done successfully. That someone won something. That the individual receiving congratulations did something right...not wrong.
Ethan died 4 days after he was born. I got a lot of beautiful condolence and support cards, and only one actually congratulated us on the birth of our child. (Thank you Jen for this, I will always remember that)
What did other moms whose babies lived do right that I did wrong? To earn the congratulations when I did not? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps a small something...that is the dark room where my mother's guilt lives.
I just can't bring myself to say "congratulations" to people anymore when they have a healthy baby. Externally it is a simple way to acknowledge something lovely has happened. Internally it feels like I am acknowledging that they were successful and I failed. Internally it feels like I allowed the failure. And I just can't sit with that comfortably. I tried so hard. So very hard to bring Ethan here healthy. But it didn't happen.
Three friends have had babies over the last two weeks. So, what do I say to them? My fingers sit on the keyboard and wait. Wait for some words to come that work. Words to convey my happiness for them. Words that won't betray the grieving mother in me. Words that won't hijack their beautiful moments with my sadness. Words that do justice to both of us. Words that won't add to the tears that are already flowing. I think I usually say something about how fabulous their baby is and to soak in their blessings. And then I hope that they understand. Understand why a simple congratulations is no longer simple for me.
Congratulations can imply something was done successfully. That someone won something. That the individual receiving congratulations did something right...not wrong.
Ethan died 4 days after he was born. I got a lot of beautiful condolence and support cards, and only one actually congratulated us on the birth of our child. (Thank you Jen for this, I will always remember that)
What did other moms whose babies lived do right that I did wrong? To earn the congratulations when I did not? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps a small something...that is the dark room where my mother's guilt lives.
I just can't bring myself to say "congratulations" to people anymore when they have a healthy baby. Externally it is a simple way to acknowledge something lovely has happened. Internally it feels like I am acknowledging that they were successful and I failed. Internally it feels like I allowed the failure. And I just can't sit with that comfortably. I tried so hard. So very hard to bring Ethan here healthy. But it didn't happen.
Three friends have had babies over the last two weeks. So, what do I say to them? My fingers sit on the keyboard and wait. Wait for some words to come that work. Words to convey my happiness for them. Words that won't betray the grieving mother in me. Words that won't hijack their beautiful moments with my sadness. Words that do justice to both of us. Words that won't add to the tears that are already flowing. I think I usually say something about how fabulous their baby is and to soak in their blessings. And then I hope that they understand. Understand why a simple congratulations is no longer simple for me.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
The light returned last night
Last night was the first time since May 8, 2012 that I have been genuinely happy...without the depression lurking behind my shoulder. Seriously, that's a long time not to have felt pure happiness. A long ass time.
It's a little early for me to be assured that my major depression is gone, but signs are looking good thus far. I finished weaning myself off of my anti-depressant a week ago too. And besides feeling dizzy and countless incidents of having "brain zaps" or something bizarre and uncomfortable this week, I am feeling OK on that account. And last night, I felt good. Like the real smiles, leave the stress behind for the night kind of thing.
My friend Potts and I have known each other since Kindergarten. We've done the sleepover thing a million times, peewee soccer thing, and on for the last 27 years. And last night, she married a wonderful man on the coast of Maine. My husband performed their ceremony, I was honored to read in the ceremony as well, my best friends were celebrating with us for the night (all away from our kids I might add - that's never happened in 6 years), and it was a high school reunion with the greatest group of friends ever, only made better by several significant others joining in on the fun.
Somewhere around the toasts I realized I was actually happy. The pure kind of happy. Sure, sad that my son died...but not in the forefront of my day kind of sad. I remembered him all evening long, as several friends have had or are expecting babies - and I was only a little bit jealous this time. That's saying something too.
Last night affirmed that Ethan is not forgotten. Not by me or my family. Not by my high school and college friends who I only occasionally see these days. And not by many acquaintances. Last night, I put my biggest fear away. For the world has not forgotten Ethan.
Last night also offered me another blessing. To see the tears of joy, the tighter hugs than usual, the sweet conversations of mildly intoxicated friends, that caught me off guard. It's not just Ethan that they love. It's Josh and me as well. And for that, I am very humbled.
So thank you Potts for last night. For giving me the mirror to see that the light has returned to my eyes. One of the best gifts anyone could have given me. And one I will hold onto for a long time.
It's a little early for me to be assured that my major depression is gone, but signs are looking good thus far. I finished weaning myself off of my anti-depressant a week ago too. And besides feeling dizzy and countless incidents of having "brain zaps" or something bizarre and uncomfortable this week, I am feeling OK on that account. And last night, I felt good. Like the real smiles, leave the stress behind for the night kind of thing.
My friend Potts and I have known each other since Kindergarten. We've done the sleepover thing a million times, peewee soccer thing, and on for the last 27 years. And last night, she married a wonderful man on the coast of Maine. My husband performed their ceremony, I was honored to read in the ceremony as well, my best friends were celebrating with us for the night (all away from our kids I might add - that's never happened in 6 years), and it was a high school reunion with the greatest group of friends ever, only made better by several significant others joining in on the fun.
Somewhere around the toasts I realized I was actually happy. The pure kind of happy. Sure, sad that my son died...but not in the forefront of my day kind of sad. I remembered him all evening long, as several friends have had or are expecting babies - and I was only a little bit jealous this time. That's saying something too.
Last night affirmed that Ethan is not forgotten. Not by me or my family. Not by my high school and college friends who I only occasionally see these days. And not by many acquaintances. Last night, I put my biggest fear away. For the world has not forgotten Ethan.
Last night also offered me another blessing. To see the tears of joy, the tighter hugs than usual, the sweet conversations of mildly intoxicated friends, that caught me off guard. It's not just Ethan that they love. It's Josh and me as well. And for that, I am very humbled.
So thank you Potts for last night. For giving me the mirror to see that the light has returned to my eyes. One of the best gifts anyone could have given me. And one I will hold onto for a long time.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Daily Communion
I just split some of my 10mg Lexapro pills in half and quarters. I have been taking this tiny pill for a year now, and I think it saved me in many ways. It chemically lifted me out of the well of Major Depression. This tiny white substance allowed me to feel hunger again. In turn allowing me to put a few pounds back on top of my gaunt frame. Allowed me to feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. To experience genuine moments of happiness alongside my depression and grief. It helped me to survive.
Another babyloss parent wrote somewhere, I cannot recall where, that his act of taking an anti-depressant daily was an act of communing with his child gone too soon. That resonated with me. For I never took an medication for mental health prior to Ethan's death. Sure, I tend to think us anxious people, myself included, would likely benefit from a little SSRI anyway...but I'd never made the move towards it. As my other coping skills were sufficient. Until Ethan died. So this small, ritualistic action of swallowing a pill after eating a nutrigrain bar each morning was my physical way of validating Ethan's existence. That it all wasn't just a beautiful dream and terrifying nightmare. That he was and is real.
So tomorrow I will begin weaning myself off of this communion. My body will tell me how it goes over the next month or so. No need to rush the process, no need to force the outcome. For I have worked far too hard to be depressed unnecessarily again. But I'm kind of excited about the potential for weaning. I like to think of it as a sign of healing. Time will tell...
Another babyloss parent wrote somewhere, I cannot recall where, that his act of taking an anti-depressant daily was an act of communing with his child gone too soon. That resonated with me. For I never took an medication for mental health prior to Ethan's death. Sure, I tend to think us anxious people, myself included, would likely benefit from a little SSRI anyway...but I'd never made the move towards it. As my other coping skills were sufficient. Until Ethan died. So this small, ritualistic action of swallowing a pill after eating a nutrigrain bar each morning was my physical way of validating Ethan's existence. That it all wasn't just a beautiful dream and terrifying nightmare. That he was and is real.
So tomorrow I will begin weaning myself off of this communion. My body will tell me how it goes over the next month or so. No need to rush the process, no need to force the outcome. For I have worked far too hard to be depressed unnecessarily again. But I'm kind of excited about the potential for weaning. I like to think of it as a sign of healing. Time will tell...
Sunday, June 2, 2013
An unfair choice
One of the saddest things for me to come to peace with is Caroline, Jackson and Ryan having never met their brother. He lived for 4 days, we just didn't know he wouldn't get to Friday, 2 days further. For Friday was the day they were to come to the hospital, being a state away, with my parents to meet Ethan. It was a lot of work to have someone bring a 4-year-old, 2-year-old and 11-month-old to Boston. Physically and emotionally...that was a lot to coordinate and ask of my parents. Who were already pulling crazy amounts of weight during those days.
Saturday Ethan was born and was the most traumatic day of my life. It was evident that it wasn't appropriate for Ethan's siblings to come down then. As we weren't even allowed into the NICU for hours at a time that day. Sunday came around, and we were still shell-shocked that he had almost died, yet miraculously survived the night. Monday morning things actually looked promising. That was when his nurse Maureen pointed to another NICU mom doing kangaroo care with her baby, and said "that will be you in a few days." Well, that never happened. If I had known what was to come we would have had everyone come and meet him, but nobody had the crystal ball. Three hours later the shit hit the fan and we were all in survival mode again, literally. So it didn't seem appropriate for siblings to come in at that point - as we didn't want to scare them and again, listened to the care team saying that things were hopeful.
Tuesday was more of the same. Wednesday morning came along and Ethan was severely sick, but they all remained hopeful that medicines and interventions would start to do their 2 steps forward, 1 step back NICU thing. I was being discharged that day as well, so having the kids come into Boston when Josh and I were coming home didn't make much sense.
And then 3:00pm came and things went south. The doctors and nurses left Josh and I in that large conference room for privacy, as we discussed it was time to let him go. Ethan's body was failing him, quickly. The choice before us was unfair. A choice no parent should have before them.
Do you hold your son, who you has never been held before and you will never be able to hold again, while his eyes are open? To look into each others eyes with no isolette in the way. Or do you call your parents a state away, crush their hearts and ask them to pile your children into the minivan and drive across the state border, into Boston at rush hour without scaring them or driving unsafely given their trauma and grief? Knowing that by the time they arrive, there is a chance that Ethan would have died anyway, and if he did survive to meet his siblings, when we held him he most certainly wouldn't have had his eyes open.
That's a shit choice to have to make. I don't regret our decisions in the moments. I just regret the way it all played out.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Still Standing
I am a strong ass person. (I really wanted to write something else here, but edited it)
I survived every single hour of 365 days after my son, my sanity, my peace was torn away from me. That's a lot of hours. A lot of tears. A lot of anger. Of jealousy. Man, a lot of jealousy. Of unfairness. All stemming from my pain. So. Much. Pain.
Survived Memorial Day, Ryan's first birthday, Father's Day, 4th of July, my 32nd birthday, my wedding anniversary, Jackson's third birthday, my due date with Ethan, Caroline's fifth birthday, Labor Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve, Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Easter, Josh's birthday, Mother's Day, Ethan's birthday, the first anniversary of his death, and every other day in between.
I fucking did it.
Hard days will continue, assuredly. But now I know I have done it before, so I can do it again.
I survived every single hour of 365 days after my son, my sanity, my peace was torn away from me. That's a lot of hours. A lot of tears. A lot of anger. Of jealousy. Man, a lot of jealousy. Of unfairness. All stemming from my pain. So. Much. Pain.
Survived Memorial Day, Ryan's first birthday, Father's Day, 4th of July, my 32nd birthday, my wedding anniversary, Jackson's third birthday, my due date with Ethan, Caroline's fifth birthday, Labor Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve, Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Easter, Josh's birthday, Mother's Day, Ethan's birthday, the first anniversary of his death, and every other day in between.
I fucking did it.
Hard days will continue, assuredly. But now I know I have done it before, so I can do it again.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Happy birthday sweet boy.
Happy birthday sweet boy. Happy birthday to you.
Celebrate in heaven with your friends for me. Charlotte, Avery, Jack, Lila, Emily, Addy, Takoda, Delia, Paul, Albert, Gus, Alexander, Michael, Christopher, Mira, AdiaRose, Pili and so many more. So many friends you must have up there.
But spend most of the day with us too, somehow. Please...
Your cupcakes are baked. Waiting to be frosted and sprinkled by your siblings tomorrow at some point. Caroline and Jackson thought you would like vanilla with vanilla frosting - coincidentally the cupcakes that they love. Jackson asked if you were going to come down from heaven tomorrow to eat yours. Caroline told him no, that we would eat it for you. But do come down. Hear us sing to you. Please do.
As a mom, celebrating your first birthday without you here in person shreds my heart. But I am learning to stand again. With a shredded heart. And to start living again. That's what this first year was about. Surviving.
Thank you for teaching me what love is. What strength is. What humanity is. You taught me these lessons in 4 short and long days a year ago.
So today is your birthday. One year ago today I was blessed to have survived a very complicated c-section. Apparently a 50-50 chance. So today I thank God for the blessing of my life. And I thank God for blessing me to be your mother. So your birth story is fraught with trauma, lots of it. Ending with the biggest trauma of all. But your soul emanates love, and for that reason your death shall never overshadow your life.
Happy birthday sweet Ethan. Love you,
Mama.
Celebrate in heaven with your friends for me. Charlotte, Avery, Jack, Lila, Emily, Addy, Takoda, Delia, Paul, Albert, Gus, Alexander, Michael, Christopher, Mira, AdiaRose, Pili and so many more. So many friends you must have up there.
But spend most of the day with us too, somehow. Please...
Your cupcakes are baked. Waiting to be frosted and sprinkled by your siblings tomorrow at some point. Caroline and Jackson thought you would like vanilla with vanilla frosting - coincidentally the cupcakes that they love. Jackson asked if you were going to come down from heaven tomorrow to eat yours. Caroline told him no, that we would eat it for you. But do come down. Hear us sing to you. Please do.
As a mom, celebrating your first birthday without you here in person shreds my heart. But I am learning to stand again. With a shredded heart. And to start living again. That's what this first year was about. Surviving.
Thank you for teaching me what love is. What strength is. What humanity is. You taught me these lessons in 4 short and long days a year ago.
So today is your birthday. One year ago today I was blessed to have survived a very complicated c-section. Apparently a 50-50 chance. So today I thank God for the blessing of my life. And I thank God for blessing me to be your mother. So your birth story is fraught with trauma, lots of it. Ending with the biggest trauma of all. But your soul emanates love, and for that reason your death shall never overshadow your life.
Happy birthday sweet Ethan. Love you,
Mama.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
In his name...
I should be buying the cake mix, the #1 candle, the sprinkles and frosting tomorrow at the grocery store. Baking them on Sunday to sing him happy birthday. But I'm not. Well, maybe I will still...but it won't be the way it should be. That's for sure.
With Ethan's first birthday just four days away, I remember my biggest fear. That the world will forget him. I've done my best this year to assure that wouldn't happen. But the fear remains in a dark corner of my being. I know I won't forget him. But will you?
Ethan's short and powerful life inspired great love. Inspires great love. Please help me to keep that in the present tense. So the world doesn't forget Ethan. So Ethan's love shapes the world for the better, making it impossible for the world to forget his sweet soul.
So this Sunday, May 19th, would you do a couple of things for me? Would you tell Ethan happy birthday out loud? So he knows that he is loved the world over? Maybe even sing him happy birthday. That would make me smile.
And would you spread a little love in Ethan's name on Sunday? Do something nice for someone else. Show them love. Go out of your way a little bit. Maybe help someone who needs it. Bring someone flowers to make them smile. Donate to a charity. Tell someone, or some people, how you value them. Do something typically reserved for special days. Remember Ethan when you do. For May 19th is a special day. Let's celebrate it with Ethan's Love...
With Ethan's first birthday just four days away, I remember my biggest fear. That the world will forget him. I've done my best this year to assure that wouldn't happen. But the fear remains in a dark corner of my being. I know I won't forget him. But will you?
Ethan's short and powerful life inspired great love. Inspires great love. Please help me to keep that in the present tense. So the world doesn't forget Ethan. So Ethan's love shapes the world for the better, making it impossible for the world to forget his sweet soul.
So this Sunday, May 19th, would you do a couple of things for me? Would you tell Ethan happy birthday out loud? So he knows that he is loved the world over? Maybe even sing him happy birthday. That would make me smile.
And would you spread a little love in Ethan's name on Sunday? Do something nice for someone else. Show them love. Go out of your way a little bit. Maybe help someone who needs it. Bring someone flowers to make them smile. Donate to a charity. Tell someone, or some people, how you value them. Do something typically reserved for special days. Remember Ethan when you do. For May 19th is a special day. Let's celebrate it with Ethan's Love...
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