Before/After
Disappointment:
Not getting to continue a path to promotion/ Realizing that the bags you placed over your child's belongings to preserve the smell were deodorant (and this was the last chance you had to smell him).
Poor:
The family that lives in a car/ The parents who are jealous of the family in the car because they have all of their children.
Good Friends:
Go out and share good times with you/ Are the ones at your house before the ambulance leaves and stay through the worst times.
Crying Babies:
Emotions between tired and frustrated/ Relief and thankfulness.
Heaven:
A floaty place with clouds, streets of gold, and a vague benevolent God/ An acceptance of God as being complex beyond our comprehension and the only possibility of reunion. The gold is the presence of the body of Christ- those that we love. The décor really doesn't matter.
These are a few of my definitions that have changed. I realize life looks different. It is not all bad, but not all the deep meaningful warm fuzzies that you get from some loss blogs that avoid the ugly. I find myself captivated at times by the smallest things- the pollen on a bees legs or the fuzz behind a newborn's ears. I appreciate time in moments but realize the sum of our life is brief; We are vapor. I feel intense pain never imagined but recognize that loss is only possible because of being given great blessings. Before I wanted a sense of belonging- I worked to help them by volunteering (but that didn't seem enough) and now I find myself tied to a community because a part of me is buried there. The old families in our area accept us now because we are rooted to their church/ area in a way that most newcomers are not. Our son rests next to their parents and grandparents, he lies close to their brothers, sisters, and grandsons that never got to grow up. While I may have put out the fire in their field before, I only became tied to a name after they delivered a casserole to me. I have witnessed both intense unintentional cruelty and the beauty of empathy, from close family and strangers. Instead of being asked "Who is your Daddy?", I have become Perry's (the little baby's) Mom. To some who know only the tragedy that is a sad title, to me it is something beautiful because he is a sweet soul. Treasure lies in people now. I'd give it all up if God would let me trade years of my life for his.
I guess if I had to sum it up I would say that you do not fully appreciate life or other people until you realize we all die. You lose the safety of the naïve, life becomes scary but more beautiful. Great pain is like great fortune- you will either learn from it or squander life further. It will magnify what was there before. You see the cracks and beauty in yourself and others. You will grow closer or further from God as you question him, his existence, and his nature. It is the fire in the kiln, the reason why it is better to be in a house of mourning than of rejoicing. But it is never easy.
Showing posts with label infant loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label infant loss. Show all posts
Friday, July 12, 2013
Saturday, November 17, 2012
The Happiest Place on Earth?
The anniversary of Perry's death, both days (time change day and actual date) were brutal as to be expected. I really didn't want to celebrate it, but you can't forget. So we acknowledged it by buying a larger lantern for the hideout and burning some larger candles in it. I will save the good imagery and celebration for his birthday, the bittersweet celebration of his arrival and short time with us. I've already decided that I am going to buy a classroom kit for butterflies (ordered around Emily's birthday) and release them on his birthday.
So after this grueling week of crying on the way home and Big Sister becoming generally sadder/ demanding her brother more, we splurged.
We had been talking about Walt Disney World since before Perry died and had every intention of taking everyone that fall or following spring. But we know life, or rather death, has a way of robbing people of the should have beens, and instead we stayed home. Relatives tried to get us to go anyway (after all what better way to instantly recover than going to something you were supposed to do WITH your child, SARC). Well meaning people also suggested it when we were astounded with generosity and before realizing that other than the funeral home, plots had to be bought, a small vault with a 'lifetime' guarantee acquired, and a stone selected. We were oddly protected in that the amounts came out to just about cover everything except the stone, but the money and most importantly the will wasn't there to go.
The reality is that I am glad we waited. Nothing can make everything all right once you have lost a child and I think we needed to know that before we went. 90% of it was happiness, but the other 10% was an incredible sense of loss and incompleteness. We knew to expect it, so the shadow of the pain didn't totally eclipse the happy moments.
Before we left, Emily told me she was sad that Perry couldn't go with us. I told her that perhaps God would let Perry check in on us.
On the way there, a brief rainbow appeared. "Look, God sends a rainbow to tell you that a baby is safe with him". This moment seemed to settle the matter for her, and she continued the trip without hesitation. When it disappeared a moment later, she simply said "God has to tell other parents that their kids are ok."
I remember the first time Emily got to meet Cinderella and Aurora, a radiant smile spread across her face. It was that same rare uninhibited smile that I saw when Perry was born. I teared up- it was not fair that Emily did not smile as much as other children, that she was more aware of life and death than many adults are (Have you ever had your child ask if fish bleed when they die or where you will bury a pet that they just received and love desperately? Or have you heard a child ask how many years does Luke Katherine the Beta have before he dies? I have. She feeds this fish three pellets a day religiously, and stares lovingly into his bowl chatting with him. She shouldn't be thinking about this fish dying- in some ways I wish I would have got her a bird that had a chance of living until she left the house and life had given her other more important things in it.) or that we were without Perry now. He should have been in many of the pictures with his Sister, but he wasn't.
I saw his ghost in the face of an 18 month old child with his plaid shirt and similar dark lashes. The same shirt that is still rumpled in the sleeves from the last time Perry wore it. The same one I sit crying, trying to find his scent when little remains now beyond the smell of dust. I watched him as he stared at the moving figures on the Small Worls ride. His parents stared ahead oblivious and I wanted to tell him to stop and look at their son, how the important thing wasn't the ride.
I saw things with different eyes. The rainbow bands weren't just line skippers, perhaps that little girl's beautiful hair was a wig cleverly held down by the Mickey ears. The elderly couple with the disabled daughter that looked like they couldn't normally afford this, were they trying to capture memories while they could? I heard one family say they didn't really care about lines 'you won't see these people again anyway', and I thought "How clueless, they are missing it. They don't see the make a wish children, or the ones that you would gladly let skip ahead. They don't really see us- we are a family with a little girl to them to rush in front of, not a family that is missing a very real part of them." They are about the adrenaline rush I suppose, the momentary pleasures that fades like cotton candy into nothingness. They will miss their own families in this rush- sad, but the oblivious to others will rarely think that time is also limited for them with people they care about. Perhaps the Leukemia diagnosis isn't there yet or the car hasn't jumped the line, but we all go don't we? Perhaps their time with loved ones will never be as short as the time we were blessed with, but does it matter if you don't really value that time?
But I laughed on cheesey rides (except for the jungle cruise for some reason), ate pretzels and huge ice cream sandwiches, and most of all, I got to watch my daughter smiling with her daddy, cheeks pink with excitement from her first log ride down splash mountain. Yes, I wished I could have gone with them, but this after glow was reward enough.
I did find my new normal creeping in at times. I had to stop myself from waking every sleeping baby in a stroller or checking their pulses (parents rarely understand that I can stand children laughing, it is the sleeping that looks like death that makes me freeze inside). I found myself crying at night from the longing. The desperate need to see a child smile that wasn't there.
The days were largely Emily's, but the nights were Perry's. And only God really knows how much I miss him.
So after this grueling week of crying on the way home and Big Sister becoming generally sadder/ demanding her brother more, we splurged.
We had been talking about Walt Disney World since before Perry died and had every intention of taking everyone that fall or following spring. But we know life, or rather death, has a way of robbing people of the should have beens, and instead we stayed home. Relatives tried to get us to go anyway (after all what better way to instantly recover than going to something you were supposed to do WITH your child, SARC). Well meaning people also suggested it when we were astounded with generosity and before realizing that other than the funeral home, plots had to be bought, a small vault with a 'lifetime' guarantee acquired, and a stone selected. We were oddly protected in that the amounts came out to just about cover everything except the stone, but the money and most importantly the will wasn't there to go.
The reality is that I am glad we waited. Nothing can make everything all right once you have lost a child and I think we needed to know that before we went. 90% of it was happiness, but the other 10% was an incredible sense of loss and incompleteness. We knew to expect it, so the shadow of the pain didn't totally eclipse the happy moments.
Before we left, Emily told me she was sad that Perry couldn't go with us. I told her that perhaps God would let Perry check in on us.
On the way there, a brief rainbow appeared. "Look, God sends a rainbow to tell you that a baby is safe with him". This moment seemed to settle the matter for her, and she continued the trip without hesitation. When it disappeared a moment later, she simply said "God has to tell other parents that their kids are ok."
I remember the first time Emily got to meet Cinderella and Aurora, a radiant smile spread across her face. It was that same rare uninhibited smile that I saw when Perry was born. I teared up- it was not fair that Emily did not smile as much as other children, that she was more aware of life and death than many adults are (Have you ever had your child ask if fish bleed when they die or where you will bury a pet that they just received and love desperately? Or have you heard a child ask how many years does Luke Katherine the Beta have before he dies? I have. She feeds this fish three pellets a day religiously, and stares lovingly into his bowl chatting with him. She shouldn't be thinking about this fish dying- in some ways I wish I would have got her a bird that had a chance of living until she left the house and life had given her other more important things in it.) or that we were without Perry now. He should have been in many of the pictures with his Sister, but he wasn't.
I saw his ghost in the face of an 18 month old child with his plaid shirt and similar dark lashes. The same shirt that is still rumpled in the sleeves from the last time Perry wore it. The same one I sit crying, trying to find his scent when little remains now beyond the smell of dust. I watched him as he stared at the moving figures on the Small Worls ride. His parents stared ahead oblivious and I wanted to tell him to stop and look at their son, how the important thing wasn't the ride.
I saw things with different eyes. The rainbow bands weren't just line skippers, perhaps that little girl's beautiful hair was a wig cleverly held down by the Mickey ears. The elderly couple with the disabled daughter that looked like they couldn't normally afford this, were they trying to capture memories while they could? I heard one family say they didn't really care about lines 'you won't see these people again anyway', and I thought "How clueless, they are missing it. They don't see the make a wish children, or the ones that you would gladly let skip ahead. They don't really see us- we are a family with a little girl to them to rush in front of, not a family that is missing a very real part of them." They are about the adrenaline rush I suppose, the momentary pleasures that fades like cotton candy into nothingness. They will miss their own families in this rush- sad, but the oblivious to others will rarely think that time is also limited for them with people they care about. Perhaps the Leukemia diagnosis isn't there yet or the car hasn't jumped the line, but we all go don't we? Perhaps their time with loved ones will never be as short as the time we were blessed with, but does it matter if you don't really value that time?
But I laughed on cheesey rides (except for the jungle cruise for some reason), ate pretzels and huge ice cream sandwiches, and most of all, I got to watch my daughter smiling with her daddy, cheeks pink with excitement from her first log ride down splash mountain. Yes, I wished I could have gone with them, but this after glow was reward enough.
I did find my new normal creeping in at times. I had to stop myself from waking every sleeping baby in a stroller or checking their pulses (parents rarely understand that I can stand children laughing, it is the sleeping that looks like death that makes me freeze inside). I found myself crying at night from the longing. The desperate need to see a child smile that wasn't there.
The days were largely Emily's, but the nights were Perry's. And only God really knows how much I miss him.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Family/ Geneology
I have recently started following an interest of mine, geneology. I have always been interested in it, I guess as a military kid who felt like my roots were nonexistant, geneology provides a way of regaining a sense of place. Perhaps not to a location, but an understanding of where you come from. I imagine this is a strong drive to many, adopted children and just the plain curious alike. But I also find myself drawn to it for other reasons.
I find myself drawing comfort from adding names to branches. From finding women who have also lost children. I find myself getting angry when I 'discover' an infant or young child that the majority of 'trees' leave off- almost as if they are saying that the person only mattered if they produced children or lived at least past 10 or 15 years. It's sloppy and annoying.
When I add that child, I feel like I have reclaimed something from death.
I guess I believe that every child makes an imprint on a family. It changes the personality of the individuals, shapes actions and events. Even the void of a child continues to make a lasting impression on those around it- almost like you can tell the existance of black holes by the movent of objects around them. Like other extreme life events, it magnifies traits.
I added Perry to my tree. He is so small and brief, but what a large impact he has made on me. I want other future researchers to know he existed. Future Grandchildren to say "I remember him on my Grandmother's wall, and look- here he is. They never forgot him.". You can even add stories and pictures, something I will probably do for him. I'll be important perhaps because they came from me. Perhaps the casual people who don't care about children that didn't produce offspring will stop and pause when they see a picture attached and add him. I want to make him matter to them.
Family is such a very strange thing. Family gatherings are too. A counselor said that family gatherings are like sugar. Everything is usually painted pleasant. Unfortunately to get substance, to learn, to grow, to be able to progress you need food- the context of the reality, the acknowledgement of good and bad. For grieved parents to progress, they often need that acknowledgement. If you family isn't capable or lacks the skills, family gatherings are dangerous places. To a parent who has lost a child, it can be the equivalent of a gunrange to a veteran who saw hard combat.
The counselor explained that he believed that we were indeed affected by PTSD. And that in the future, we need to limit or avoid exposure, and provide a safe place and a safe way out to prevent regressing back. To be able to find our new normal (not cure- you can't bring Perry back to earth), we need to begin to control what we can and not allow others to set exposure levels for us. He seemed shocked that we even attempted a family gathering so soon and expressed concern that it might have been damaging.
Just as gatherings, family, and events, the individual people involved are complicated.
People are not all good and bad, we are degrees. There are things perhaps society remembers about a person, what years they served in the military, wealth, and accomplishments that are easily written down on paper. And then there is the other side that is not written down, but just as important. What legacy did they leave to their family? Did they care? Did they leave scars that affect to this day how their children's children react to others?
To understand the scars or negative events, sometimes you have to know the source. It gives you that ability to say this is why this person reacts in this way, and I am not letting the event change how I relate to my own spouse or child any more.
Even the things we don't like to talk about- miscarriages, infant deaths, inherited physical and mental diseases, have value. Sometimes the provide clues to not only what is wrong but how to prevent or treat it.
A person isn't defective if they have a 'bad' genetic trait, mental illness, physical illness, past negative event... We are all given slates with cracks in them. It is how you use the canvas you are dealt and whether you choose to face or ignore them that matters. Whether you allow the cracks to spread onto surfaces your children will write on... And if they do, inspite of all your efforts, sometimes sharing how you patched it on your own slate, or where it came from, is just as important. You don't always recognize them as cracks when they begin or spread, sometimes you only learn that with life experience. But you can give your children the power of knowledge, that may be that little extra piece that allows them to make a concious decision. That takes the power from attacker, the sting from death, and all of the the control from an illness or disease. It gives power to the descendants of victims to say that the abuse stops here. It lets you grow children that are more sensitive to others as a result of your experiences instead of damaged people.
As I look at the braches of my family trees, I am very aware that there are probably saints and murders, revolutionary war heroes and child abusers. Sometimes a person can be both. Perhaps the most remarkable figures do not have the most historical importance, perhaps they are a simple name that brought joy to their family or the person who had the strength to walk away from a history of abandonment and form a family that was well loved.
So how do I make future generations understand that about Perry?
I find myself drawing comfort from adding names to branches. From finding women who have also lost children. I find myself getting angry when I 'discover' an infant or young child that the majority of 'trees' leave off- almost as if they are saying that the person only mattered if they produced children or lived at least past 10 or 15 years. It's sloppy and annoying.
When I add that child, I feel like I have reclaimed something from death.
I guess I believe that every child makes an imprint on a family. It changes the personality of the individuals, shapes actions and events. Even the void of a child continues to make a lasting impression on those around it- almost like you can tell the existance of black holes by the movent of objects around them. Like other extreme life events, it magnifies traits.
I added Perry to my tree. He is so small and brief, but what a large impact he has made on me. I want other future researchers to know he existed. Future Grandchildren to say "I remember him on my Grandmother's wall, and look- here he is. They never forgot him.". You can even add stories and pictures, something I will probably do for him. I'll be important perhaps because they came from me. Perhaps the casual people who don't care about children that didn't produce offspring will stop and pause when they see a picture attached and add him. I want to make him matter to them.
Family is such a very strange thing. Family gatherings are too. A counselor said that family gatherings are like sugar. Everything is usually painted pleasant. Unfortunately to get substance, to learn, to grow, to be able to progress you need food- the context of the reality, the acknowledgement of good and bad. For grieved parents to progress, they often need that acknowledgement. If you family isn't capable or lacks the skills, family gatherings are dangerous places. To a parent who has lost a child, it can be the equivalent of a gunrange to a veteran who saw hard combat.
The counselor explained that he believed that we were indeed affected by PTSD. And that in the future, we need to limit or avoid exposure, and provide a safe place and a safe way out to prevent regressing back. To be able to find our new normal (not cure- you can't bring Perry back to earth), we need to begin to control what we can and not allow others to set exposure levels for us. He seemed shocked that we even attempted a family gathering so soon and expressed concern that it might have been damaging.
Just as gatherings, family, and events, the individual people involved are complicated.
People are not all good and bad, we are degrees. There are things perhaps society remembers about a person, what years they served in the military, wealth, and accomplishments that are easily written down on paper. And then there is the other side that is not written down, but just as important. What legacy did they leave to their family? Did they care? Did they leave scars that affect to this day how their children's children react to others?
To understand the scars or negative events, sometimes you have to know the source. It gives you that ability to say this is why this person reacts in this way, and I am not letting the event change how I relate to my own spouse or child any more.
Even the things we don't like to talk about- miscarriages, infant deaths, inherited physical and mental diseases, have value. Sometimes the provide clues to not only what is wrong but how to prevent or treat it.
A person isn't defective if they have a 'bad' genetic trait, mental illness, physical illness, past negative event... We are all given slates with cracks in them. It is how you use the canvas you are dealt and whether you choose to face or ignore them that matters. Whether you allow the cracks to spread onto surfaces your children will write on... And if they do, inspite of all your efforts, sometimes sharing how you patched it on your own slate, or where it came from, is just as important. You don't always recognize them as cracks when they begin or spread, sometimes you only learn that with life experience. But you can give your children the power of knowledge, that may be that little extra piece that allows them to make a concious decision. That takes the power from attacker, the sting from death, and all of the the control from an illness or disease. It gives power to the descendants of victims to say that the abuse stops here. It lets you grow children that are more sensitive to others as a result of your experiences instead of damaged people.
As I look at the braches of my family trees, I am very aware that there are probably saints and murders, revolutionary war heroes and child abusers. Sometimes a person can be both. Perhaps the most remarkable figures do not have the most historical importance, perhaps they are a simple name that brought joy to their family or the person who had the strength to walk away from a history of abandonment and form a family that was well loved.
So how do I make future generations understand that about Perry?
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Perry's Stone
Today I also received an email from oriental trading company referring to the catalog they sent to my house for supplies specifically for a 1st birthday party. At times like this the feelings flood back, the sense of the enormity of the loss.
I can't really ignore this day, but at the same time you can't do normal. Cake would go uneaten, and there are no happy pictures. It is hard to celebrate the beauty of a wonderful little boy that I feel privileged to have held in my body, arms, and heart without remembering the bitterness of an abrupt ending to our time here together. We have faith that this is not the true ending, but trust as simple as a child's, that you need to believe it here on earth without tears is hard to keep sometimes. The world is so willing to break it. I see the trust I want to have in my Daughter, her easy acceptance. And everyday I see how even her simple faith is challenged (a boy telling her she had no brother in heaven- did he mean he didn't trust she was telling the truth or that it is not so?).
So his stone is our picture. We want to believe that the angel does not cry because he knows this is no ending. It is a rebirth, a metamorphosis. Perry isn't afraid, perhaps this is the world he has just left behind before his brief travel here, or perhaps he recognizes with an innate knowledge that he is returning to the hand that formed him.
But as always, we miss him here and pray that God will let him know that he is loved beyond measure by those yet to join him as well as those he is surrounded by.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Mystery Solved
My computer contantly has marks on the screen. I wipe them off and they reappear with a high frequency.
I was watching my daughter the other day, I'd left the computer on with a picture of Perry pulled up (on my blog or facebook). She leaned towards the screen and planted a big kiss on his face.
It hurts to know that she has to show her affection this way. In kisses on screens and in other instances blown towards heaven. She is very affectionate, and when Perry was here she was constantly in contact with him. A foot on his leg as she colored, a hand on his foot as he wiggled on my chest in a baby carrier.
She was and is a great Big Sister.
I was watching my daughter the other day, I'd left the computer on with a picture of Perry pulled up (on my blog or facebook). She leaned towards the screen and planted a big kiss on his face.
It hurts to know that she has to show her affection this way. In kisses on screens and in other instances blown towards heaven. She is very affectionate, and when Perry was here she was constantly in contact with him. A foot on his leg as she colored, a hand on his foot as he wiggled on my chest in a baby carrier.
She was and is a great Big Sister.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Ice Cream, Swings, and Other Parents
The past few days have been very tough. I keep thinking how horribly wrong it is that I can tell you how much Perry's brain and heart weighed. I read it on the Autopsy, couldn't help but read it. I initially looked at it because I wanted to fill in the last spot for 5 months for his height and weight.
In the middle of all this, I am constantly being reminded that I am not the only Mother who will look at Mother's day this year as something to get through rather than celebrate.
I was given a book called "I Will Carry You", written by a Mom who chose to carry her pregnancy despite a fatal diagnosis. She was able to spend 2 1/2 hours with her child. There were several things that struck me when reading this book. The first was when she was carrying her Daughter and she states that she tried so hard to keep from envisioning her eating ice cream and swinging. If you have followed my blog, you know that the only food I ever gave Perry was a taste of ice cream (and I am grateful for that- I can only imagine how wonderful he thought food must be if ice cream was his first glimpse). And I confess that one of my sorrows is that Perry never got his own swing. My Daughter had a small swing that hangs in the yard with her name on it. When I saw a replica hanging at my Mil's house, I cried for hours, and wanted to take a bat to it. I don't want this swing to exist without HIS name on it. It struck me that I have been given more and at the same time so much less than other mothers. The irony is that the mothers who have not lost a child will not recognize the true extent of the blessings of everyday life. I mourn that I did not make his days more special... At the same time I can not imagine the feeling of holding a living child and knowing that there is no 'use' in imaging a future you will not have. These mothers mourn their children before they leave- is their joy ever full, knowing that the flip side to this joy is the loss coming? I was genuinely happy with my little family. Could I have been happy if I knew what was coming?
Then this shift I think we lost a teenager. I held his Mom in the ambulance and I felt oddly distant. But there was this little voice saying "Hold her, she feels alone". And I knew that today was probably the first day for her in that dream that leaves you screaming at times to wake up, and groaning in other moments, one that you will never wake up from until God allows you to come home to your complete family. The time of scratchy sheets that bring you back to reality in the night, food that gives you no substance but hangs heavy in your stomach like bricks, and flowers that wilt before the scent of your child fades from your house.
Groaning- Have you ever heard that word, perhaps read it in the bible, but have you ever heard one? It is a horrible sound- I heard it only in the voice of patients in bad physical pain before. But how much worse is that low sound when you realize it is coming from you, that your very soul is releasing a little of the pain in a form you can hear?
The one thing that keeps me moving in times like this, is the hope that there is yet good in life for me. That as bad as this groaning of the soul is, that there will come a day I can look back and say "I am glad I kept going. I am so glad I didn't miss this part".
For now I wander through a desolate and rocky wilderness. I am stumblimg through in bare feet, the ground is bloody with my imprints.
But I am beginning to look around instead of staring at my feet, and I see other Mothers and Fathers here. And somewhere in the distance, my Daughter is dancing for joy in some future time, and I have to make it to her to share it with her.
As I try to shuffle forward with perhaps a little direction, I look at these others wandering with me. May God bind all of our feet.
In the middle of all this, I am constantly being reminded that I am not the only Mother who will look at Mother's day this year as something to get through rather than celebrate.
I was given a book called "I Will Carry You", written by a Mom who chose to carry her pregnancy despite a fatal diagnosis. She was able to spend 2 1/2 hours with her child. There were several things that struck me when reading this book. The first was when she was carrying her Daughter and she states that she tried so hard to keep from envisioning her eating ice cream and swinging. If you have followed my blog, you know that the only food I ever gave Perry was a taste of ice cream (and I am grateful for that- I can only imagine how wonderful he thought food must be if ice cream was his first glimpse). And I confess that one of my sorrows is that Perry never got his own swing. My Daughter had a small swing that hangs in the yard with her name on it. When I saw a replica hanging at my Mil's house, I cried for hours, and wanted to take a bat to it. I don't want this swing to exist without HIS name on it. It struck me that I have been given more and at the same time so much less than other mothers. The irony is that the mothers who have not lost a child will not recognize the true extent of the blessings of everyday life. I mourn that I did not make his days more special... At the same time I can not imagine the feeling of holding a living child and knowing that there is no 'use' in imaging a future you will not have. These mothers mourn their children before they leave- is their joy ever full, knowing that the flip side to this joy is the loss coming? I was genuinely happy with my little family. Could I have been happy if I knew what was coming?
Then this shift I think we lost a teenager. I held his Mom in the ambulance and I felt oddly distant. But there was this little voice saying "Hold her, she feels alone". And I knew that today was probably the first day for her in that dream that leaves you screaming at times to wake up, and groaning in other moments, one that you will never wake up from until God allows you to come home to your complete family. The time of scratchy sheets that bring you back to reality in the night, food that gives you no substance but hangs heavy in your stomach like bricks, and flowers that wilt before the scent of your child fades from your house.
Groaning- Have you ever heard that word, perhaps read it in the bible, but have you ever heard one? It is a horrible sound- I heard it only in the voice of patients in bad physical pain before. But how much worse is that low sound when you realize it is coming from you, that your very soul is releasing a little of the pain in a form you can hear?
The one thing that keeps me moving in times like this, is the hope that there is yet good in life for me. That as bad as this groaning of the soul is, that there will come a day I can look back and say "I am glad I kept going. I am so glad I didn't miss this part".
For now I wander through a desolate and rocky wilderness. I am stumblimg through in bare feet, the ground is bloody with my imprints.
But I am beginning to look around instead of staring at my feet, and I see other Mothers and Fathers here. And somewhere in the distance, my Daughter is dancing for joy in some future time, and I have to make it to her to share it with her.
As I try to shuffle forward with perhaps a little direction, I look at these others wandering with me. May God bind all of our feet.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
I just received the call from my pediatrician.
Perry's Autopsy results are in.
Here it is. The fear, the grief comingling. The feeling of not wanting to go in but having no real choice. If I do not go it will always hang over me... probably will anyway. At least we will not invent new horrors in our minds.
So sometime tomorrow the nurse will call to set up the time for the afternoon. It will probably be towards the end of the day so we will not have to wind through a waiting room with blury eyes.
What will it say?
In times like this all you can do is pray. Hope that my pediatrician is guided to use words that will help settle the hanging cloud. I wonder if he prays as well? What goes through his mind? Does he even remember his little patient?
Oh God give us strength.
Perry's Autopsy results are in.
Here it is. The fear, the grief comingling. The feeling of not wanting to go in but having no real choice. If I do not go it will always hang over me... probably will anyway. At least we will not invent new horrors in our minds.
So sometime tomorrow the nurse will call to set up the time for the afternoon. It will probably be towards the end of the day so we will not have to wind through a waiting room with blury eyes.
What will it say?
In times like this all you can do is pray. Hope that my pediatrician is guided to use words that will help settle the hanging cloud. I wonder if he prays as well? What goes through his mind? Does he even remember his little patient?
Oh God give us strength.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Putting Your Family First
This is a hard post to write.
How do I explain that while it is not logical and against everything you are taught, that for a while during this grief process, everyone has to take a backseat while the immediate family grieves.
You shouldn't have to. In theory you are surrounded by loving people who 'get it'. But what do you do when you can't explain it to anyone because they are all 'bright and shiney', don't talk about it and it won't hurt type? When they don't understand that at times there are no words, and they have to read it in your body language? When they are so busy being fair to everyone that they don't get that at this moment in your life you need more? That you can't always be fair because different people need different things, doling out the same to everyone doesn't work. You can't dole out the same to me, my son is dead. You have to do different things, get over your own hangups about death so you can recognize him as being important to me still. When I can't say no, because the social situation dictates you have to act normal and yet others don't stop and think if they should? When you hurt so bad you can't say stop- you need someone to meet you halfway and read what your body is screaming?
Most of the time your spouse should be able to get you. But sometimes I feel like we are moving in seperate spheres. He is still trying to be fair to everyone. To put on that face society wants you to, or maybe your extended family does.
But this isn't a time to fair, or inclusive, it is about simple survival.
My survival.
I can't glorify God until I wade through the valley of death. The wading part, the going forward is my testimony that I think there is a God out there.
I was really tempted not to write this, but I suspect that sometimes there are Moms out there drifting away. I also read great comments like you have to be the guide for those that don't get it.
Don't you get it? I am trying to guide you.
Say my son's name. Just not on the phone, but in public. Hang his pictures on the wall prominently, it may take the sting from seeing pictures of babies doing what Perry will never do. He will never sit on Santa's lap... Oh don't you think the thought kills me inside? Ask me what to include when you take a family photo to 'hold' his place- or do you really not believe all that stuff about God and Heaven?
Or maybe even put more pictures of him than other living relatives. You have so many things you can still do with them. These pictures are all I have left. Don't try to balance it to be fair. You can't spoil him.
Let some things be special for my daughter. She needs, I need her, to be special right now. By making all the same things for everyone it tears me up because I know exactly what Perry should have but will never get. Let me imagine that had he not died there might have been special things you felt about him or would do for him that you would for no other. There are things she is capable of because she is the oldest, but younger children can't do. You don't hold her as much as the younger ones, so let her shine as the only one that can do some things for a while. Let her be in pictures by herself or stay up later. Or be the only flower girl because she is the only one old enough to be.
Let her talk about her brother and not leave her comments dangling awkardly in the air. You would ask about a living brother, so ask about Perry. She remembers even if you would rather she not.
We're not normal anymore. Fair isn't normal anymore.
To us nothing is fair.
You glorify God for new babies and his 'plan', but mine is gone. You never mention him anymore. Does God just hate us? My plan was ripped off the wall the day he died.
Think about what you say.
How do I explain that while it is not logical and against everything you are taught, that for a while during this grief process, everyone has to take a backseat while the immediate family grieves.
You shouldn't have to. In theory you are surrounded by loving people who 'get it'. But what do you do when you can't explain it to anyone because they are all 'bright and shiney', don't talk about it and it won't hurt type? When they don't understand that at times there are no words, and they have to read it in your body language? When they are so busy being fair to everyone that they don't get that at this moment in your life you need more? That you can't always be fair because different people need different things, doling out the same to everyone doesn't work. You can't dole out the same to me, my son is dead. You have to do different things, get over your own hangups about death so you can recognize him as being important to me still. When I can't say no, because the social situation dictates you have to act normal and yet others don't stop and think if they should? When you hurt so bad you can't say stop- you need someone to meet you halfway and read what your body is screaming?
Most of the time your spouse should be able to get you. But sometimes I feel like we are moving in seperate spheres. He is still trying to be fair to everyone. To put on that face society wants you to, or maybe your extended family does.
But this isn't a time to fair, or inclusive, it is about simple survival.
My survival.
I can't glorify God until I wade through the valley of death. The wading part, the going forward is my testimony that I think there is a God out there.
I was really tempted not to write this, but I suspect that sometimes there are Moms out there drifting away. I also read great comments like you have to be the guide for those that don't get it.
Don't you get it? I am trying to guide you.
Say my son's name. Just not on the phone, but in public. Hang his pictures on the wall prominently, it may take the sting from seeing pictures of babies doing what Perry will never do. He will never sit on Santa's lap... Oh don't you think the thought kills me inside? Ask me what to include when you take a family photo to 'hold' his place- or do you really not believe all that stuff about God and Heaven?
Or maybe even put more pictures of him than other living relatives. You have so many things you can still do with them. These pictures are all I have left. Don't try to balance it to be fair. You can't spoil him.
Let some things be special for my daughter. She needs, I need her, to be special right now. By making all the same things for everyone it tears me up because I know exactly what Perry should have but will never get. Let me imagine that had he not died there might have been special things you felt about him or would do for him that you would for no other. There are things she is capable of because she is the oldest, but younger children can't do. You don't hold her as much as the younger ones, so let her shine as the only one that can do some things for a while. Let her be in pictures by herself or stay up later. Or be the only flower girl because she is the only one old enough to be.
Let her talk about her brother and not leave her comments dangling awkardly in the air. You would ask about a living brother, so ask about Perry. She remembers even if you would rather she not.
We're not normal anymore. Fair isn't normal anymore.
To us nothing is fair.
You glorify God for new babies and his 'plan', but mine is gone. You never mention him anymore. Does God just hate us? My plan was ripped off the wall the day he died.
Think about what you say.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Dear Parents
Dear Parents
I did not die young
I lived my span of life,
Within your body
And within your love.
There are many
Who have lived long lives
And have not been loved as me.
If you would honour me
Then speak my name
And number me among your family.
If you would honour me.
Then strive to live in love
For in that love, I live
Never ever doubt
That we will meet again.
Until that happy day,
I will grow with God
And wait for you.
by Christy Kenneally
I did not die young
I lived my span of life,
Within your body
And within your love.
There are many
Who have lived long lives
And have not been loved as me.
If you would honour me
Then speak my name
And number me among your family.
If you would honour me.
Then strive to live in love
For in that love, I live
Never ever doubt
That we will meet again.
Until that happy day,
I will grow with God
And wait for you.
by Christy Kenneally
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
There's a Baby Missing
"There's a baby missing."
There is, but it is not the one you call yours.
He had soft brown hair that curled in tufts of fuzz around his ears,
and pretty blue eyes like his father.
He laughed at being raised in the air,
and had a ready smile even for strangers.
Don't you remember that he shared it with you?
You seem to all have forgotten.
You never mention his name,
like the pain is not worth the memory
of one little boy.
I see my son in the babies,
the should have been Perry
and the horror of just his corpse.
But I have to smile,
pretend it is all ok.
The camera flashes.
And I will never be the same.
There is, but it is not the one you call yours.
He had soft brown hair that curled in tufts of fuzz around his ears,
and pretty blue eyes like his father.
He laughed at being raised in the air,
and had a ready smile even for strangers.
Don't you remember that he shared it with you?
You seem to all have forgotten.
You never mention his name,
like the pain is not worth the memory
of one little boy.
I see my son in the babies,
the should have been Perry
and the horror of just his corpse.
But I have to smile,
pretend it is all ok.
The camera flashes.
And I will never be the same.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Compassion fatigue? Mourning?
I noticed that I am having a really hard time lately feeling compassion. At first I wrote it off as fatigue of dealing with people that have no clue. The people that cry about a car like a person died after a wreck. That was fairly exhausting to deal with after you have lost a child.
After all, there wasn't anything really wrong with me. The Dr. from the EAP program seemed satisfied that I said I felt I was doing a good job at work, just couldn't feel for stupid losses people had any more. I talked to him about how I see my son dead sometimes in things that trigger it: the faces of some babies, moments where I am doing what I was doing the days and nights before. He seemed to think it was fairly normal. I developed a desensitization plan (without his help, he offered very little practical advice and focused on breathing techniques) for things that I can control. I expose myself in small progressing steps in a way that I can stop and back off if it gets too intense. (Unfortunately not everyone will let you do this- I'm five months out and should 'deal' with things right? At least that's the vibe I get. But now the pain is as bad as the beginning, only in some ways it is worse because I am starting to know on some levels that he is dead and is not coming back. And right now it is so raw it is hard to look at a religious view that would normally bring comfort. I'm back to screaming at that God who works miracles but chose to allow my son to die.)
Now I'm actually pretty normal. The ladies on the baby loss groups try to warn the newcomers that at five months the death hits in a full way. To anyone who hasn't lost a child I'm a bit crazy perhaps, or selfish because I can't see through the pain that is hitting me and obscurring my windshield to view their normal world.
But recently I became alarmed. I was on a call where an individual was having serious health issues and the daughter went into the closet so she could cry. This is where I usually spend a lot of emotional coin, I'm a natural hand holder.
I followed her and I said all the right words, but I felt hollow. I knew that I cared but I didn't feel it.
And I began to examine a lot of my other emotions. I have trouble feeling now when adults die. I mean, if my son could die, why should anything be shocking? Why should a fifty year old man be spared when an infant can die?
I also have trouble empathizing with losses that don't actually come from a result of death. Divorce? Broken relationship? At least the person you loved is not dead, I think. (Again, not the old Katie). I know that academically I feel bad for these people but the emotional echoe is missing. I long that he could still be out there, even if I could never see him. He could still have all the things life offered, I just couldn't see them.
So I googled a little. Came across one of many firefighter related magazines and a word popped, sounded promisng. Compassion fatigue.
So I excitedly read about how to cope with it. The primary thing was to realize that the traumatic event you witnessed or participated in the aftermath did not happen to your family. Great words for a responder to a tramatic event right?
The words were devastating to me. It DID happen to US. I recognize it is not a single call I went on, but the death of my son. I know it because I see him and shoo scenes from the time leading up to his death, the first time I looked at him in my husband's arms after his death, and funeral regularly from my mind. I remember small details- the images are crisp like video instead of hazzy memories. The color of diaper he was wearing, the look on his face, the striped nightgown my daughter was wearing, the dust bunny under the recliner next to a empty yogurt cup my daughter had ate, the colors of the rooster on the coasters she was still holding in her small hands as she wailed to me. Details of him. Specific, like a zoom in camera as if my memory had whispered to take a close look because these were the last images I would ever see of him as horrible as they were. The time before is like a slow moving video.Most of the time I can cope. I just back away a bit. Go to a safe place and cry as I let it finish playing. Then I get busy.
But I can't cope when I can't control it. When there is no safe place.
So what is it? What do you call it?
And how do I get back with the other people who haven't had any major losses? The pretending and small talk are ok sometimes, but just sap you mostly.
I'm actually getting a bit mad now. Tired of people expecting me to do all the work. Don't you think if I knew how to make the pain go away I would? And I do- but all that will work is you handing my son back to me. But why is it that I'm expected to make all the approaches while everyone acts like everything is normal. I want someone to look at me and bluntly say "How are you Katie? And not the polite crap answer, please." That is really all that I want sometimes (you don't even have to do it everytime you see me, just once in a while when there aren't a gazillion people around). Do they not want to know and ruin their bubble of peace? Is that why they act like everything is normal? Or are they afraid? As long as you do not expect me to do or act X, Y, and Z I can talk with you. And I want some control. Please do not try to force me into normal, when it's not and the mold will break whatever new frame I've managed to tape together from the pieces. Sometimes I think people try to call forcing you into their frame 'making you face life', when in reality it is just easier for them for some reason, or they feel entitled (its their right) for whatever random excuse they have. I feel an incredible lack of control since my son died, and I need to be able to determine the rate of hurtful things that get thrown at me. I need to control the rate at the images that flash at me. You see a random child or baby, but for me the image morphs into my son (the should have been Perry or the Dead one). It might be inconvient or ripple your bubble, but I think somewhere I'm still worth the effort to help salvage. And I want it to be ok to be angry sometimes- look it up, it's a grief stage. Otherwise I'll play your game and try to act normal, but I'll explode. The venting is a pressure release and it is necessary.
After all, there wasn't anything really wrong with me. The Dr. from the EAP program seemed satisfied that I said I felt I was doing a good job at work, just couldn't feel for stupid losses people had any more. I talked to him about how I see my son dead sometimes in things that trigger it: the faces of some babies, moments where I am doing what I was doing the days and nights before. He seemed to think it was fairly normal. I developed a desensitization plan (without his help, he offered very little practical advice and focused on breathing techniques) for things that I can control. I expose myself in small progressing steps in a way that I can stop and back off if it gets too intense. (Unfortunately not everyone will let you do this- I'm five months out and should 'deal' with things right? At least that's the vibe I get. But now the pain is as bad as the beginning, only in some ways it is worse because I am starting to know on some levels that he is dead and is not coming back. And right now it is so raw it is hard to look at a religious view that would normally bring comfort. I'm back to screaming at that God who works miracles but chose to allow my son to die.)
Now I'm actually pretty normal. The ladies on the baby loss groups try to warn the newcomers that at five months the death hits in a full way. To anyone who hasn't lost a child I'm a bit crazy perhaps, or selfish because I can't see through the pain that is hitting me and obscurring my windshield to view their normal world.
But recently I became alarmed. I was on a call where an individual was having serious health issues and the daughter went into the closet so she could cry. This is where I usually spend a lot of emotional coin, I'm a natural hand holder.
I followed her and I said all the right words, but I felt hollow. I knew that I cared but I didn't feel it.
And I began to examine a lot of my other emotions. I have trouble feeling now when adults die. I mean, if my son could die, why should anything be shocking? Why should a fifty year old man be spared when an infant can die?
I also have trouble empathizing with losses that don't actually come from a result of death. Divorce? Broken relationship? At least the person you loved is not dead, I think. (Again, not the old Katie). I know that academically I feel bad for these people but the emotional echoe is missing. I long that he could still be out there, even if I could never see him. He could still have all the things life offered, I just couldn't see them.
So I googled a little. Came across one of many firefighter related magazines and a word popped, sounded promisng. Compassion fatigue.
So I excitedly read about how to cope with it. The primary thing was to realize that the traumatic event you witnessed or participated in the aftermath did not happen to your family. Great words for a responder to a tramatic event right?
The words were devastating to me. It DID happen to US. I recognize it is not a single call I went on, but the death of my son. I know it because I see him and shoo scenes from the time leading up to his death, the first time I looked at him in my husband's arms after his death, and funeral regularly from my mind. I remember small details- the images are crisp like video instead of hazzy memories. The color of diaper he was wearing, the look on his face, the striped nightgown my daughter was wearing, the dust bunny under the recliner next to a empty yogurt cup my daughter had ate, the colors of the rooster on the coasters she was still holding in her small hands as she wailed to me. Details of him. Specific, like a zoom in camera as if my memory had whispered to take a close look because these were the last images I would ever see of him as horrible as they were. The time before is like a slow moving video.Most of the time I can cope. I just back away a bit. Go to a safe place and cry as I let it finish playing. Then I get busy.
But I can't cope when I can't control it. When there is no safe place.
So what is it? What do you call it?
And how do I get back with the other people who haven't had any major losses? The pretending and small talk are ok sometimes, but just sap you mostly.
I'm actually getting a bit mad now. Tired of people expecting me to do all the work. Don't you think if I knew how to make the pain go away I would? And I do- but all that will work is you handing my son back to me. But why is it that I'm expected to make all the approaches while everyone acts like everything is normal. I want someone to look at me and bluntly say "How are you Katie? And not the polite crap answer, please." That is really all that I want sometimes (you don't even have to do it everytime you see me, just once in a while when there aren't a gazillion people around). Do they not want to know and ruin their bubble of peace? Is that why they act like everything is normal? Or are they afraid? As long as you do not expect me to do or act X, Y, and Z I can talk with you. And I want some control. Please do not try to force me into normal, when it's not and the mold will break whatever new frame I've managed to tape together from the pieces. Sometimes I think people try to call forcing you into their frame 'making you face life', when in reality it is just easier for them for some reason, or they feel entitled (its their right) for whatever random excuse they have. I feel an incredible lack of control since my son died, and I need to be able to determine the rate of hurtful things that get thrown at me. I need to control the rate at the images that flash at me. You see a random child or baby, but for me the image morphs into my son (the should have been Perry or the Dead one). It might be inconvient or ripple your bubble, but I think somewhere I'm still worth the effort to help salvage. And I want it to be ok to be angry sometimes- look it up, it's a grief stage. Otherwise I'll play your game and try to act normal, but I'll explode. The venting is a pressure release and it is necessary.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Pictures
I think a lot about pictures today. Perhaps it is because I picked out images to go on Perry's card and to give to his stone artist. It hit me really hard because as I was thinking how I should have sent out a birth announcement or a one year birthday invitation with his picture on it (rather than a memorial cars with a safe sleep message), I rounded the corner at a highschool our engine company was visiting, there was a very long line of baby pictures for all the graduating seniors.
The theme of this week for me seems to regret for all the things he will not do, the graduations, road trips, and wedding that he will never have. The senior photos, the upcoming wedding of my SIL, and a trip in a small plane for the first time without him.
So I will cry today and then paint on a happy face. Because everyone wants to be happy and sadness has no place in our society. You hide it, avoid it, and cover it up (with pills if necessary). But unfortunately that's not for me. That doesn't allow me to face it. Before you can get to your new normal you have to fully experience and understand your loss. You have to get familiar with it so it can finally blend into the background of your life instead of sitting in the center glaring as you try to pretend it is not there. Hiding it will just allow it to pop up later, the pain to breed and multiply under the skin until it works towards the surface.
The problem is facing grief in a society that pretends it doesn't exist is a difficult proposition. To an extent you are forced to compartmentalize yourself, but it doesn't always work well. Everyone always tells you if you are 'yourself' everywhere then that is the best policy, but the reality is that we almost all have multiple roles. How many working parents act like work is the most important thing on the job, but family is when they are off? Whether or not this can ever really work is questionable. Something has to give at times... and that's when you figure out what is really important as it reflects in your decisions. You will always begin to excel in one area and neglect the other with this extreme split. Grief is sort of like that, at times you have to make a choice about how to be honest with others even when they would rather you pretend. So I try to cheat a little. Hidden babysocks in pockets at work or pictures on a bracelet. And I try not to pretend too much, but I do not necessarily volunteer my thoughts. But if I were honest there are times I paste on a smile or my laughter is hollow, I make the decision to pay for it later rather than make someone else uncomfortable.
In general I tend to think that when I can fully face things as they happen in my mind, I am better off. This delay of emotions just make it feel like there are two seperate painful events rather than just the initial moment something hits me.
But it is just not a choice you can always make and stay employed, or keep friends, or prevent family members from being alienated. Because a lot of people really just do not get it. But when you pretend sometimes you feel like you have lost those people anyway because it is no longer an honest relationship. I think that is why so many people who lose children shift to new friends or drift from family for a time.
You just get tired of lying.
The theme of this week for me seems to regret for all the things he will not do, the graduations, road trips, and wedding that he will never have. The senior photos, the upcoming wedding of my SIL, and a trip in a small plane for the first time without him.
So I will cry today and then paint on a happy face. Because everyone wants to be happy and sadness has no place in our society. You hide it, avoid it, and cover it up (with pills if necessary). But unfortunately that's not for me. That doesn't allow me to face it. Before you can get to your new normal you have to fully experience and understand your loss. You have to get familiar with it so it can finally blend into the background of your life instead of sitting in the center glaring as you try to pretend it is not there. Hiding it will just allow it to pop up later, the pain to breed and multiply under the skin until it works towards the surface.
The problem is facing grief in a society that pretends it doesn't exist is a difficult proposition. To an extent you are forced to compartmentalize yourself, but it doesn't always work well. Everyone always tells you if you are 'yourself' everywhere then that is the best policy, but the reality is that we almost all have multiple roles. How many working parents act like work is the most important thing on the job, but family is when they are off? Whether or not this can ever really work is questionable. Something has to give at times... and that's when you figure out what is really important as it reflects in your decisions. You will always begin to excel in one area and neglect the other with this extreme split. Grief is sort of like that, at times you have to make a choice about how to be honest with others even when they would rather you pretend. So I try to cheat a little. Hidden babysocks in pockets at work or pictures on a bracelet. And I try not to pretend too much, but I do not necessarily volunteer my thoughts. But if I were honest there are times I paste on a smile or my laughter is hollow, I make the decision to pay for it later rather than make someone else uncomfortable.
In general I tend to think that when I can fully face things as they happen in my mind, I am better off. This delay of emotions just make it feel like there are two seperate painful events rather than just the initial moment something hits me.
But it is just not a choice you can always make and stay employed, or keep friends, or prevent family members from being alienated. Because a lot of people really just do not get it. But when you pretend sometimes you feel like you have lost those people anyway because it is no longer an honest relationship. I think that is why so many people who lose children shift to new friends or drift from family for a time.
You just get tired of lying.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
A little alive in us
I was having another one of those days, another Mom at compassionate friends was talking about how wonderful it is that her child's organs are still alive in other people.
Here again, regret. This was not possible for us, and I really wish it had been. I wanted something good to spring out of all this sadness.
The meeting was good, but I left feeling a little battered. It feels like someone has lanced a wound. Necessary, and much better for it later, but still pain mixes with medicine.
Then I found this link (ironically through a birth message group I got on when I was pregnant with Perry- I almost deleted them from facebook but paused and read one last post first ):
http://boingboing.net/2012/01/03/cells.html
I researched further and found information that women who have heart attacks or damage during pregnancy or after sometimes have healthy new tissue with the genetics of their infants in the area that was damaged. There is even supposition that maybe this tissue could also explain why Mom's brains actually grow in certain regions while pregnant.
It's interesting.
And a bit comforting.
I let my mind wrap around it. Perhaps there are many of these cells- Perry's, Emily's, and the others, still alive in me. I carry bits of my children within.
I wonder how much more science will uncover about our bodies. How much more they may never even learn.
It definitely makes you wonder about people who describe pregnancy as a parasite in a host rather than a relationship. And yet here an embryo or fetus begins to give back, before even birth. I think of the twist of fate- that some women who have aborted children may have their hearts literally healed by them without even knowing it. Perhaps they were saved from permanent brain damage after an accident (is this why women have better outcomes after brain injuries?).
Maybe this is what we are called to do in life. Give even when we are rejected or when life takes away what is most precious to us.
I know life is never as simple as portrayed. But how wonderful the hidden complexities can turn out to be, even if we do not know about them or want to.
Here again, regret. This was not possible for us, and I really wish it had been. I wanted something good to spring out of all this sadness.
The meeting was good, but I left feeling a little battered. It feels like someone has lanced a wound. Necessary, and much better for it later, but still pain mixes with medicine.
Then I found this link (ironically through a birth message group I got on when I was pregnant with Perry- I almost deleted them from facebook but paused and read one last post first ):
http://boingboing.net/2012/01/03/cells.html
I researched further and found information that women who have heart attacks or damage during pregnancy or after sometimes have healthy new tissue with the genetics of their infants in the area that was damaged. There is even supposition that maybe this tissue could also explain why Mom's brains actually grow in certain regions while pregnant.
It's interesting.
And a bit comforting.
I let my mind wrap around it. Perhaps there are many of these cells- Perry's, Emily's, and the others, still alive in me. I carry bits of my children within.
I wonder how much more science will uncover about our bodies. How much more they may never even learn.
It definitely makes you wonder about people who describe pregnancy as a parasite in a host rather than a relationship. And yet here an embryo or fetus begins to give back, before even birth. I think of the twist of fate- that some women who have aborted children may have their hearts literally healed by them without even knowing it. Perhaps they were saved from permanent brain damage after an accident (is this why women have better outcomes after brain injuries?).
Maybe this is what we are called to do in life. Give even when we are rejected or when life takes away what is most precious to us.
I know life is never as simple as portrayed. But how wonderful the hidden complexities can turn out to be, even if we do not know about them or want to.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Easter
What a bittersweet holiday. A promise to Christians that we will see our brothers and sisters again through grace, a whisper that I will see my sweet son.
But the families line up outside, little girls in satin dresses and white hats, and the babies in stiched cotton, pantsuits for little boys or maybe a clip on tie. Shoes new or shined until they gleam. Cameras and cell phones raised by willing volunteers to capture entire families- and we can no longer do that.
I see little outfits that I would have bought for Perry to wear, feel a tightness as I go down the easter isle and see a little toy, or the babyfood isle that is parallel to my journey to the milk and see the easy dissolving treats I might have bought for his Easter basket. No cute 'my first Easter bib', that I set aside from Emily for him to wear with the matching rattle.
We buy flowers for a grave. There is an irony in that the only things I can buy for him now, a little boy would have little use for.
I almost always buy an extra, I avoid sibling rivalry even now. I want no resentment for Emily that Perry is dead, when somehow (miraculously) I did something right as a parent and largely managed to avoid it while he was here and Emily loved him. The biggest smile, the glowing face, of Emily in my hospital room as she greets baby is incredible. I see it in pictures even now. No Christmas had brought it out before, I never knew a child could glow and beam. Especially one normally as serious as Emily.
(In good moments I imagine this will be the smiles of reunion in heaven.)
The day before Easter is another day to us. Remarkable only in that we are resuming talks with the artist for Perry's stone. We cry a little as we discuss how tall he was- more than 27 inches because that was the Doctor's visit at 4 months, somewhat less than 32 because that was the size of the coffin. But not much, because they left his legs somewhat tucked as an infant would naturally. But we don't fully explain this, but we both know each of us understand because both my husband and I use the same two numbers. Really.... So when I talk about getting his last height and weight from an autopsy report, I have to wonder if it would be any less horrendous than how we arrive at our guess now. We think 30 inches.
What horrible thoughts everyday life stirs up. Your memory pools may run clear in comparison, sometimes we look normal. The silt is stirred up, and it turns jet black.
We cried a little when she asked us how he died, but my husband reassured her not to worry when we cry. Because when we cry we remember how happy we were.
Please God, let me be that happy again.
But the families line up outside, little girls in satin dresses and white hats, and the babies in stiched cotton, pantsuits for little boys or maybe a clip on tie. Shoes new or shined until they gleam. Cameras and cell phones raised by willing volunteers to capture entire families- and we can no longer do that.
I see little outfits that I would have bought for Perry to wear, feel a tightness as I go down the easter isle and see a little toy, or the babyfood isle that is parallel to my journey to the milk and see the easy dissolving treats I might have bought for his Easter basket. No cute 'my first Easter bib', that I set aside from Emily for him to wear with the matching rattle.
We buy flowers for a grave. There is an irony in that the only things I can buy for him now, a little boy would have little use for.
I almost always buy an extra, I avoid sibling rivalry even now. I want no resentment for Emily that Perry is dead, when somehow (miraculously) I did something right as a parent and largely managed to avoid it while he was here and Emily loved him. The biggest smile, the glowing face, of Emily in my hospital room as she greets baby is incredible. I see it in pictures even now. No Christmas had brought it out before, I never knew a child could glow and beam. Especially one normally as serious as Emily.
(In good moments I imagine this will be the smiles of reunion in heaven.)
The day before Easter is another day to us. Remarkable only in that we are resuming talks with the artist for Perry's stone. We cry a little as we discuss how tall he was- more than 27 inches because that was the Doctor's visit at 4 months, somewhat less than 32 because that was the size of the coffin. But not much, because they left his legs somewhat tucked as an infant would naturally. But we don't fully explain this, but we both know each of us understand because both my husband and I use the same two numbers. Really.... So when I talk about getting his last height and weight from an autopsy report, I have to wonder if it would be any less horrendous than how we arrive at our guess now. We think 30 inches.
What horrible thoughts everyday life stirs up. Your memory pools may run clear in comparison, sometimes we look normal. The silt is stirred up, and it turns jet black.
We cried a little when she asked us how he died, but my husband reassured her not to worry when we cry. Because when we cry we remember how happy we were.
Please God, let me be that happy again.
Monday, April 2, 2012
5 Months
Almost 5 months you have been gone
about as long as you lived
I want to blame
or know why
but nothing will bring you back.
People begin to say nothing
perhaps they think I should be over you
or the awkwardness is too much.
I find it harder this week than in the past month,
your loss seems raw today-
perhaps I know that you are gone
no platitudes can fix that.
Only faith gives me hope,
but it is so bitter to find you in faith
instead of my arms.
You were my son,
the one who smiled
when others around you
cried in self pity.
You were the only good change
in years of stagnation and disappointment,
you showed me a bright present and future.
All that has changed now.
All the silly things that seemed important are back in line,
but my bright star has burned out.
The room is even darker than before
now that I know what should be.
about as long as you lived
I want to blame
or know why
but nothing will bring you back.
People begin to say nothing
perhaps they think I should be over you
or the awkwardness is too much.
I find it harder this week than in the past month,
your loss seems raw today-
perhaps I know that you are gone
no platitudes can fix that.
Only faith gives me hope,
but it is so bitter to find you in faith
instead of my arms.
You were my son,
the one who smiled
when others around you
cried in self pity.
You were the only good change
in years of stagnation and disappointment,
you showed me a bright present and future.
All that has changed now.
All the silly things that seemed important are back in line,
but my bright star has burned out.
The room is even darker than before
now that I know what should be.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
The Life Review
I have been reading a lot about death and near death experiences. I guess I have wanted to know what Perry was feeling- was he afraid, who did he go with?
One thing that struck me was that many of the things I have learned from his death(or were reinforced) are the same things that the dying will teach if they feel inclined and are allowed.
Here are a few concepts:
Everything material is pretty much plastic junk or paper. The only things that matter here are our relationships, with God and others.
Every person matters.
Good people are how we see Christ- they are the body of Christ on this earth.
We will have to face the results of our actions, both good and bad. Paying for them may be a matter of grace, but in the end we will review our lives. Did we really do the best we could to make amends (actions if possible, words if not) or was it just verbal pyrotechnics and illusions to make ourselves feel better? Did we seek amends and do things that made the other person feel better or only things that we were willing to do, just enough to put in earplugs and ignore the small whispering voice? Maybe we just spoke a couple words and didn't act out the rest of the relationship in love, without the words really meaning anything. Did we truly acknowlege the full extent of the pain and hurt caused?
Words and actions are complicated things that have waves that ripple outward. One not in sync with the other can be just as damaging as a lie. Everything is called into question, not just the bad.
I wondered why I came to these conclusions. Part of it may be that as a parent whose child has died, I contemplate many of the same things as the dying do: "Where do we go? Is there really a God? Does he hear me?". You can be saved but you might still question when reality stares you in the eye and doesn't flinch.
I think the other part, maybe the larger, is the life review. I am sure adults review their lives to be able to come to closure and accept what is coming. Adults who lose children review their own lives, searching for the crumbs to tell them why this has happened to their family, and to answer the nagging question "Was I a good parent?". It is also part of a search for closure, although we may not see it as such. If you allow it, you follow all the paths of your life, the branches you chose to follow, and how it affected other people and not just your child.
I think it can be very meaningful if you go into a review of your life with humbleness, trying to learn, and not with preconceived notions. You can see your greatest achievements... (they are actually not professional or club related; not the ones listed repeatedly in many adult memorials) they are you relationships. Did you love others enough, did you accept it when it was offered? And the blaring failures- the girl in elementary school you didn't stand up for openly, the people you didn't bother to know because of the way they dressed or hygiene.
One author said that some patients that were dying explained that they were groaning not from pain but the images and past actions they wrestled with. Eventually many work through it- some asking for solitude at this time as they played 'the movies' in their head.
It's a lot to take in.
Eventually, during the review you reach the present. If you choose to keep your glasses you continue the review as you go about daily life.
I think if you review you life honestly, it is the first step in accountability.
But unlike the dying, who do not have the blessing of time, parents are left to contemplate. They can change for good or ill, but they may have years to fix, amend, or go down a new pathway. And while the dying can immerse themselves in the coming and in things ethereal; they can stop eating because it no longer matters, they do not have to clean or chase after a small girl, we are pulled back into the everyday reality. We have to balance the good we can do with our money (and the necessities we need to buy with it) with the cost to achieve it. We can then choose to integrate these things or ignore them (although I guess you will be forced to review them again later). We can choose to lay these glasses aside.
Laying aside the glasses, however, does not change reality.
I think there is a value in reviewing your life that even a person untouched yet by a close death can gain. It is uncomfortable at times, wonderful in other moments.
But sadly I don't think that many people bother. At best they review the past minute or year and attempt to justify the bad they did or identify the failures of others so they can point a finger. Perhaps they review their financial past because they can touch and feel the material, but ignore the personal because that is uncomfortable or doesn't fit neatly in a ledger.
There is no true justification of a bad deed formed with ill intent or with chosen ignorance. Understanding maybe.
Letting go of bad things done to you is the only way you can release the rope they tie around your feet that hobbles you.
But these are hard concepts to teach. Harder ones to live. I struggle with them.
Stop living in the moment, looking forward only through this next week or looking in one direction. Turn around and look back- sometimes you see a side of things you could never see from behind or as they are even with you. Seek to find the good and the negative in yourself. Do not use it as only a pummeling or as a celebration.
Face your life as it was. It is the only way to change what it is now and what it will be in the future.
It is life altering.
One thing that struck me was that many of the things I have learned from his death(or were reinforced) are the same things that the dying will teach if they feel inclined and are allowed.
Here are a few concepts:
Everything material is pretty much plastic junk or paper. The only things that matter here are our relationships, with God and others.
Every person matters.
Good people are how we see Christ- they are the body of Christ on this earth.
We will have to face the results of our actions, both good and bad. Paying for them may be a matter of grace, but in the end we will review our lives. Did we really do the best we could to make amends (actions if possible, words if not) or was it just verbal pyrotechnics and illusions to make ourselves feel better? Did we seek amends and do things that made the other person feel better or only things that we were willing to do, just enough to put in earplugs and ignore the small whispering voice? Maybe we just spoke a couple words and didn't act out the rest of the relationship in love, without the words really meaning anything. Did we truly acknowlege the full extent of the pain and hurt caused?
Words and actions are complicated things that have waves that ripple outward. One not in sync with the other can be just as damaging as a lie. Everything is called into question, not just the bad.
I wondered why I came to these conclusions. Part of it may be that as a parent whose child has died, I contemplate many of the same things as the dying do: "Where do we go? Is there really a God? Does he hear me?". You can be saved but you might still question when reality stares you in the eye and doesn't flinch.
I think the other part, maybe the larger, is the life review. I am sure adults review their lives to be able to come to closure and accept what is coming. Adults who lose children review their own lives, searching for the crumbs to tell them why this has happened to their family, and to answer the nagging question "Was I a good parent?". It is also part of a search for closure, although we may not see it as such. If you allow it, you follow all the paths of your life, the branches you chose to follow, and how it affected other people and not just your child.
I think it can be very meaningful if you go into a review of your life with humbleness, trying to learn, and not with preconceived notions. You can see your greatest achievements... (they are actually not professional or club related; not the ones listed repeatedly in many adult memorials) they are you relationships. Did you love others enough, did you accept it when it was offered? And the blaring failures- the girl in elementary school you didn't stand up for openly, the people you didn't bother to know because of the way they dressed or hygiene.
One author said that some patients that were dying explained that they were groaning not from pain but the images and past actions they wrestled with. Eventually many work through it- some asking for solitude at this time as they played 'the movies' in their head.
It's a lot to take in.
Eventually, during the review you reach the present. If you choose to keep your glasses you continue the review as you go about daily life.
I think if you review you life honestly, it is the first step in accountability.
But unlike the dying, who do not have the blessing of time, parents are left to contemplate. They can change for good or ill, but they may have years to fix, amend, or go down a new pathway. And while the dying can immerse themselves in the coming and in things ethereal; they can stop eating because it no longer matters, they do not have to clean or chase after a small girl, we are pulled back into the everyday reality. We have to balance the good we can do with our money (and the necessities we need to buy with it) with the cost to achieve it. We can then choose to integrate these things or ignore them (although I guess you will be forced to review them again later). We can choose to lay these glasses aside.
Laying aside the glasses, however, does not change reality.
I think there is a value in reviewing your life that even a person untouched yet by a close death can gain. It is uncomfortable at times, wonderful in other moments.
But sadly I don't think that many people bother. At best they review the past minute or year and attempt to justify the bad they did or identify the failures of others so they can point a finger. Perhaps they review their financial past because they can touch and feel the material, but ignore the personal because that is uncomfortable or doesn't fit neatly in a ledger.
There is no true justification of a bad deed formed with ill intent or with chosen ignorance. Understanding maybe.
Letting go of bad things done to you is the only way you can release the rope they tie around your feet that hobbles you.
But these are hard concepts to teach. Harder ones to live. I struggle with them.
Stop living in the moment, looking forward only through this next week or looking in one direction. Turn around and look back- sometimes you see a side of things you could never see from behind or as they are even with you. Seek to find the good and the negative in yourself. Do not use it as only a pummeling or as a celebration.
Face your life as it was. It is the only way to change what it is now and what it will be in the future.
It is life altering.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Acclimatization and shock
I love my son, but I hate this grief.
I don't want to be the one crying in a group of people, I am tired of facing things that hurt. I don't want to have to think about ways of gradually acclimatizing myself to stuff that makes no sense to fear (or hate) to any other person that has not lost a child or that did not lose my child under the same set of circumstances.
For the past four months I have been frozen in place. Sometimes literally when I just can't make myself get out of bed. There are times I hold on to things I would have normally pitched without a thought, I keep a receipt in my purse because it is for overalls and clearance infant swim trunks.
At times I want to be frozen in place because I do not want to move further away from my son.
At times I hate it. I don't want to be here in this limbo land.
I struggle with it. Fight to make myself do anything when I want to do nothing. I try to pretend sometimes that he is here with me so I can do the things I would have normally done, it works sometimes and other times I spiral down.
When I see the sun peaking through the clouds and the blossoms breaking through on his tree, I can feel a small thawing. The daylight makes things seem less bleak. But I dread the cold I fear will come calling, unexpectedly to try to kill tender shoots.
It is like finally climbing to the top in a rickety wooden roller coaster without seat belts, only to look down again and realize that sometimes climbing higher just means you can fall back further.
But if you don't climb, you know you will always stay in that pit searching above for glimmers of light. And its a frightening place where you begin to question everything, even the rope that sometimes dangles that might help you out.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So how do I acclimatize? What sort of things am I talking about?
I guess one would be the drive home from work. First I made my husband drive on the interstate when we were headed west towards home, and I would feel my hands grip my legs in the passenger seat as I approached mile marker 24. I was still off work, and he did this a few times.
I changed my cell phone ring so if the phone rang it wouldn't necessarily trigger memories (and even then I told my husband not to call me on the way home after my first shift back).
The first shift home I got off at exit 31, the next at 24, and took 41A the rest of the way in. I stopped at his 'hideout' first, one so I wasn't coming home to a place without him, and two, so it broke the drive further up.
Now I can finally drive all of the way in, and sometimes I do not stop there in the morning. I still tense a little at 24, but nobody would know.
Another example is station 4, but in particular the treadmill in the weight room. It is the station I got off of that day and I worry that I might have been running on the treadmill when my son passed (Perry was crying when I called Chris and I was waiting for him to call me back while I ran, after he put Perry in his pack n'play.)
I first starting running again at the Y in Clarksville on the treadmill. When I went back to work and I would go to four for various reasons, I first dropped stuff off at the door. One day when I was running the mail and the engine was out, I braved the inside and made myself go and look in the weight room (nobody was there so it was safe to react however I needed to). The first shift I worked there, I forced myself into the room but used the elliptical. The next shift I used the elliptical and then finished up with a brief walk on the treadmill. Last shift at the end of the elliptical, I walked for 30 minutes on the treadmill and finished up by doing a short run. I wasn't planning on running but it felt like the right time.
It probably all sounds crazy, but I have an incredibly horrible memory to deal with.
Other people do it as well, they just don't know it. There was another firefighter at work, whose son was in a bad car accident (but lived). He admitted that he had avoided that road for quite a while until some time had passed.
I sometimes think of shock as the minds way to unconsciously acclimatize, and my methodical planning as a conscious way to deal with the aftermath in a similar manner.
Shock is your mind not allowing you to take in the enormity. It makes you concentrate on small details you can handle so you do not face the whole truth that will shatter you. It is cleaning the chicken coop and worrying about the guest room on the day you find your son dead. It is the man who asks you if he has time to walk his dog as you load his dying wife in the ambulance.
And I guess maybe it all allows you to move forward, even if gradually, at a pace you can handle, so when you fall a bit, it will not be from too far a distance. But I worry about the day all the shock will fall from me and I face it all head on... I am not sure if I have yet. I hear stories of the fifth month from other women, of screaming in the hallways for babies that are no longer there.
And it frightens me.
I don't want to be the one crying in a group of people, I am tired of facing things that hurt. I don't want to have to think about ways of gradually acclimatizing myself to stuff that makes no sense to fear (or hate) to any other person that has not lost a child or that did not lose my child under the same set of circumstances.
For the past four months I have been frozen in place. Sometimes literally when I just can't make myself get out of bed. There are times I hold on to things I would have normally pitched without a thought, I keep a receipt in my purse because it is for overalls and clearance infant swim trunks.
At times I want to be frozen in place because I do not want to move further away from my son.
At times I hate it. I don't want to be here in this limbo land.
I struggle with it. Fight to make myself do anything when I want to do nothing. I try to pretend sometimes that he is here with me so I can do the things I would have normally done, it works sometimes and other times I spiral down.
When I see the sun peaking through the clouds and the blossoms breaking through on his tree, I can feel a small thawing. The daylight makes things seem less bleak. But I dread the cold I fear will come calling, unexpectedly to try to kill tender shoots.
It is like finally climbing to the top in a rickety wooden roller coaster without seat belts, only to look down again and realize that sometimes climbing higher just means you can fall back further.
But if you don't climb, you know you will always stay in that pit searching above for glimmers of light. And its a frightening place where you begin to question everything, even the rope that sometimes dangles that might help you out.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So how do I acclimatize? What sort of things am I talking about?
I guess one would be the drive home from work. First I made my husband drive on the interstate when we were headed west towards home, and I would feel my hands grip my legs in the passenger seat as I approached mile marker 24. I was still off work, and he did this a few times.
I changed my cell phone ring so if the phone rang it wouldn't necessarily trigger memories (and even then I told my husband not to call me on the way home after my first shift back).
The first shift home I got off at exit 31, the next at 24, and took 41A the rest of the way in. I stopped at his 'hideout' first, one so I wasn't coming home to a place without him, and two, so it broke the drive further up.
Now I can finally drive all of the way in, and sometimes I do not stop there in the morning. I still tense a little at 24, but nobody would know.
Another example is station 4, but in particular the treadmill in the weight room. It is the station I got off of that day and I worry that I might have been running on the treadmill when my son passed (Perry was crying when I called Chris and I was waiting for him to call me back while I ran, after he put Perry in his pack n'play.)
I first starting running again at the Y in Clarksville on the treadmill. When I went back to work and I would go to four for various reasons, I first dropped stuff off at the door. One day when I was running the mail and the engine was out, I braved the inside and made myself go and look in the weight room (nobody was there so it was safe to react however I needed to). The first shift I worked there, I forced myself into the room but used the elliptical. The next shift I used the elliptical and then finished up with a brief walk on the treadmill. Last shift at the end of the elliptical, I walked for 30 minutes on the treadmill and finished up by doing a short run. I wasn't planning on running but it felt like the right time.
It probably all sounds crazy, but I have an incredibly horrible memory to deal with.
Other people do it as well, they just don't know it. There was another firefighter at work, whose son was in a bad car accident (but lived). He admitted that he had avoided that road for quite a while until some time had passed.
I sometimes think of shock as the minds way to unconsciously acclimatize, and my methodical planning as a conscious way to deal with the aftermath in a similar manner.
Shock is your mind not allowing you to take in the enormity. It makes you concentrate on small details you can handle so you do not face the whole truth that will shatter you. It is cleaning the chicken coop and worrying about the guest room on the day you find your son dead. It is the man who asks you if he has time to walk his dog as you load his dying wife in the ambulance.
And I guess maybe it all allows you to move forward, even if gradually, at a pace you can handle, so when you fall a bit, it will not be from too far a distance. But I worry about the day all the shock will fall from me and I face it all head on... I am not sure if I have yet. I hear stories of the fifth month from other women, of screaming in the hallways for babies that are no longer there.
And it frightens me.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Ohana
One of the movies that I had never watched is, of all things, an animated Disney movie. Yes, stunning I know, as it seems to be the duty of every Mother of a small child to learn the titles and characters by heart so you can fully enter the world of your child.
It was a movie that came and went rather quietly, and in some ways I felt like I have not seen this particular movie before because we needed it now.
So what is this movie? Lilo and Stitch. Silly perhaps to find any sort of deep meaning in a cartoon, but there it is. When searching for movies to watch for a couple nights Mom and Dad were totally exhausted, I came upon this movie in the lending library on vacation and Emily instantly became excited (it is one of the stories in her big red Disney book).
It's about a little mutant monster who escapes to earth and lands in Hawaii. He finds a home with two Sisters who have lost parents in a car accident.
The younger Sister argues against returning Stich because he is now "Ohana" or family. A simple concept right? Not so simple.
Lilo explains "'Ohana means family, family means nobody gets left behind. Or forgotten."
A Western critic raved that Ohana was great because the family came to include Stitch, David, an X CIA agent, and a mad scientist after beginning with just two girls. But he missed a big part. In the end credits, the photo of Lilo with her complete family was actually her Mom, Dad, Sister, Herself, and Stich taped in.
The Western critic didn't get that the family ALWAYS included their Mom and Dad.
What a wonderful concept- that family is never forgotten.
Ohana. Why should we love them any less?
It was a movie that came and went rather quietly, and in some ways I felt like I have not seen this particular movie before because we needed it now.
So what is this movie? Lilo and Stitch. Silly perhaps to find any sort of deep meaning in a cartoon, but there it is. When searching for movies to watch for a couple nights Mom and Dad were totally exhausted, I came upon this movie in the lending library on vacation and Emily instantly became excited (it is one of the stories in her big red Disney book).
It's about a little mutant monster who escapes to earth and lands in Hawaii. He finds a home with two Sisters who have lost parents in a car accident.
The younger Sister argues against returning Stich because he is now "Ohana" or family. A simple concept right? Not so simple.
Lilo explains "'Ohana means family, family means nobody gets left behind. Or forgotten."
A Western critic raved that Ohana was great because the family came to include Stitch, David, an X CIA agent, and a mad scientist after beginning with just two girls. But he missed a big part. In the end credits, the photo of Lilo with her complete family was actually her Mom, Dad, Sister, Herself, and Stich taped in.
The Western critic didn't get that the family ALWAYS included their Mom and Dad.
What a wonderful concept- that family is never forgotten.
Ohana. Why should we love them any less?
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
The conclusion, posts I wrote when I wasn't writing
Feb 3, 2012
I guess by now you have all read the posts on my days that I did not write. I originally set them for release on March 11, because that was when I was ready to tell. I don't tell until after the first trimester, I know things are uncertain for me at best.
After two ultrasounds (when the heartbeat went from 80 to 114 BPM), we went for a third yesterday.
No heartbeat.
Only 2 of 6 pregnancies have ended with a live birth. I cry mostly this time because I have never intended my Daughter to be an only child. And she isn't, but now I face the reality that for all practical purposes she is and could remain. It is very sad to know that for a brief time I had my perfect family. I had a girl and a smiling baby boy, and all that is gone now.
I looked at this pregnancy as something to hope for, my husband looked at it as partially a chance to 'do things right'. But it has all vanished as vapor.
I hear from older parents 'at least you can have another child'.
No, it is not that simple.
I loved my children as blessings not as just normality in my life because I recognized they survived inspite of all the odds.
And now I know that even when you have a child they can never be taken for granted.
In this life, you can only guarantee the present and love them here and now. As is true with anybody.
In the end all will be made right, but I continue this journey for now.
I always felt sorrow for the people that believed the best part of their lives was in high school. For the time being, I feel my best was when Perry was alive. And it saddens me.
I have had no innocence with pregnancy since I lost my first. I wish I could have been left in innocence with children. But I have not. And I continue to live, oddly richer and so much poorer for it at the same time. My eyes are clearer, even with the film of tears, than they have ever been. But oh to see Perry Bryce again even if I could not keep this knowing, I would do it in a heartbeat.
A heartbeat... A simple tiny thud of muscle. Just a moment in time repeated for life to continue. Even that eludes me.
I guess by now you have all read the posts on my days that I did not write. I originally set them for release on March 11, because that was when I was ready to tell. I don't tell until after the first trimester, I know things are uncertain for me at best.
After two ultrasounds (when the heartbeat went from 80 to 114 BPM), we went for a third yesterday.
No heartbeat.
Only 2 of 6 pregnancies have ended with a live birth. I cry mostly this time because I have never intended my Daughter to be an only child. And she isn't, but now I face the reality that for all practical purposes she is and could remain. It is very sad to know that for a brief time I had my perfect family. I had a girl and a smiling baby boy, and all that is gone now.
I looked at this pregnancy as something to hope for, my husband looked at it as partially a chance to 'do things right'. But it has all vanished as vapor.
I hear from older parents 'at least you can have another child'.
No, it is not that simple.
I loved my children as blessings not as just normality in my life because I recognized they survived inspite of all the odds.
And now I know that even when you have a child they can never be taken for granted.
In this life, you can only guarantee the present and love them here and now. As is true with anybody.
In the end all will be made right, but I continue this journey for now.
I always felt sorrow for the people that believed the best part of their lives was in high school. For the time being, I feel my best was when Perry was alive. And it saddens me.
I have had no innocence with pregnancy since I lost my first. I wish I could have been left in innocence with children. But I have not. And I continue to live, oddly richer and so much poorer for it at the same time. My eyes are clearer, even with the film of tears, than they have ever been. But oh to see Perry Bryce again even if I could not keep this knowing, I would do it in a heartbeat.
A heartbeat... A simple tiny thud of muscle. Just a moment in time repeated for life to continue. Even that eludes me.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Rainbows
I called Perry my Rainbow baby. Here is the definition.
Rainbow babies: In some circles, babies born to families after the loss of a child are referred to as "Rainbow Babies." The idea is that the baby is like a rainbow after a storm. "Rainbow Babies" is the understanding that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn't mean the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy and hope.
Perry was born after three miscarriages. He made everything feel as if a perfect God were indeed in control.
The irony does not escape me, I do not need to write on that.
After his death I prayed for God to give me a sign to know that Perry is with him. I prayed particularly for a painting of Perry held in Jesus's arms. There are many stories where parents who have lost a child or struggling in the hospital are given paintings or artwork depicting their child by a cross on a shore, or in a hospital bed surrounded by angels. I really wanted this sort of miracle. Later, I even heard of an artist who would do exactly this picture for me, has for many parents who have lost a child. But I didn't think you pay for a miracle.
I tried to commission a stone for Perry (angel holding him). The artist backed out, but is reconsidering. It was pretty depressing to think I couldn't even pay for something similar to it. Emily was very adamant about it being an angel, so this will be for her if it comes about.
I prayed again and wondered why the answer was no. It struck me that God was working on the person. Either they were saying no or didn't think they had the talent. I prayed again- maybe another artist would take it up.
I read in the bible (Revelations 21) that the foundation of the city walls in heaven were made of sparking stones of many colors. I thought of Perry as my rainbow baby. Rainbows seem to be a really common theme for me these days.
Then I was looking in my locker at work the other day (you put what you really value hanging up in your locker). There was a crude attempt at some of Emily's first artwork. She had drawn several sheets of lines in crayons. When I asked, she said they were rainbows and was very assertive that they were for me.
Rainbows...
Maybe not my picture of Jesus, but a pretty effort for a three year old. It could be the result of the rainbow episode of Mickey's clubhouse she used to love watching right before Perry died. But sometimes God can work through seemingly unrelated minutia.
Maybe my picture of Jesus is still out there somewhere, will come to me at sometime in the future. But my rainbow is pretty good, don't you think?
Rainbow babies: In some circles, babies born to families after the loss of a child are referred to as "Rainbow Babies." The idea is that the baby is like a rainbow after a storm. "Rainbow Babies" is the understanding that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn't mean the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy and hope.
Perry was born after three miscarriages. He made everything feel as if a perfect God were indeed in control.
The irony does not escape me, I do not need to write on that.
After his death I prayed for God to give me a sign to know that Perry is with him. I prayed particularly for a painting of Perry held in Jesus's arms. There are many stories where parents who have lost a child or struggling in the hospital are given paintings or artwork depicting their child by a cross on a shore, or in a hospital bed surrounded by angels. I really wanted this sort of miracle. Later, I even heard of an artist who would do exactly this picture for me, has for many parents who have lost a child. But I didn't think you pay for a miracle.
I tried to commission a stone for Perry (angel holding him). The artist backed out, but is reconsidering. It was pretty depressing to think I couldn't even pay for something similar to it. Emily was very adamant about it being an angel, so this will be for her if it comes about.
I prayed again and wondered why the answer was no. It struck me that God was working on the person. Either they were saying no or didn't think they had the talent. I prayed again- maybe another artist would take it up.
I read in the bible (Revelations 21) that the foundation of the city walls in heaven were made of sparking stones of many colors. I thought of Perry as my rainbow baby. Rainbows seem to be a really common theme for me these days.
Then I was looking in my locker at work the other day (you put what you really value hanging up in your locker). There was a crude attempt at some of Emily's first artwork. She had drawn several sheets of lines in crayons. When I asked, she said they were rainbows and was very assertive that they were for me.
Rainbows...
Maybe not my picture of Jesus, but a pretty effort for a three year old. It could be the result of the rainbow episode of Mickey's clubhouse she used to love watching right before Perry died. But sometimes God can work through seemingly unrelated minutia.
Maybe my picture of Jesus is still out there somewhere, will come to me at sometime in the future. But my rainbow is pretty good, don't you think?
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