Timing

One thing I have developed an appreciation for is timing. How the slightest shift of a detail can cause a death or in many cases render a message incorrect or destructive.

I was watching a Christian Author who wrote about child rearing talk on the TV. She talked about how tragic it is that you do everything right sometimes as a parent and the child makes wrong decisions. She further went on to talk about the things good Christian parents should pray for---- of course one of these was physical safety. She didn't cover what to do if that didn't turn out either. She just seemed to believe that it is all a matter of praying with faith in that regard.

I tuned her out.

There are thousands of books on Christian parenting.

What I need sometimes is Christian parenting through or with grief. Something not refined for audiences that don't include the grieving. Something real. Something raw. Someone who cries out to God for delivery. Someone to talk to about what parenting a child who isn't here looks like, what it feels like.

There is another Christian Writer that I respect, and his blips around this time of year that link to his website talk about length of life. I clicked on it, and the website froze. I tried multiple times with the same results.

And I stopped.

Because sometimes the message isn't right if it isn't the right time. Perhaps what was spot on for millions of religious people in the US isn't meant for me... maybe not now, maybe not ever.

I'm Sorry- taking away the right to grieve

I'm sorry.

I say this first because I know that I have done the following. I'm just as guilty as anyone. I have caused pain without thinking.

I can only admit it, ask for your forgiveness and go on.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I recently went to the funeral of a dear friend. She was there for me when my son was born, stayed with me at the hospital until my husband arrived, and even more importantly- was there when he left.

Her father had died. It was unexpected in that her Daddy was a fighter. He had never given up, even when left with roughly 15% of heart function. It was unexpected in that he had already been given a cancer free diagnosis two weeks earlier.

Someone said "Well, so it was expected..." when they heard of the recent struggles. I was discussing this later with another sweet lady whose family is battling their own fight. And I said "it really wasn't expected...". And she said "Does it matter?" And although I know that this wasn't actually what I was trying to say at this moment in time, I have said it. Did say it.... especially before I knew. And really whether it was expected or not doesn't matter. It isn't the main point at all.

Knowing means that you have had great loss. It is when people pull away or minimize your loss or take away the right for you to grieve. And it isn't just society as a whole, the child loss community and support groups do it to ourselves.

Society, and all of us to some degree, do this or have done it. We qualify things- "if you'd have had your child longer, it would be worse"... really? And did you love your child less at five than seventeen years? ". And maybe it is how we take away cards... if you have another child, or remarry, or make a decision after facing infertility (whether adoption or accepting your family as it is) you can't mourn anymore. Sometimes we even try to do it to ourselves.... but it doesn't work that way.

And we have all read the psychological babble that says with expected loss you experience anticipatory grief that may take away some of the shock of the death. I really don't know how true that is. And if you think about it, we don't allow anticipatory grief anymore. Like if you do not think positively until the moment of death, God or karma won't allow you your miracle healing. I wonder sometimes if parents of children with terminal illness or people facing cancer ever wish they could just lay it out; ask for people to just listen to them say how much they are facing rather than put on a mask that they think is expected. I know that parents that have lost a child to a long disease are often kicked out of support groups once their child dies, as if it is not an acceptable outcome and the family has or is doing something wrong. Do we have a cult of the pink ribbon in a similar fashion for cancer?

The reality of any great loss, is that when you are at the epicenter, circumstances matter little. What you feel is your reality and it isn't wrong and you aren't facing it wrong. Your world is gone, just shadows on the pavement. The emotional equivalent of Hiroshima. It might change things for a casual observer who is miles away- perhaps a more distant relative or friend, but it matters nothing to you. And down the road, even when your card has been taken away, the devastation hasn't gone magically away.

So I am sorry- for my own part I have played.

Perry's Pumpkin #2

Every year we plant pumpkin seeds descended from Perry's pumpkin. Unfortunately this year pumpkins did not do well and we were left with only one or two small pumpkins that were too small to carve. Emily picked out a pumpkin for her one for Paiden, but insisted that Perry already had a pumpkin and his should be the smallest (because in her logic Perry will now always be the youngest and the older you are, the larger your pumpkin). This was a bit of a bummer, but I had even bought a couple tiny ones for his hideout- so we didn't push. I think it really bothered Chris as Halloween neared.

A few days before Halloween I was driving to light a candle as we always do at Perry's hideout. Coming back I put on the breaks. There in front of Perry's church was a large orange object in the ditch. I picked it up, daring to hope and other than a small amount of road rash, it was remarkably intact for a pumpkin that had fallen out of a passing truck.

Chris says that he can imagine a truck filled with pumpkins rolling past and Perry picking one out for his own. It was, ironically, the biggest pumpkin of them all. Chris imagined that Perry would oddly be pleased at this.

Chris and Emily cleaned all three pumpkins. Chris saved the seeds and they will join the remainder from Perry's original pumpkin.

Little Things Terrify You

As a child loss Mom, little things terrify me now.

Last night we tried to place Paiden to sleep in his crib. He cried for quite sometime, so I took him out.

The frightening thing was that once I took him out, he breathed in big gasping breaths and arched his back. He wouldn't be comforted by being held or nursed (and my little guy is a voracious baby). He rolled and crawled in what appeared to be discomfort when I tried to calm him by laying next to him for a bit. I had a few terrifying minutes where I was trying to decide if the gasping breaths were from the previous crying spell or something worse. I have read so many parents write about babies dying in their arms, only arching their back for a moment first. My mind wondered over the possibilities- gas (not usual for Paiden)? A simple fit (not normal as he would almost always forget instantly if alliowed to nurse)? A cardiac arrythmia (how does a baby present anyway, they can't exactly clutch their chest and say their heart is racing)? He wouldn't open his eyes.

Chris tried to take him into the other room with the thought that I'd go to sleep, but I couldn't sleep. I eventually wandered into the spare bedroom.

About 30 minutes later he settled, he opened his eyes and gave me a big gummy smile.

My husband's theory is that the velcro on his diaper was somehow to blame, but in any case, I was incredibly thankful to wake up this morning and see the motion monitor blinking.

He woke up shortly after, which created its own set on new problems, but I can only say we were both happy to have our normal Paiden back.

November- again

I hate this week. I mean really hate it, wish I could curl up in bed and sleep it away.

I hate changing clocks. I hate Nov 6th. I hate the first Sunday in November. In some odd twist of fate the horrible time has conspired to spread beyond the bounds of 24 hours.

I think about the time immediately after. How in shock I was. On one level I understood what it all meant and on another I couldn't really comprehend. Right now I don't even really remember much of the funeral, although the wake I often remember too clearly. I remember speaking a little and Emily breaking down, sliding to the carpeted floor, but that's pretty much it. I couldn't comprehend this heavy weight that had settled across my back, or really hear the words. It is like a Charlie Brown scene from school- Brother Paul is speaking and noise is coming out, but the vowels and consonants do not form words.

At times I sit there on the wooden bench with the fog enveloping me, but not really feeling like it is actually me or that it is real. The box in front isn't what it is, and Perry is in the nursery waiting for me to come get him after it is over. So I can get in the Explorer and take everyone home, kick off my shoes, and watch Emily rolling on the ground with her brother.

They gave me a DVD of the service. Chris said that he watched it and seemed comforted. I wonder if this is something I should do or avoid. Will I feel better after actually hearing the words or curl up in a ball screaming/crying? Do I want to do this? If so by myself or with someone else? I know where it is- in a little gold box from the funeral home along with the sympathy cards, next to Perry's little bank and his blue fuzzy puppy dog.

Part of me does, another part fears that little white box that I will see sitting in front. Some days, you see, I am still in denial. Like if I really let all of my brain process it I will sink down into the blackness, so I shove it down and distract.

But as I contemplate whether Paiden will share the same bank, or if I should let him play with the stuffed animal, the box sits there larger than the actual space it occupies.

My Favorite or Least Favorite Time of the Year?

Last year fall was a horribly agonizing countdown to the reminder of the end of Perry's life. We struggled a lot, cried countless tears... all while feeling guilty that I wasn't happy (aren't you supposed to be happy when you are pregnant? I desperately wanted and needed to be and yet my world was still horribly incomplete.)

And this year I guess we are thrown back into the feeling that we are watching a movie where the end is horrible, but we can't shut it off. In odd ways, the memories of Perry come easier this time of year- finding his Halloween Costume at a second hand baby store, the pumpkin hat at the YMCA, the small first frown he gave me when I handed him to ladies at the YMCA, and it isn't all bad. In other ways it's horrible because the bad memories follow the good.

One of the good things we were looking to was taking Paiden to his first fall festival at Hilldale Baptist. My husband geared up to it and was actually excited about the little costumes for Paiden, down to the costume coat that was Perry's. We were planning on reusing, but turning it inside out from a Giraffee to a Koala. I actually could still smell the fabric softner and other scents on the inside... I hadn't washed it after Perry wore it the last/only Halloween.

To my husband, who missed that last/only fall festival, attending Paiden's first was incredibly important to him. And we wanted to experience it together, I made sure I had it off when I looked at the shift calendar.

Then came the news- the fall festival is gone, replaced by two outreach fall festivals in the community. We were all let down. We wanted the festival at our church in the same place. It made us feel closer to Perry to walk the same pavement as we did when he was alive. So I tried to be a sport and we bundled up to go to one of the locations. The first was in the projects- and we thought we spotted it at a field, but it was very small and there didn't seem to be any kids from outside the community. So we picked up and drove to Cunningham. But as we googled to find the location, we discovered it was billed as the school's fall festival. When we got there we drove around looking for a while to discover it was inside the school. The signs outside stated it was a school fall festival. We didn't feel welcome again, and left.

I'm a bit disheartened. My daughter saw the change and said "It's ok Mommy, we can go to the fall festival at the big brick building, you know the one where we said goodbye to Perry."

I wanted to cry. "Honey, the two fall festivals for the other kids replaced it." It saddened me to think that to my daughter the main church campus is important for two reasons (we go to the life center)- the fall festival and Perry's funeral. Now it is only the funeral aspect that remains.

I got to thinking (probably incorrectly?), that while I appreciate outreach, the fall festival was still community outreach and was one of the few threads that used to bind the church together. It drew a lot more children, most were not from our church (it drew a lot of kids from the apartment area my Mom lives)... but take that away and isn't it still worth it just for our kids? I get that Perry is in Heaven by God's grace- the little guy couldn't speak in a complete sentance and demand to get baptised. But I look at my daughter and I desperately want to see her make a conscious decision to accept Christ. Even in my moments of worst doubt, I have tried to keep from getting in the way of her forming a relationship with God. I tried to keep going to church even when I doubted God's love (I know, I know, I've been given so much Grace but try losing a child and tell me that you don't question God or at least examine your religion). I want Church to be a good thing and not just where you go to say goodbye. I want it to be a living comfort, a place that she wants to go to. I want her to have that security, know where she is going after she dies and not fear death. I want to see her progress in the normal way, I want to see her baptised. At the same time, I try really hard not to traumatize her into it as she knows that kids and babies can die. I want her to come to that gradual realization that she needs to ask Christ into her life as a child in any other family in our church might. And I want it to be her decision... not something that I force on her.

She believes she is going to heaven and she understands that there is a connection to Jesus (the baby in the manger). But the pieces don't always make sense together. It's a little like when she comes home from Chruch and recounts the Sunday School lesson- some things are misunderstood in that childlike understanding, and it takes time and exposure before clarity comes. But an important part of that approaching clarity is to be around people that do believe in God so that pieces have an oppurtunity to come together through people that she knows and trusts. I don't want her exposed to the scary side of Halloween that some adults prescribe to. I don't want Christianity to be mere insurance.

Our kids are still the missionfield. And as a parent I believe that we fail horribly if we are so busy that we forget our own child. And busy can be good things as well as the time wasters.

I'm just sad. Sad I don't have three kids here. Sad that I feel robbed of one first that is oddly more important now. Angry that an anniversary date is coming up that no parent should have to deal with.

When the weather turns cool and leaves drop, I think of Perry. When people place the plastic skeletons outside their houses or carve them into pumpkins I start thinking about death and what it has robbed from me like a thief in the night. I think about pumkins still on a porch as the ambulance pulls away without lights on.

So if I get moody, if I seem less forgiving than I should in the fall, is it any wonder?

Giving Yourself Grace

I see so many things about how anger or not forgiving hurts you the most.

Do you want to know a secret? Sometimes it is easier to be angry or mad than to deal with the pain. Sometimes you want to be mad because it means that it is ok for you to feel what you do for a while rather than to give into other peoples expectations that are often based in some fantasy pulled out of a poorly written 'uplifting' work of fiction.

And there's a certain honesty to admitting that. They haven't experienced it, we hope they never do. But it is so hard being expected to give grace so frequently to others as a grieving family when it isn't often extended both ways. I give grace so many times, to strangers who say oddball things, to people who post really hurtful things online (the cutesy ecards primarily), and to others that you hope would know better. At times I am just so worn out. It is a horribly dangerous minefield out there sometimes.

The bad thing about this journey is that it doesn't end in a year. You carry the burden on and get discouraged realizing that this is just the first kilometer of a marathon. You are afraid that if it feels the same, if it takes the same energy for the entire race, you won't make it. You are afraid you must be doing it wrong- after all, you are often told you are not by people on the sidelines who have often never ran a 5K.

Like a marathon, you have to learn that finishing isn't always crossing first. Sometimes it is learning to pace yourself and let the people running beside you that don't have weighted packs pass you just for a short stretch. It is pacing yourself, focusing on your goal, getting up when you stumble. It is running your best race.

Sometimes you have to give yourself grace first, before others give it to you (because many never will), before you give it to others. It is ok to feel this way. It is ok to cut out of events early, even though it has been over a year, it is ok to handle things in a way that feels honest to you- it is ok not to do the generic picture at family gatherings. It is ok to give yourself a break. It is ok to never return to normal expectations. At the same time it is ok to let yourself break from things that served you well early on in your grief but no longer work. Bind the new sores that pop up on your feet and keep going. Learn to pause before the rubbing turns into a sore and put on balm.

Once you give yourself permission, it makes it easier to deal with everyone else who doesn't. I think when you lock yourself into the expected you pull at the bits, and trust me, there's a lot of angry in grief to fuel it. Then you rebel and wind up floundering on your back, crushing more bystanders. Getting out of the expected allows more room for the genuine. It lets you rest a little to regain enough energy to let go of the angry and keep on your journey.

Then you accept that sometimes even when people hurt you deliberately, they aren't worth your hurt anymore. You let go of your expectations for them and accept the relationship that they are capable of.  Perhaps down the road they will grow a little and it can flourish again.

But I am still learning to cut myself slack.

Maybe someday I will run again with that easy fluid motion, even if the pack stays tight on my back. Maybe this pack isn't just crippling, perhaps my muscles are slowly building strength and I will fly when the day comes that it is finally removed. But mostly I think just taking another little step today and not giving up is all I need to continue on and eventually finish.... someday.

Isaiah 40:29-31
He gives power to the faint,
and to him who has no might he increases strength.
Even youths shall faint and be weary,
and young men shall fall exhausted;
but they who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
they shall walk and not faint.