She Brings Joy

Note to self

Friday, May 02, 2014
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I haven't been writing regularly here for a while. When I do write it's in fits and starts- and mostly when I have been frustrated at some aspect of normal life that intrudes on my abnormal, inner life. I feel a need to unload some emotional baggage and here is where I come to let go.

When I'm happy- I don't write... I take pictures. Lots and lots of pictures.

I have grasped the concept that writing here is a continuos ebb and flow. That I will always be writing about grief and anger (which is a large part of my personal grief- I lost so many people in the three years since Beatrix's death- and I am angry.) But- this isn't all of it. And I think that floundering was a part of the joy trying to push through the negative feelings. And sometimes, you have to choose joy even when it's not the most comfortable suit.

That being said- I am not setting up any plans here, but I have begun to work out some ideas that will bring honor to my sweet Beatrix's memory- I already know what I would like to do for both her fourth and fifth birthdays. I'm really excited, because after she died, I had goals which included using her name to bring joy to others. I haven't fulfilled any of those goals.

I hope that, becaus I am not setting a bar for myself, I can work around some unrealistic expectations.

I will say that a little change is going to come in the form of the "after-after" of the grieving process. Because I'm there- I've gone through the after-loss. And now it's the after-after stage. I want to keep writing, because it's cathartic, and because so many people stop when the initial grief begins to fade. I want to keep going- and I'm so happy to be actually planning a course that will focus more on the Joy that she brought.

Because I don't want to set a bar, I can't promise that I won't ever write about the dark stuff, or the angry stuff- but I will try to make more of an effort to write about the happy stuff. I want to share our journey- and the happy parts of it, whether that's through continuing to write here or sharing images of that happiness manifest in our everyday lives.

I will be sharing a bit more about our rainbow baby- because it is true, they do help to heal broken hearts. Another thing- not writing about my feelings in parenting her was a big mistake. I know now, looking back, that how I parented her- how I made it through the worrisome parts of post-loss parenting- was important. It's part of the journey that I undertook when I said "yes" to carrying Beatrix. I just want to put that out there- that there will be a little more sharing of new life- because new life is part of my post loss existence.

This is our reality now:

And it's such a beautiful reality. I can't hold it under the sadness any longer.

One last note:

Thank you, if you have read my tiny thoughts about my tiny daughter. I don't think that you can know how much it means to me to see that little viewing box at the right side of my entries, filled up with far away places. Each time that changes, it means that someone new has heard about my Beatrix. That somewhere out there, today- she has been on someone's mind. She is always, and always will be, on my mind. Every second of every day, I remember her. Again, thank you for remembering her with me.

Friday, April 25, 2014
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I Carry Your Grief With Me

Acceptance

Because of social media, much of what would have been hidden family business at one time is now out in the open. Many now choose to share their stories of child loss. While I have my own experience to draw from, I will never understand how another parent feels when they suffer loss --because as different as each individual child is, so is the grief.

When we mourn our children we are not mourning the loss of a general "someone", a stranger, we are mourning the loss of a unique individual. A person who has never been here before and who never will be here again. An individual who had different habits and needs, and who created different memories with their family .

I do, however, feel weight when another family is suffering. A physical weight.

It's a deep, in the muscles and sinews type of weight. It's in my shoulders and under my skin.

I can honestly say that in some small way, I carry their grief with me. This is meant with the upmost respect, a respect that acknowledges that in saying this, I am not attempting to step into their sacred space or claim their sorrow. I am not trying to interject myself into their situation.

But to those who are suffering tonight:

I see you, and I carry your grief on top of mine. Because I carry your grief on top of mine, it always is -- and always will be - with me.

I hope for some people, the knowledge of others carrying their grief is seen for what it is, a genuine mourning of your child.

I carry your grief with me.

I carry it up high on my shoulders. It makes me stoop, bends my knees.

I carry your grief with me.

I sometimes feel that last touch in your photos as vividly as if I were inhabiting your body. My fingertips itch with the feel of soft child flesh under my skin. The reality of "last time" sets in in my own mind, and it is incomprehensible. As incomprehensible as it was for my "last time."

I carry your grief with me.

I can not fathom the loss you bear, but I will bear it with you if you'd let me --shouldering your burden on top of mine. Holding it aloft so that once in a while, you get the opportunity to breath.

I carry your grief with me.

I mourn the loss of birthdays, of sweaty feet in sandals, of tangled hair and smudged up noses. I mourn the loss of sweet good nights and of too-early good mornings. I mourn the loss of your innocence, both emotional and tangible.

I carry your grief with me.

I see the cruelty of an earth where your sweet child does not breathe any longer. I see sadness and terrible stories of abuse and neglect on the news, stories which make you shake at the unfairness of it all, and I shake with you.

I carry your grief with me.

I make no mistake: your grief is wholly your own. You feel the sharp sting of your loss like I never could, but I carry your tender heart in the palm of my hand, guarding my words and actions in order to create a sacred space for you and your child.

I carry your grief with me.

When you can't sleep, going over the "if onlys", I am awake too. I am in my questioning place. We can walk through those rooms together, if you'd like.

I carry your grief with me.

When each and every pregnancy announcement is projected into your sphere. When it seems like everyone else is out there having a great time, while you are just trying to breathe --I carry that too.

I carry your grief with me.

I keep it in a sacred space. A place where each and every tear is recognized. A place where there is an understanding that a calendar is not just a book of days, but a record of what will always be missing.

Only a parent who has lost a child can comprehend how intimidating a calendar can be.

I carry your grief with me.

The years of longing, of groaning under the silence because of your tact. The grief you feel when those around you try to "fix" you. Offering platitudes and reasons and books and stories of what "so-and-so" did in the same situation and all sorts of things which just won't make your child come back.

I carry your grief with me.

In the middle of the day, when you are doing a mundane task, and the reality of what happened hits you for the hundredth (thousandth... millionth) time.

Today.

I carry your grief with me.

When you open that box.

And you take out those clothes.

And you crush them to your face, in hopes that some scent has remained.

And for a moment you are transported back to a place where no one could help you carry the grief.

And then, when you close that box and return to normalcy. The letting go, door-shutting action does not go unnoticed. I carry that too.

Because it is an altogether different type of grief, and one which deserves close-watching and accolades.

Not everyone makes it through this.

I carry your grief with me.

Out into the world, I take it with me like I take my own skin, attached and breathing, alive.

My own grief has gained such a foothold in me, that it would be remiss if I treated it as anything other than a vital organ. It has situated itself into my own heart, deep, like a thorn. It is there that I carry your grief with me. Embedded deeply within. Part of my ever-evolving parts.

I carry your grief with me.

And when the mourning is through, I will remember your child.

When your mourning is through, and you can see the sunshine again and the world becomes a beautiful place. When once more you see it's ok to love fiercely and let go at the same time- I'll carry your grief with me then, too.

For all the days which pass I will carry your grief with me.

I will remember her name.

I will remember her life.

And most of all, I will remember your love.

That love which cherished and protected a most precious gem.

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to carry your grief with me.

Wednesday, April 02, 2014
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Fixed

Baby Loss

I don't need to be fixed.

I used to think that I was broken- that there was something irreparable about me.

I'm not.

I bend under pressure sometimes, and sometimes I have terribly sad days.

But I'm not broken.

So please stop trying to fix me.

I don't need a platitude.

I don't need advice.

I don't need anything.

Honestly- you couldn't give me what my heart aches for, on those sad, sad days.

Because my heart is aching for her.

Please don't try to mitigate my grief because you- you who have never experienced what it is to be lying in a physician's office and hear the words "incompatible with life"- you have no idea what this is like.

I am not broken.

I am, however, defiant.

I will continue to speak her name loudly and clearly. She is my child. I am her mother. Not a day will ever go by where I do not say her name.

I understand you more than you think- much more than you understand me. I know that you truly believe that you are helping. I have been you- but you have never been me.

You believe that I am somehow stuck.

That somehow, you have the magic pill that will make me say, "A-ha!" That I'll wake up one day and be able to put this behind me.

You don't.

So stop.

I would like to continue on this vein, but I'll go with this, to cover everything that you (essentially) said:

In reference to God's plan:

My daughter's death was not part of God's plan- God's plan was for all of us to be perfect and in perfect communion with Him.

Death was never part of the plan.

My daughter's death was a result of sin- suffering and pain and misery and all of those things that we were never meant to partake in.

This next part is going to sound prideful- but it's not, it's a humbling thing.

I carried around the entire story of the creation and the Fall in my body for 34 weeks- and you're going to try to tell me about God's plan?

Explain to me again, how sin and death entered the world, and how every person is the recipient of Adam's faulty decision making. Now put it in the context of my Beatrix- maybe your mind will just touch on the reality of what really happened.

Maybe.

Have you been forced down to your knees by a hand so strong that it was able to steal the breathe from your child's body, before that child had even begun to live?

Have you ever held your infant child, with her internal organs located on the outside of her body, as she died- have you had to make the decision to remove life support from a baby who had just begun her life?

Removed IV lines and stickers from heart monitors from your dead child because you didn't want her body discolored? Did you try to see what color her eyes were, only to learn that at death the pupils of the eye expand to such an extent that the color of the iris is completely covered?

They say that God doesn't give you anything that you can't handle.

That's not true- I've said it before and I'll say it again: God gives you much, much more than you will handle. More than 1000,000,000x what you could handle.

When you have experienced this-bloody and bruised, when you are so weak that you can't stand, when you have lost the will to live- because yes, there was a time when I lost the will to live- then you can come back and explain to me how I'm supposed to be feeling right now.

When you have held your child, cold and dead, in your arms. Then you can advise me on my grief.

She was dead. I felt her heart stop beating under my fingertips.

Have you ever seen death up close?

If no- stop trying to tell me how to behave.

Held it in your hands? If no, stop trying to fix me.

For an extended period? When changes begin to happen? No? Then don't give me advice on how to cope.

Was it someone you loved? Your child? No? Why are you still attempting to "help" me?

Stop. Just, stop.

You have nothing to say to me about this subject.

Some of us are given such glorious illustrations of the power of God- the necessary acknowledgement that while we believe that we control everything, the smallest part of the smallest part of everything on this earth is His domain.

So please, don't tell me about God's plan.

I know about it.

The real plan.

Not some schmarmy idea of good feelings and unbroken hearts- by the way, a little off subject, but along the same lines: please, for the love of all that is good, stop referring to my daughter as an angel. Not only is that theologically incorrect (not one religious body on this earth teaches that humans become angels), but it also makes her seem less than real. It makes her seem separate, but she wasn't. She was whole and red-blooded, flesh and bone. She came into the earth in pain and suffering (mine) and left cold and silent- not angelic, but completely and beautifully human.

So, the next time that you see something that I post and feel like you need to give me advice- don't.

Really.

Don't.

I'm fine, except when I'm not fine.

And you, nor any idea that you may present me, will have any power to change that "not fine" feeling.

Just be my friend. Let me be passionate about what I am passionate about... Which is my children. All of my children.

And don't view my situation as something that needs fixed.

(And I fully understand that while reading this you are clucking about my anger in your head. Just to clarify- I am angry. I am angry that anyone who had journeyed with me over the last three years dares to attempt to offer me a solution.)

I don't want your help recovering- because not only do I not believe that child-loss is something anyone recovers from, but because I don't want to recover.

I'm fine with me. Where I am. This is a part of me. If you dislike it, there's really not much I can do about that.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014
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Enough

Baby Loss

Tuesday, March 18, 2014
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...

Beatrix Elizabeth

Thursday, March 06, 2014
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Be fruitful and multiply

Beatrix Elizabeth

About that.

My husband and I were talking about M's future. Her life, as we imagined it. We talked about her children, and our hopes that if she chose, she would be able to mother them without the same heartache that had befallen us.

Imagine that- having a baby who may one day be a mother.

I have two older sons, and while they may one day be parents- they were not born with the capability for life already in place.

My daughter has the seeds for countless generations already in place and waiting inside of her body.

And those seeds were, at one time, in my infant body (so to speak), and in my mother's body- and so on for countless generations.

I look at this sweet tiny girl, toddling around on her unsteady legs and I am awed that her generations are already in place.

My Beatrix had many anomalies that affected many parts of her body- but her reproductive organs were smashingly perfect. She had two minuscule ovaries full of her own generations, and a small womb.

I remember the sadness with which I heard the words- "here are her ovaries", from one of the physicians as they looked over test results- fetal MRI, I believe.

That was one of those moments when I became fully aware of all that would be lost- that an entire piece of my family was being wiped out in one fell swoop. And it was a messy cut- a slap in the face.

Her future intended would love, marry, and create a family with some other mother's daughter.

Her children would remain unnamed. All of those lovely children, half of whose genetic makeup was already present in her body- gone.

Can you imagine? She was the end of her own family line.

It's difficult to contemplate- that missing future.

Sometimes the sadness isn't because of what was, but what will never be.

The potential unfulfilled.

I can't forget the way that her heart beat under my fingertips- I have that forever, and my pulse will match that discordant rhythm at the end of my life.

But I will never hold her own newborn daughter in my arms.

Saturday, March 01, 2014
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Your Child is a Gift

Baby Loss

Just a bit of a set-up here: this post is about Carrying to Term with a lethal anomaly. The general concept could apply to any baby loss situation, but the actual context is a situation like mine with Beatrix.

Thank you for understanding this, and being respectful of what my experience- and the experience of many other moms- is.

Not all people who are diagnosed with this type of pregnancy situation will make the same decision that I did- but this is my daughter's story, so I am telling it from the perspective of our choice after her diagnosis.

Sometimes I have the (sad) opportunity to talk to a mom who is currently pregnant and who has received a Limb Body Wall Complex diagnosis. A mom who is just beginning her journey and who has decided to continue her pregnancy.

This is always a difficult conversation to have, as I am so far beyond that desperate place and even more so, I am at a decent place as far as my own bereavement.

I don't want to be guilty of using one of those hated euphemisms- the "it will get better in time" or, "everything happens for a reason". I am somewhat close to "normal". And even though I am a loss mom, I am still at risk of saying the wrong thing.

This is especially difficult when I'm speaking with someone who shares my religious beliefs. This post will be from that perspective. It may be a little jumbled up, as I work through what I am trying to say, because it's a difficult concept to see with any clarity.

I have worked hard to find acceptance with my own faith and I have come out of a very dark place with that faith still intact.

It's hard to remember, sometimes, that each of us has to walk that walk on our own- that this is one path where the occasional companion will lead you in the right direction, but ultimately, it is a solitary journey.

There was a question that I was recently asked, and I hesitated to answer it because I didn't want to be sharing a bland statement of an idea that this mom just wasn't ready to entertain.

The question?

"Why is God punishing me?

I hesitated to answer that because I had been there. And I didn't want to hear platitudes then, any more than I am sure she doesn't want them today.

But I did answer.

"You are not being punished- you have been given a gift. Any other mom would not have been able to love and cherish your baby like you do- you were chosen BECAUSE you are such a beautiful mother. You see your baby as what she is, beautiful and worth the sacrifice- and only a truly loving mother could do what you are doing.

You have said - she is worth this.

She is so important that even if her life only lasts minutes- her mark in this world is so necessary that I am willing to lose part of my heart for her."

That's what I have been ruminating over since I sent that message. Her response, in case you're wondering?

"I needed to hear that."

In the whole carrying to term dynamic is a mindset that favors viewing the child as a gift, not a punishment.

Now, this isn't to say that the whole loss mom guilt thing is not figured in there. It is. I feel incredibly responsible for Beatrix's diagnosis and death. I always will.

Neither does this mean that we see our children's diagnosis as a positive or view our situation as some type of sick martyrdom, or a Munchausen by Proxy type of illness, as some opponents of carry to term imply.

What I want to say is- my child is (was) a gift. I wasn't "punished" with a terribly sick baby.

I was given her small life- and that life was something precious and valuable.

The rarest stones are usually the most sought after. But in this type of "situation", these rare gems are routinely seen as a punishment by those who would choose not to grab on to them with both hands and hold tight.

It was an honor to hold Beatrix's hands in mine. Can you imagine? Such an honor to have been chosen to be her mother.

Not punished with her- how could anything so beautiful be a punishment? How could anything so precious be a punishment?

I use that word again, not as we generally mean precious, but as it was meant to be used- to signify something:

Of high cost or worth; valuable.
Highly esteemed; cherished.
Dear; beloved.)

We need to know this.

We need to be consciously aware of the value of our fragile children. We need to intentionally understand that there is nothing- not one thing- that is a punishment in this experience.

Part of it is the perspective from which you are looking at your experience.

I looked, from the beginning, at my experience from the perspective that God knew what He was doing. Of course, like any normal person I questioned that wisdom when I was at my lowest, shaking my fist in anger- but deep down the struggle was more about reconciling my own understanding of things with His.

It was the fight elucidated here. Any post tagged "faith" is part of that fight- and what I write here is such a small window into what actually is.

I recognize now that my struggle was more about willfulness than viewing her as anything less than my beautiful child- about acceptance of my lot in life.

It was never truthfully about feeling punished.

My daughter was such a gift- if you stumble upon this searching for a carry to term answer because you have received this type of diagnosis-

your child is a gift.

Safely tucked away in there, hidden in the shadows.

Your child matters to the world.

Every second of your baby's life is part of a history that we have only the slightest inkling of.

My child- that tiny girl that I held as I cried- that I held as she was continuing in her journey home- that child has the capability to change lives. And I want to be clear- I am not saying that I have the capability to change lives-but that she has the capability to.

Your child is a gift.

Your child is so important to the story of humanity that people may be afraid to be a part of their experience- but that isn't saying something about the value of you child. There is something primal and honest about this experience that some people may not be ready to see.

My Beatrix opened a window into something deep inside of me- feelings about the frivolity of everyday life were brought to the forefront. Most people don't want to know about those things. They are happy with watching the occasional sad news story and shaking their head over an item that they don't agree with.

We can't. These beautiful babies force us to look at things with an eye towards eternity, which is the reality that everything revolves around.

This is a gift. This is necessary- so necessary. So valuable.

Your child is a gift, one that may be meant to be shared through some type of advocacy, or one that may be meant to sleep secretly in the deepest parts of your heart.

Please make no mistake, you have not been punished. You have been given something of great worth. A baby that was chosen specifically for you.

This little human, your baby, is so important to the world, so necessary that even if their life on this earth lasts for seconds, their mark will be something that will shine for all of time.

And as an ending note to you- momma- you chose to let them make their mark- to let them live the natural course of life- to disbelieve the concept that your baby is/was a punishment.

You chose to see the value of their existence, and received the ultimate gift of holding those tiny hands.

Brushing that downy soft hair.

You had the privilege of knowing them more deeply than any other person ever will. You felt every single movement that they ever made, were the first and one of the only voices they ever heard.

You were their everything.

Your child is a gift. A baby can never be a punishment, no matter how flawed her form may be.

And you- you are the receiver of that most precious gift.

Cherish the time that you have been given.

Love that baby freely.

And don't ever let anyone try to convince you that your baby was anything less than an exceptional privilege- especially not yourself.

This is one of my greatest gifts:

Wednesday, February 19, 2014
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Happy New Year

Baby Loss

Happy New Year, baby.

You would have been three this past month. I had all of these fancy things to say about missing you. But I find that writing them out and putting them all together into intelligible language is an impossible task.

So, I'll keep this simple.

I missed you this year.

I missed your lisping speech.

I missed your ponytails.

I missed your preferences and dislikes.

I missed taking you to your first movie. I wonder what we would have gone to see.

I missed you getting into my pocketbook and making a mess of all of my cosmetics.

I missed you having a favorite baby doll.

I missed moving you into a "big girl" bed.

I missed painting your nails.

I missed you learning your letters.

I missed you picking flowers, and bringing me crushed bouquets.

I missed seeing you as a big sister and as a little sister.

I missed your sass.

I missed your "I love you mommie".

I think people wonder about how you can possibly miss someone who was in your life for such a short period of time.

I answer back that you were not in my life for that short time only- that you are still here, growing in leaps and bounds.

The strangest thing about this situation is that unlike other people who I have loved, and who have died- you are aging in my head.

I miss the human that you are-would have been.

In my mind's eye, you have a longer body and longer hair and speech and knowledge- and you are whole. My mind never sees your "anomalies".

I see a small girl clomping along with my high heels on, a string of beads, and way too much lipstick.

There is no twisted spine. There are no misplaced or forgotten organs. Your legs are strong and long and smooth. You are vibrant and warm.

You are alive.

You are my oldest, other daughter.

My girl.

Not just the baby who died. Not just a sad story in the past- and most definitely not a source of pain.

Well, not so much any longer.

I can feel the joy entering in again- in slow spurts. It has taken time and I don't know how much is due to your big brother and little sister. I have learned not to question the good- the joy is just there and I am grateful.

I will continue to miss you in the coming year, I am certain. I will pine for you on some days.

On some days I will walk in a fog of longing, that physical sensation of holding you in my arms will be difficult to work through- the phantom baby syndrome.

On some days I will come back here and write about how darkness is enveloping me and how I don't think I can take another step.

I miss your tiny hand in mine- how could I not have days where the entire world is an empty place because you are not here?

I will miss you most desperately, each day as I go through the tasks that move me from moment to moment.

One task leading to another, until a full day of working leads into one day, leading into one week, leading into one month, leading into one year, and finally all of these quiet little tasks will lead into the stuff of one lifetime- I will miss you most desperately over the course of one lifetime- mine.

I will continue to miss you until I can no longer recall the feel of your lips against mine. Your soft skin. Your feet in the palm of my hand.

And on the day that I do not miss you, then I think it is safe to assume that someone here, will be missing me.

Tuesday, December 31, 2013
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Quick and Separate: Rainbow Baby

Rainbow Baby

Monday, December 23, 2013
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Third Birthday

Baby Loss

Tuesday, December 17, 2013
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Don't ask me if I'm o.k.

Anger

It's not me- this woman you see standing here. The woman who survived this death. I am stuck in here, closed within the confines of my skin.

This woman who is angry, and who passes judgement so easily. This woman who is so offended at the slightest thing.

Somewhere deep inside I can remember the feel of life "before this awful thing happened." I remember what my life was like before and while I would never change my experience- I miss that life. It's a beautiful, uncomplicated life. I miss myself.

The woman I was.

The woman that grew from the girl I was.

Before Beatrix, I flowed from experience to experience. Days melded into one another and while there were obvious before and after periods, there was a continuity to everything.

Now there is a jagged edge to all of my dealings. I see everything in the context of who I was and who I became. The before and after, sharply defined.

Before when things were easy they were just easy- no dark shadow lurking below the surface. If there was something that made the day go poorly then it could usually be resolved with time and patience.

Now the bad parts sleep just under the surface of my skin. They sleep fitfully and are woken so easily.

Occasionally I am ashamed at the passion with which I react to things. I remember the little girl that I was- the child that still lives inside of me, and I feel like I let her down. I wonder what she would think of the woman that I have become.

I am angry. So angry, at times.

But other times... other times I am whole, healed and completed.

I feel the power slowly leaching back into my limbs and I feel strong. I feel the sun shining from deep inside my core. I am magnificent in my experience, wise in life, if not on books and numbers.

I feel like I could run as fast as the wind and no one would catch me- and I wouldn't be running from, but to things that contain joy and weightlessness.

I am happy and the unanticipated shining moments of the day contain no clouds or black feelings. I don't see the death in everyone around me. I seek life and exuberance and most of all, to be here now. Present in this very moment and not structured in the past or beholden to my future.

I am glad and each moment contains it's own universe of possibility.

But that's not me, either, this schizophrenic shift from grief.

I try hard to integrate these two people inside into one cohesive person. That is not always successful and often I fall far short of where I would like to be.

I find that other's expectations of me make the integration more difficult

...

It is the fall.

Slowly the leaves change and Winter comes closer and closer.

While it would seem to be a triumphant time for me, due to my sweet baby M's first birthday coming up- I find that there is still a knot in my chest. The days are fast approaching when my Bea's birthday will come again.

She will be three. Just old enough for pony tails.

I try my hardest to remain the person that I have worked so hard to be. To attain some measure of normalcy. I regulate my emotional responses and try to stretch the beautiful days as far as they can be stretched, in hopes of surrounding the ugly days.

But then I have a bad day. An angry, "why doesn't anyone get it?" day.

And inevitably, it comes- "are you o.k?"

It's useless to try to explain that I am having a difficult time trying to mend the broken pieces of my soul back together.

It's been three years.

And people don't really want to know that you're not o.k.

They just want to be absolved of responsibility for your mood. When someone asks if you're o.k., what they're really asking is for you to behave- to put aside that part of you that is in that desperate, dark place. They want to know that tomorrow you'll be in a better place.

But today- today when it's fall and Christmas is coming so quickly- today, my daughter died.

I woke up this morning and for a few moments I had no problem integrating the good and bad, because my memory was foggy and I forgot who I was.

Then I remembered that my daughter died, and it was just another day to the rest of the world.

The cut was new.

And it goes so much deeper in the fall, when I am remembering the last stages of my heavy pregnancy with her.

Integration becomes all but impossible.

Then the days begin to swing back and forth. These joys I find in so may small incidental moments, sheltered inside of the tumultuous waves of grief that roll in.

Regulation becomes improbable.

And when I am asked, "are you o.k.?" it's a slap in the face. It's the removal of the reality of my experience and a reminder that life has gone on.

It's the validation that my loss is not the center of the universe, and that others have grown tired- or worse yet- have forgotten that I have a perfect explanation for my drawn features.

My daughter died today, and each day she dies yet again- an unending cycle of memories that will not correct itself in this lifetime.

So please, don't ask me if I'm o.k.

Monday, October 07, 2013
1 Thank You For Visiting

Smile-on-my-heart

Baby Loss

Dear sweet joy-that-you-are,

We are closing in on three years since you left. Three years and I can't imagine where that time has gone.

I never thought I would be capable of making it this far. I remember the awe with which I looked at people who had suffered their losses years in the past.

I thought that surely I would die before I reached this point.

I miss you so very much every day.

I would never have understood how I could walk around with you so very close to me, while still so out of reach. I think that people would assume that I was crazy if I told them how constant you are in my thoughts- that I don't even see you as that tiny baby any longer, but as an almost three year old.

Because you have grown. Not as an abstract thought, but in reality. You aren't Beatrix the baby any longer- you are Beatrix the girl. Willful and defiant.

I can close my eyes and I know just what you look like. Your red, curly hair- I see the smattering of freckles across your nose. A big toothy smile.

I know that it is really you, because the resemblance to your dad is startling- this couldn't be some vision that my imagination dreamed up- it's the real deal.

I think that I know it's you, because a mother always knows her daughter. Your imprint was left in my subconscious somewhere, and your cells free-float within me. Your flawless DNA had already determined all of what was you.

I can see the white of your skin, the gray of your eyes. I wish that I could draw a picture of the you that I see when I close my eyes.

You are always so happy. Always.

You walk next to me, skipping along. The sash on your dress is always untied- you are always wearing a dress. You have slender arms. You don't wear glasses.

I know you daughter, smile-on-my-heart.

I live with one foot firmly planted here, and the other in the world you inhabit. While others see just an ordinary kitchen table, I look and see you sitting there, eating a jelly sandwich. You are a constant during my day.

And that constant is a beautiful thing.

I see those little hands that I so marveled over when you were born- those long, thin fingers. They pinch and grasp and do all sorts of clever almost three year old things.

I see the questions in your face as you begin to really explore the marvelous world.

I see you gentle with your sweet baby sister. Wild about your tenderhearted big brother.

If I close my eyes for just a tiny moment I can hear you breathing, so close to me.

Three years is a very long time. The days that I have spent away from you have stretched into seconds, lasting far longer than time normally should... the days before me stretch out like a highway- miles upon miles of walking before I get to that final destination where I will be able to touch you again.

I would give almost anything to be able to spend just one more minute with you.

I miss you terribly.

Sunday, September 15, 2013
0 Thank You For Visiting

Becoming

Anger

This is about anger, and how change affects people. If you aren't interested in walking the entire grief journey, and only want to hear the sorrowful, gentle parts- stop reading here. This is not sorrowful, or gentle.

I had many more friends, once upon a time.

I liked people more too.

When my life was different.

In "then".

I was told recently that I had lost perspective. That I seem to see life only from my own point of view.

I am not certain who's perspective I am supposed to be viewing life from. Like everyone else, my perspective is based on my life and my actions directed by my previous mistakes, experiences, and successes. There is no such being as a purely objective person. (Often the people who cry the loudest about objectivity are those who were scarred the most deeply by experience, and live out their experiences to the detriment of those around them by way of being completely unable to bend from their own rigid views.)

I can not "rise above" my loss and I can not see how other people view my reactions- because that would require that I look at how things would be if she had never happened, and I will not imagine how my life would be if I had not held her- and when it is written out like that in real words it becomes even more imperative that I try to make people understand- I am not who I was.

I will never be who I was again.

That person left.

She is not here any more.

I held her, and that changed everything.

I have no patience. I have insomnia. I forget what I'm saying in the middle of a sentence. I live distractedly, no matter how much I try to live intentionally. I can not argue or debate. I don't have the ability to look deeply inside of myself.

I have very, very little empathy for most adults. Because everything that they're going through is less terrible than me holding my dead daughter. I just don't have it in me any longer.

Which perspective am I supposed to change?

The perspective from which I view the world as a hostile place because the majority of people believe that I shouldn't really be allowed this sadness? After all I knew that she was going to die. Its not like it was an accident.

The perspective from which I view human beings as so ridiculously sacred because they are created by a loving God for their purpose, and because of this I love those humans that are different, just a little but more?

The perspective that shows me that all of these angers and hurts that seem to plague people today are really not as bad as people think they are?

Your life is good if you haven't had a dead child in your arms.

Which perspective is it that's wrong?

Which perspective will fit into this place that you breath in?

I won't suit myself to suit you. It's part of my brutal honesty, new-self. It's not a cruel thing on my part although it may seem cruel to you. It's just what is. A basic survival of the fittest type of thing. Because I can't look too deeply into myself, I can't look more deeply into other's motivations. I don't want to explore why people do A, B, and C. Just stop doing A, B, or C. Or continue doing it- I don't care, just leave me out of the reasons why. Because there is no motivation that is going to be more compelling to me than, "I held me dead daughter in my arms."

I know that this seems so nasty. Self-centered and rude. It's not meant that way though- truly. It's self defense, self respect, self preservation.

Every night, every single ever-loving night, when I lie down to go to sleep, I am stuck in that room. That room holding her quiet lifeless body in my arms.

You try to explain to me that you could wake up from that horror show every morning and be able to empathize with someone who is complaining about their hair not turning out just right after a salon visit. Try telling me, again, why I should care about your hangover, or how fanatically you feel about your dog/hampster/parakeet.

My daughter died, in my arms. She stopped breathing as I told her I loved her. I watched her life slip from her body- so quickly.

In the split second that she hovered between here and there, I saw eternity.

There is nothing- nothing- that has ever affected my life and my perspective more than this.

You can choose to take me as I am, or turn away because I do not have the capabilities to cater to your petty, insignificant dramas. Thats a decision you need to make for yourself. I refuse to moderate my personality to fit into your comfort zone. Moderation would mean leaving all that I have become in the last three years. And that's just not going to happen.

http://youtu.be/Nu9CCxsddxM