Our society isn't very good at talking about the not-so-sunny side of life. Maybe it's our altruistic American optimism, but I've found that people just don't know how to deal with grief, loss, or suffering very well.
Since I wrote this depressing Christmas entry, I figured I had better explain a bit more just exactly what is going on with this blog. This blog is about the truth of the grief process. It's about feelings that are hard to talk about, so people avoid them, stuff them, put them on the shelf.
This blog is not about a pity party, though, or wanting others to see just how hard my life is. Far from it. There are plenty of people in the world whose circumstances are much worse than mine, I have a lot to be thankful for, and at the top of that list is my husband and family. People who know me, though, would probably say I'm a very private person. I don't tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve, and I tend to have just a few very intimate, close friends, rather than a crowd of casual ones.
So, I am sharing these things at my own risk. And for me, it is a big risk, because I am being vulnerable and "out there" far beyond what makes me comfortable. We left comfortable behind a while ago, folks.
I am putting this out there in cyber land because I know I'm not the only one. You are out there too, and you are feeling the pain of a loss, or suffering, or questions as well. I hope that this will help you to be brave and start a dialogue with others. I hope it will help you to know that you are not alone in what you are feeling as you walk in the valley of the shadow of death. I hope it will help you know it is okay to mention to a casual friend or acquaintance that this week will be hard for you, because it is the anniversary of an important milestone in that precious person's life.
I did just that today - with my hair stylist, someone I have known for over 10 years. (There I go again with only opening up to people I am really intimate with - gotta work on that.) She asked what we were doing over New Years, and I told her we are meeting up with good friends of ours in Las Vegas. She got really excited and told me about when she went there for her 10th anniversary. After a while, I gathered the courage to share a little bit more. We are going there with our friends more specifically because they are concerned about us this coming holiday. You see, January 1, 2010, was the day that our 7 week old baby girl slipped away from us while we held her in our arms, weeping, at the hospital. So our friends wanted to make sure we wouldn't be alone on the holiday and that we would have something to do. Side note: We are not really casino people, but Vegas is a halfway meeting point for all of us, and it just worked out this time.
So this blog is about being real. I'll do my best to share honestly about what it feels like to have lost a child. And I'll probably stray along the way to other subject matter, too. It is my hope, my prayer, that this will help another who is going through the same thing. Because we are all out there, and the more we realize that we are not alone, that we are not going crazy, the more we will be able to heal.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
Christmas without Her
When a child has died, Christmas feels like empty arms. It feels like a big black hole, a missing puzzle piece.
I have had a similar feeling at holidays in the past, during the nearly two years when we were trying to get pregnant and nothing happened. There was emptiness and a longing for children then, too.
Friends on Facebook post about their holiday woes as they try to juggle caring for young children with all the work of getting ready for the big day. And I am glad they share, because I want to be connected with them and be a part of their families' lives.
However, for we who have struggled with infertility, or miscarriages, or the death of a child, we long to experience those holiday issues. Or at least I do. Days before Christmas, I sit with all the presents wrapped, the house decorated, the baking done, and wish that I was behind. I wish that there was a little one bugging me so that I couldn't quite get the cookies made, couldn't quite wrap all the presents, couldn't get the floor cleaned on time for company to arrive. I long to have the happy chaos of a little one making messes that interrupt my day.
Without Liza Jane, though, all I have is stillness and quiet. I have done every Christmas task I can possibly think of to keep my arms busy, and still they ache with longing to hold her again.
I try to find warm spots to fill the void. I have learned that a person has to come up for air sometimes while grieving. Make that a lot of the time. So Luke and I find things to do that bring happiness, like making a favorite meal together or enjoying a new movie.
As often as I can, I try to turn to our God for comfort during this time. Sometimes, though, that is not as easy as it sounds. Putting my trust in God often feels like putting my trust in a paper shredder. There seems to be only pain in a place where there was once blessing and comfort. Other times, I am able to sense the comfort of God's presence.
And in between those brief moments of solace, I find reasons to keep living. Because surviving the death of a child is just that... a fight for survival. So here we are, surviving the day after Christmas, hanging on to any shred of hope that we can find.
We remember her by putting ornaments on the tree that remind us of her. We remember her by visiting her grave and placing flowers on the place where her ashes are buried in the little wooden box her daddy made. And we remember her with our tears as we cry with aching and longing to see her again, to have her close to us.
Nothing will feel quite right as long as she is gone. Which means... the rest of our lives.
I have had a similar feeling at holidays in the past, during the nearly two years when we were trying to get pregnant and nothing happened. There was emptiness and a longing for children then, too.
Friends on Facebook post about their holiday woes as they try to juggle caring for young children with all the work of getting ready for the big day. And I am glad they share, because I want to be connected with them and be a part of their families' lives.
However, for we who have struggled with infertility, or miscarriages, or the death of a child, we long to experience those holiday issues. Or at least I do. Days before Christmas, I sit with all the presents wrapped, the house decorated, the baking done, and wish that I was behind. I wish that there was a little one bugging me so that I couldn't quite get the cookies made, couldn't quite wrap all the presents, couldn't get the floor cleaned on time for company to arrive. I long to have the happy chaos of a little one making messes that interrupt my day.
Without Liza Jane, though, all I have is stillness and quiet. I have done every Christmas task I can possibly think of to keep my arms busy, and still they ache with longing to hold her again.
I try to find warm spots to fill the void. I have learned that a person has to come up for air sometimes while grieving. Make that a lot of the time. So Luke and I find things to do that bring happiness, like making a favorite meal together or enjoying a new movie.
As often as I can, I try to turn to our God for comfort during this time. Sometimes, though, that is not as easy as it sounds. Putting my trust in God often feels like putting my trust in a paper shredder. There seems to be only pain in a place where there was once blessing and comfort. Other times, I am able to sense the comfort of God's presence.
And in between those brief moments of solace, I find reasons to keep living. Because surviving the death of a child is just that... a fight for survival. So here we are, surviving the day after Christmas, hanging on to any shred of hope that we can find.
We remember her by putting ornaments on the tree that remind us of her. We remember her by visiting her grave and placing flowers on the place where her ashes are buried in the little wooden box her daddy made. And we remember her with our tears as we cry with aching and longing to see her again, to have her close to us.
Nothing will feel quite right as long as she is gone. Which means... the rest of our lives.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Pinpricks in the Darkness
It was one year and 21 days ago that my daughter was born. And it was eleven months and eleven days ago that she passed from this life into the next.
Many things that happen in life are directly related to our choices. Others are not. What we have the power to choose in all things, though, is our response. Sometimes it may take a while to realize this and for our emotions to come along, but we do have the ability to choose.
There is power in thankfulness. It does not wipe away feelings of grief, sorrow, anger and pain. But it can create tiny pinpricks in the darkness through which the light can shine. Sometimes it can open a window to the fresh air and sunshine. Other times the weight is too heavy and the light cannot penetrate. But there is always a return, a circling back to thankfulness.
Thank you, God for her life. Thank you for letting us hold her and love her for a few short weeks. Thank you that she is no longer in pain. Thank you.
Many things that happen in life are directly related to our choices. Others are not. What we have the power to choose in all things, though, is our response. Sometimes it may take a while to realize this and for our emotions to come along, but we do have the ability to choose.
There is power in thankfulness. It does not wipe away feelings of grief, sorrow, anger and pain. But it can create tiny pinpricks in the darkness through which the light can shine. Sometimes it can open a window to the fresh air and sunshine. Other times the weight is too heavy and the light cannot penetrate. But there is always a return, a circling back to thankfulness.
Thank you, God for her life. Thank you for letting us hold her and love her for a few short weeks. Thank you that she is no longer in pain. Thank you.
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