Whelmed

I heard it say once that you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but is it possible to be just plain whelmed?

Lately I feel like I'm living in a constant state of whelmed. Things keep flying at me, and for the most part I can take it as it comes. Helping two kids process the grief of leaving the lives they have known and adjusting to our new family takes the stuff out of you. Realizing that although they are wonderful  children, they still have a long road ahead to healing and healthy functioning, is a big chunk to swallow.

We have had major meltdowns by now. The honeymoon stage of this adoption is definitely over. I read in an adoption magazine that keys for adoptive moms to not burn out are first, to make sure you are getting enough rest. And second, to take time to continue bonding with the kids. Like many moms, I sometimes feel it is impossible to get enough rest. And the bonding thing can be challenging with a kid whose emotions are all over the place.

I'm grateful that the grief process has taught me what it feels like to be in the middle of heart wrenching sorrow. It has at least given me some perspective so I can sympathize with where the kids are at. It would certainly be challenging to adopt children without going through a loss like ours.

White Horse for Christmas

The other night while I made dinner, I heard a song called "White Horse for Christmas" by the group Over the Rhine. It's a wonderful lullaby that we played for Liza Jane while she was in the hospital. You can listen to it here.

The song took me back to the night in early December 2010 when we played it for our three-week-old baby girl. At the time she was doing fairly well, and although we knew she would need some difficult surgeries soon, we were still optimistic.

I held her in my arms that night in her hospital room, and later we gave her a bath. Those moments were and still are so precious to me. And I had no idea the horrible ordeal we were about to experience, culminating with having to remove her from life support several weeks later and say goodbye, as we sent her into the sky to meet Jesus on his white horse.

As the song played, I cried for missing her. I also cried for myself in that moment, because at the time I was still so innocent and unaware that I was about to lose her. And I cried because my baby is riding her white horse through the sky now, and I cannot be with her.

This past week there was a terrible tragedy in Connecticut. My heart is going out to the mothers there. When they packed their kids' lunch that morning, bundled them in winter coats and dropped them off for kindergarten, they had no idea they were about to lose them in a terrible massacre.

I pray for those mothers, that somehow their broken, shattered hearts will survive through this Christmas season. We never know if the moment we have with our loved ones will be the last one we will ever have on this earth. And this was a terrible, unfair way to learn.

I'll close with the words to the song, "I want to speak with the angel who said 'do not be afraid.'" It is a small comfort that we must not fear what comes after death. Those words, "do not be afraid," are what I cling to, now more than ever.

The Looming Holiday Season

It's that time of year again. I am really looking forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas, which have been two of my favorite holidays since I was a small child.

This is also a very difficult times of year since Luke and I lost our baby girl. For one thing, she was born just a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, and she died on New Years Day. So all the major milestones of her life happen during this holiday season. And secondly, any holiday is difficult for parents who have lost a child, no matter when they were born or when they died.

So, it's time for us to decide how we want to remember her birthday (November 12th). And it's time to face the emotional rollercoaster of the holiday season in general. It is so nice to have extra time to spend with loved ones, but every time we are together as a family, her absence looms large in front of me.

There is a hole in our family where a little Liza Jane should be. She would have been right in between my two sisters' kids ages. I love my niece and nephew, but every time I see them, I cannot avoid the painful thoughts of her.

What helps is when people talk about her, when they acknowledge her absence. One of the fears that comes up when somebody dies is that we will forget them. So when people remember her, it makes such a difference.

And I think that's something that makes us human: we remember people after they are gone. It's a way to honor the preciousness of each and every life.

So as we work our way through the emotional rollercoaster of the holiday season, I hope we can appreciate how precious our loved ones are, both those who are here, and the ones who have gone before us into the next life.

Remembering with Love

This week I'm thankful for all the little loving ways we got to remember our baby girl. I caught pictures of two beautiful butterflies who visited our yard over the past few days. After all our efforts to attract them with our butterfly garden, it's so nice to see them come around.

Eastern Tiger Swallowtail

Eastern Tiger Swallowtail (female - black form)

I saw a monarch, too, but didn't get my camera in time -- that little guy was moving fast!

Last night we spent an evening in Philadelphia. A good friend noticed this lovely ring as we walked through an outdoor craft fair there. It is a lovely way to remember and to acknowledge how much we will always love our sweet daughter.

As a parent, I always appreciate it when people remember our Liza Jane and the things that are significant to us because they remind us of her. This weekend I've been blessed with a couple of friends that have been willing to acknowledge what a significant impact our Liza Jane has had on our lives. And for that, I am thankful.

For the Childless... and the Motherless

This Mothers Day weekend is turning out to be one of the loveliest we have had all spring here in southeastern Pennsylvania. What a beautiful time to honor the wonderful mothers in our lives who have sacrificed so much. The world literally would not be the same without them.

The beauty of the weekend stands in sharp contrast to difficult loss for many people though. As someone who first struggled with infertility, and later after finally getting pregnant, lost the infant the daughter I loved to a devastating congenital heart defect, I'm sensitive to the many who, like me, may be struggling to get through this weekend.

Some may be motherless due to a devastating loss.

Some may be childless due to infertility, a tragic accident, or an illness.

Others may be estranged from their child or their mother, longing for reconciliation.

I think of the women in countries where there is not enough food to eat or clean water to drink. Women who have watched their children die in their arms, powerless to help them even as their own bodies waste away.

There are so many who are not feeling warm and happy this weekend. This blog post offers some wonderful insights into how we can relate to people in all different circumstances this weekend.

Even as I mourn the missing daughter in my life, I also want to extend blessings to all the mothers out there who are tirelessly caring for their little ones. It's important to take the time to recognize and support these special women.

Here is a Mothers Day prayer to remember families in all different situations which I found to be a wonderful meditation for today.

God our Creator, we pray:
for new mothers, coming to terms with new responsibility ;
for expectant mothers, wondering and waiting;
for those who are tired, stressed or depressed;
for those who struggle to balance the tasks of work and family;
for those who are unable to feed their children due to poverty;
for those whose children have physical, mental or emotional disabilities;
for those who have children they do not want;
for those who raise children on their own;
for those who have lost a child;
for those who care for the children of others;
for those whose children have left home;
and for those whose desire to be a mother has not been fulfilled.
Bless all mothers, that their love may be deep and tender,
and that they may lead their children to know and do what is good,
living not for themselves alone, but for God and for others.
Amen.

- Courtesy Godweb.org

Having Compassion... for Ourselves

Guilt is a common struggle for people going through the grief process. We often blame ourselves for the tragedy that has struck a loved one, or review events in our minds over and over again to see if we could have done anything differently.

The reality, though, is that we could not have stopped the disaster if we wanted to. Still, our minds seek someone to blame, and too often we turn that blame on ourselves.

Lately I've been working on forgiveness - forgiving other people, but more importantly, forgiving myself. This isn't necessarily tied directly to the events that led up to my daughter's death, but it has more to do with my general outlook and mindset about the road I'm on.

The sweet baby girl whose life, and death, have forever changed me and the path I am walking. Here, Liza Jane is surrounded by the many accessories our kind hospital nurses used to prop her up and make her comfortable. She's making one of her cute fishy faces in this photo - a rare occasion when she felt well enough to be awake and a little bit playful.

Compassion toward myself has never been my strong suit. I'm someone who has been motivated to do things out of a sense of duty, obligation or guilt for much of my life. I am grateful for some close friends and confidants who have been challenging me in this area lately.

As I have been struggling with the grief process, and trying to learn how to go on with life since my daughter died, I have often been really hard on myself. One trusted friend said to me a few months ago, "Can you step back, look at yourself and have ANY compassion for yourself right now?"

That was a turning point for me, although I didn't realize it at the time. The expectations that I have set for myself based on what I assume God wants from me, and what I assume others expect from me, are at best unrealistic. At worst, they are downright harmful.

So I'm walking down a new path where I am learning to be compassionate toward myself. It is incredible how many times a day I catch myself being really harsh toward myself. And I'm working on doing just that: catching it. I am catching that thought and reconstructing it. Instead of thinking "you idiot!" when I make a mistake, thinking "I'm a human being and I make mistakes every day. It is okay."

The truth is, we all need compassion. We need to shower forgiveness on those around us, and importantly, on ourselves.

*****

On a somewhat related note, check out the new "How to Help" link at the top of this blog. If your friend or loved one is struggling with grief, this may provide some insight into the things that they will appreciate hearing at this time.

(For all my friends who read this blog, this is not me trying to give you a not-so-subtle hint! Just wanted to share with others who may be struggling to know how to support someone who is going through the loss of a precious child.)

"I know just what you are going through!"

I love it when people share their own stories of grief, suffering, and loss with me. There are many things I can identify with in the stories that others share. It helps to know that I'm not alone, that other people wrestle with the same agony and questions that I'm going through.

Having said that, there are some circumstances that just don't compare. For example, a co-worker recently shared with me that he understood what I'm going through, because his wife lost their first child due to a miscarriage somewhere around 3 months gestation. I appreciated the fact that he was trying to reach out and sympathize, but the way he did it just grated on me. He acted as if the experience of pregnancy loss is the same as the loss of an infant. No doubt, both are painful in their own way. However, losing an infant that is 7 weeks of age is not the same as a miscarriage.

One of the things that people who have walked through the most painful kinds of grief intuitively know is that they don't know exactly what anyone else is going through. The deepest losses sharpen our sympathies and cause us to realize that we really cannot compare the uniqueness of our situation to anyone else. A dear friend who has been following this blog knows exactly this - she and I have unique and different situations, and yet there are similar emotions involved. We can express how sorry we are for each other's experiences, and ask the other what are going through. And then we can listen. Because beyond that, it is not fair to say we have been through what they have been through. We haven't.

One woman in sharing about her grief after her husband died described eating alone at home a lot, because she wanted to avoid going out and feeling exposed. I can truly identify with this feeling of exposure. People ask the most innocent of questions when I'm in public that feel like sandpaper on a raw and open wound.

For the woman who lost her husband, "are you married?"

For the parents who lost their only child, "do you have any children?"

This kind of exposure becomes even more acute when someone, usually a perfect stranger, claims to know exactly what you are going through. "Oh, you lost your baby at 7 weeks of age? I know just what you are going through. My grandmother, who practically raised me, just died last year at 82 years of age. I know how hard this is for you."

No, my dear fellow human being, you do not know. People's grandmothers are supposed to die when they get older -- it is the natural order of things. People's children are not supposed to die. You are supposed to die before your children, watching them grow strong into their mid-life years as the flame of your candle waxes dim.

I've come to believe that avoiding this kind of exposure during the most painful times of grief is okay, that it is a healthy form of self-preservation.

At the same time, there are times when human contact can't be avoided, and that is okay too. It teaches us (or at least me) to be patient with others, to give them grace, because Lord knows I have probably made the same mistakes. An innocent attempt to identify with what someone is going through can instead create a sharp contrast that clearly highlights the extent to which I don't know what they're going through.

And so I've learned that the best response to someone's expression of a terrible experience is, "Wow, I cannot imagine what you are going through. I am so sorry. What is this like for you?"

And then... I just listen.