Is it happy, or is it sad?

So I've noticed that when I blog about adoption, I get many more "views" than when I blog about grief. And I get that, because it's hard to read about sad things, and it's fun to read about happy things.

Today, though, I want to talk about where grief and adoption intersect. You might think, say what? Isn't adoption a wonderful, loving choice? Parents who adopt, rescuing babies and children from difficult circumstances, following a path that few dare to tread. Isn't it a wonderful, happy, heroic experience?

You guessed it -- adoption is not all walking on sunshine. There are many facets of grief associated with adoption.

First, let's look at the birth parents. They will at some point experience a deep grief and loss over losing their child. Maybe they gave them up voluntarily, or maybe their hand was forced (depending on the country and circumstances). But speaking as someone who knows what it is like to lose a child, my heart goes out to the birth parents of adoptees. I cannot imagine what they are going through, and I hope and pray they will find healing and peace.

Next, what about the adoptee? Shouldn't they be grateful they have been rescued from less than ideal circumstances? It isn't really as easy as that. They have lost the connection to their family, their roots. They have lost an essential part of their identity, which those of us raised by our biological families cannot comprehend. How often in our formative years have we thought, "I'm creative like my mom," or "I'm good at sports like my uncle," or "I like to eat sour foods like my grandmom...." The list goes on, and on, and on.

Adoptees have lost their moorings, and many have spent untold time and energy to track down their bio families and try to regain a sense of self. Most of their parents love them very, very much, even if they were unable to care for them for a time. (I do not speak from personal experience, only from hearing the stories of adoptees who are now adults, so please forgive me if I have misrepresented the perspective of an adoptee. I do not pretend to lump all together in one bucket, nor should we.)

Finally, adoptive parents experience loss as well. Many of us have not been able to have our own children, or if we have, some of us have lost those children due to cruel disease. There is a strong desire hard wired in our DNA to see our offspring, to observe as our own traits are carried on through the next generation. This is a grief on a primal level, as we let go of basic expectations that most of us held for the majority of our lives.

Right now, I am extremely excited about the possibility that we may be matched with our future children soon. At the same time, though, I am sad. Adoption is a wonderful gift, but it is also a symptom of an imperfect world. While we will be over the moon to welcome our future children into our home, we also have to keep in mind the journey of grief and loss that they and their bio family members will have to walk through.

It is a mix of both: happy and sad.

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.

Memories Everywhere

Memories of her are everywhere.

We just got back from vacation and the past few weeks have been a blur of catching up at work and home. For anyone who has been following my blog, I know I've been a negligent blogger! What can I say, it can happen to the best of us. In the midst of the craziness, I can tell my mind has not had enough time to process grief recently, because memories of her are popping up all over the place.

When I called the vet about my cat's medicine and a need to schedule an appointment, in my perception I was a bit harshly treated by the receptionist. [Disclaimer: my perception can be quite askew sometimes.]

Anyway, it took me back in time to this time two years ago. I was a first time expectant mother talking to so many doctors, nurses, and staff. I was just trying to understand what was wrong with the baby girl inside of me and make informed choices about her plan of care. Sometimes, the health workers were not very kind. Sometimes, they were not very considerate or compassionate. I was scared and trying to protect my baby, and at times I felt like I was being attacked or blamed for what was wrong with her.

So when I felt a bit mistreated by a busy receptionist at the vet who in reality was probably trying to manage five blinking phone lines and make it to her next coffee break, I was emotionally distraught. It took me a few minutes to realize my feelings were connected to some of the events that happened with our Liza Jane. Once I did, I was able to cry and let that pain out, and get back into the swing of my day.

Grief is like that. Little things can trigger big, painful memories. I find that if I've gone a few weeks without taking time to think about her, or talk about her, this can happen even more readily. And from what I've read from the experts on this sort of thing, losing a child is even worse than many grief experiences. The hole doesn't completely close. You go on with your life, you make choices to continue living. But the void is there.

She would have been two years old this coming November, and I guess it's time to think about how we want to remember that milestone. Part of me doesn't want to face it, but another part of me knows things will go much better if I do.

Less Alone

I spent the last week in training for work. During the group introductions on Day 1, I realized that there is an often silent minority of individuals in our society who may wish to have biological children, but do not.

As we went around the room and gave introductions, those who had children shared about them as a central part of their lives, as they should be. I was sitting there thinking and wondering if I was the only one in the room who wished they could say the same, but could not.

Our baby girl gave us her first and only hint of a smile on the way to her heart catheter procedure, which would be the first in a domino series of events that would ultimately end her life.

Whether due to infertility, miscarriages, a child being stillborn, losing a child later in life, or simply not finding the right partner, I am realizing there are more of us out there than meets the eye. This is because we often don't talk about the loss, the missing piece, the disappointment. Even Facebook is a microcosm of this issue: many people seem to post about the highlights in life and bury the low points.

As I walked back to our training room from lunch one day, I heard one classmate talking to another about their plans for the holiday week. The first woman said to the other that her 14-year-old son had been adopted via an open adoption process, so he was visiting with his birth family for a few days. Looking at this woman, I never would have guessed that for whatever reason, she ended up adopting her son. Admittedly, I am making a giant assumption that this woman chose adoption because biological conception was not an option -- but given the cost of adoption, allow me this luxury for the sake of argument.

I think it is easy to assume we are the only ones who have struggled with some loss. It helps, though, to know that we are not alone. There are often others who are walking similar roads, and they are closer than we may think.

When we have enough courage to open up about our challenges, the results may surprise us. For me, at least, it has resulted in feeling less alone on the path of life. And feeling less alone is worth the risk.

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

The Loss of Motherhood

This post could also be titled The Loss of Parenthood or Fatherhood or even Grandparenthood, but it is almost Mothers day, and I wanted to share a quote by C.S. Lewis about motherhood.

If a mother is mourning not for what she has lost but for what her dead child has lost, it is a comfort to believe that the child has not lost the end for which it was created. And it is a comfort to believe that she herself, in losing her chief or only natural happiness, has not lost a greater thing, that she may still hope to 'glorify God and enjoy Him forever.' A comfort to the God-aimed, eternal spirit within her. But not to her motherhood. The specifically maternal happiness must be written off. Never, in any place or time, will she have her son on her knees, or bathe him, or tell him a story, or plan for his future, or see her grandchild.

- C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

I've heard stories of people who had lost a child being frustrated with the condolences that well-meaning friends offer to them. People often make statements like "well, he is in a better place now" or "at least we know she is not suffering any more." To many parents, these kinds of statements are a non-consolation.

For me, it did help to think of my daughter in a better place when she first passed. Her existence was so sub-par during the last half of her life as she lay still on her bed, unable to do all the things little babies are supposed to do. It came as a relief to me that she was free from the confines of her inadequate body. And it did and still does help to think that my daughter has not lost the end for which she was created, as I mentioned in this post.

In the long run, though, it was clear that my "specifically maternal happiness must be written off," as C. S. Lewis so elegantly said. And I would argue that it doesn't matter how many children one has. Even if there are other children in the home, there is a specific joy in that one single child that is lost forever when that child is gone. It is the loss of that child in the present as well as in the future. The loss of all the things that child may have done with his or her life, and the loss of what it would mean to be a mother to that child.

Elizabeth Stone said, "Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." As we approach Mother's Day, which is a bittersweet occasion for those of us who have lost a child, I think this rings especially true. Although, when the child is no longer on this earth, our hearts sometimes feel more like they are wandering around in the emptiness of the universe instead, untethered, lost in a void.

This butterfly visited my back yard today, a sweet memory of her.

Our Butterfly - Part 1

This is the first of what will probably be several posts about butterflies.

I use butterfly imagery a lot on this blog because butterflies are significant to our family. They remind us of our little Liza Jane.

When I was carrying her in my womb and we were learning of her difficult medical problems, a couple of people independently told us that Liza would emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon. That she would surprise us and that she would be beautiful.

At the time I interpreted those words in a specific way. There were other words tacked on to those statements about healing. And I believed she would surprise us by being miraculously healed and made whole on this earth.

That wasn't meant to be, apparently. Our delicate, beautiful little butterfly girl did not last long in this life. After she died, Luke and I took some time to get away. One of the things we did was to visit a butterfly farm in St. Martin, FWI, as a tribute to her. We learned some pretty interesting things about butterflies there.

Butterflies usually only live a couple of weeks once they emerge from their cocoons. During their brief lifespans as beautiful winged creatures, they have one primary purpose: to reproduce. All the lovely show of color that they put on is to help them attract a mate. Male butterflies will dance and twirl around a female, hoping she will choose them. This ritual goes on for a few hours at a time. And if the female rejects the male, he will go off and mope by himself for a while. We actually saw these behaviors at the butterfly farm.

So maybe those people were right about our Liza Jane in a way. She did emerge from the womb like a beautiful butterfly. She was more delicate and fragile than we could have imagined, and her life span was only a few short weeks. And in a way, I think she was here for the purpose to reproduce herself. Her life produced a drastic change in many who came into contact with her, as well as quite a few people who never met her.

Since I've joined some online communities about the loss of a child, I noticed that many other people are reminded of their children when they see a butterfly. It seems to be a common theme among grieving parents, and I think it is a fitting one.

I'll close today with a quote that was on a sympathy card someone shared with us after Liza died. It really meant a lot to me. If you are remembering a loved one today, I hope this will resonate with you too.

"It is not how long the flower blooms, but how beautifully."

- Unknown

An Invisible Parent

The other day when I got to work it was "bring your child to work day." It was neat to see how many of the 30-something professionals in my building have young children. It was also difficult because some of them were small enough that they almost would have been Liza's age.

There are a lot of little things in life that make a bereaved parent think about what would have been, and this was one of those things. It highlighted the missing piece in my life: there should have been a 17-month-old with me that day.

an empty red swing, a missing piece

During the afternoon, I was in a 4-hour training class and at the beginning, everyone was talking about how nice it was to see all the little kids at work. Inevitably, someone turned to me and asked me if I had any children. I'm at that age and I have that look of someone who would have little kids at home. I just quietly answered that no, I don't have children.

In those kinds of settings, it is difficult to know how to respond. If it is a group of people that I mostly don't know, a more public environment like yesterday, I've found it is easier not to tell the whole story. People often seem to feel embarrassed or ashamed, as if they have done something wrong by asking the question in the first place. I think it simply points to the fact that our society is not comfortable with talking about death, dying, or grief.

The question was nevertheless hard for me to face, because I felt misjudged. When I answer that no, I don't have children, I can see the wheels turning in people's minds. Oh, you are one of those people. One of those young professionals who is married but chooses not to have children. Who just chases money, pleasure, whatever, blah-blah-blah.

(If you are a young adult who has chosen not to have children for whatever reason, more power to you. I'm expressing my own perception of other people's viewpoints, but please do not take any judgment from this.)

Maybe that's not what they are thinking, but that is what I feel like they are thinking. I feel a sense of failure that I haven't lived up to society's expectations. Part of me wants to scream that I do know what it is like to be a parent, I do know what it is like to have had my world turned upside down the first time I held my baby in my arms. I know what it is like to sacrifice my time, my body, my very self for the love of a child.

a red fence, the color of my angst

I've coined a new term to describe this: I feel like an invisible parent. I have the experience of having been a parent, and I still feel the intense love for my child. But on days like "bring your child to work day," there is no outlet for me to express this.

I left work really angry, so I came home and did my kickboxing workout, which helped to relieve some of the tension. Often, exercise helps me to clear my mind and sift through my thoughts so I can figure out what was bothering me. I told my husband about it that night and talking with him also helped relieve some of the tension.

Maybe next time when a relative stranger asks if I have children, I will say yes. And when they follow up with how old are they, I will state that my daugther was seven weeks old when she died. I have a feeling this will not go over very well though.

If you have lost a child, how do you decide whether to tell people your story? How do you answer the question of "how many children do you have?"

Loving this Idea...

If you have lost a child, what do you tell people when they ask you how many children you have? I found this blog post about preserving the memory of our lost children to be a wonderful resource with lots of good ideas to think about.

And, in the spirit of preserving our family history, I wanted to share a lovely idea that I found to honor our children, the ones who are here with us, and the ones who have gone before us into heaven.

I'm always looking for ways to honor my daughter's memory. We have special photos around our home. We have a lovely scrapbook about her life and a memory box holding some of our favorite Liza Jane things. And we visit her grave to bring flowers and feel close to her again.

Sometimes I wear this lovely handmade locket that my husband got for me on Etsy to commemorate what would have been our daugher's 1st birthday. Her picture is inside.

My 2-year-old niece loves to look inside this locket when I wear it. She knows there is something special about it. She comes close, sits on my lap and says "see baby." We open the locket, and she says "aahhhh" in her sweet little girl voice. Then I tell her it is her cousin Liza who is in heaven, and ask her if she wants to give kisses. It never fails that my niece gives the sweetest little kiss to this baby cousin whom she never met.

Later the same day she will come to me and say "see baby, give kisses." Kids know - they know when something, or someone, is close to our hearts.

I just learned about another lovely way to honor our children through these lovely birds nest rings and necklaces. Pay close attention to the ring in the third picture...

When I saw this, I was floored. Is that really a nest with 3 white eggs and 1 gold egg? Symbolizing a special child that perhaps didn't make it in this life?

Yes, yes it is. This bird nest jewelry is hand crafted and customizable so we mommas can come up with a design that represents all of the children who are close to our hearts, not just the ones who are with us on this earth today.

Here is the Etsy shop where you can find these lovely pieces. And, thanks to Kelle Hampton for posting and sharing this idea on her blog.

Feeling Older

Have you ever heard someone described as "wise beyond their years" or "an old soul"? I've been feeling exactly this way lately. This is a completely neutral feeling - it isn't positive or negative - it just is.

We were at an event the other evening to support the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP) which took such good care of our daughter. There is a committee we belong to that is comprised of young professionals who support CHOP. Being in that room with other individuals of a similar age and circumstance made me realize: I don't fit in with my peers.

Many people that we met asked us what motivated us to support CHOP, or how we got connected with the group. It was difficult to explain to them. Most of them were there because of a "success story." For some, their child had been cured of cancer at CHOP. Others had nieces or nephews, or other relatives and friends, who had been successfully treated at CHOP. One person had herself lived at CHOP as a patient for 1.5 years of her childhood and as an adult wanted to support the hospital that saved her life.

Nobody else we talked to had a child who died at CHOP. Many of them did not know how to respond when we shared our story. And this highlighted for me a feeling I've had for a while, that I have been aged beyond my years by this experience.

Glasses that I need to wear more often than I'd like... one more sign of getting older.

It's true, I have noticed some accelerated signs of aging in my body due to the stress of having a newborn in the hospital for 7 weeks and subsequently dealing with the grief. But even more noticably I have seen my psyche age due to the waters we have passed through. I identify more with the 40- and 50-something (and beyond) crowd of people that I generally meet, who are going through hardships of mid- and late-life, than I identify with my own peers.

I sometimes wonder if others who have lost a child, or gone through another form of intense loss, feel this way. It can be a lonely feeling, one of not fitting in any more. Anybody else ever feel you've aged beyond your physical years?

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.)