Three months after our two foster-to-adopt children moved in with us full time, I am finally sitting down at my keyboard to contemplate the impact of this change.
I've always believed that at some level, a person's child is a reflection of them. This has become quite distressing to me in recent weeks as our two young ones, age five and six, have made some of their true selves known. For the past six years, they have been under the influence of other adults. When I am in public with them, they look enough like me that people assume they are biologically mine. On certain occasions, though, I have wanted to scream, "I am NOT responsible for this behavior!"
We are unwinding years of exposure to things that little children should never experience. This will take months and years. It requires my heart to stretch out in ways I didn't think possible. To love a child who doesn't always not love in return is hard. It requires a constant return to a state of compassion, to grace.
If I drop judgment toward others, I can move closer to these precious young ones. If I treat myself with compassion, I have more compassion to share with them.
Someday I will look back on this time through the mist of memory. I hope I will be able to say that I grew and stretched, and that the world is a better place, at least for two lives.
Showing posts with label openness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label openness. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Monday, May 6, 2013
Life Changes
I'm officially on leave from work as we open our home to our future adoptive children. While I can't share online about them at this time, I have been reflecting on the changes life brings us.
Change is an adjustment, whether it is a positive or negative change. With change comes uncertainty. It's hard to live with uncertainty. I'm a planner, and I like to know what will happen next.
The Serenity Prayer has been a constant theme in my heart and mind as I walk through the waters of change.
God, grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The Courage to change the things I can,
And the Wisdom to know the difference.
The "Courage to change the things I can" piece of this comes easily for me. I know how to take action and make stuff happen. What's harder for me is the "Serenity to accept the things I cannot change." Often I get confused and think I need to be changing things, which are really not within my sphere of influence.
So I'm learning how to live in acceptance. It's freeing to accept the things I cannot change. And this makes it a little bit easier to let go.
Due to the life change we're walking through, I may not be blogging as much as usual for a short while. But I'll get online as often as possible to continue to mull over the blessings and challenges of this thing called life. Thanks for reading along with me.
Change is an adjustment, whether it is a positive or negative change. With change comes uncertainty. It's hard to live with uncertainty. I'm a planner, and I like to know what will happen next.
The Serenity Prayer has been a constant theme in my heart and mind as I walk through the waters of change.
God, grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The Courage to change the things I can,
And the Wisdom to know the difference.
The "Courage to change the things I can" piece of this comes easily for me. I know how to take action and make stuff happen. What's harder for me is the "Serenity to accept the things I cannot change." Often I get confused and think I need to be changing things, which are really not within my sphere of influence.
So I'm learning how to live in acceptance. It's freeing to accept the things I cannot change. And this makes it a little bit easier to let go.
Due to the life change we're walking through, I may not be blogging as much as usual for a short while. But I'll get online as often as possible to continue to mull over the blessings and challenges of this thing called life. Thanks for reading along with me.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Trust in God?
I'm writing this post in the hopes that others who are struggling with something similar will take comfort in knowing they are not alone. I don't like being this vulnerable because I'm afraid of what people will think. I am afraid of being judged.
The only way I know to break through this barrier of fear, though, is to begin.
It's very hard to return to an image of a good, caring, loving God after seeing him allow something terrible to happen to someone you love.
My daughter was the sweetest, most precious little baby girl I have ever laid eyes on. Even though she is now gone, I still love her as fiercely as any mother ever loved her child. And I wish with all my heart that she were here, that I was dealing with diapers and midnight feedings and fatigue and all the things parents complain about.
The strength of my love, from the time of my pregnancy onward, made it even harder to see all she had to go through in her tiny six pound body. She had two surgeries, the first on her abdomen resulting in a colostomy bag, the second with her returning from the ER with her chest still open and a small cloth tent sewn over the hole. We could see her fragile heart beating beneath the fabric patch. It was left open in case emergency intervention was needed. It was traumatic to see my babe of under two months old lying there open, bruised from having her sternum broken and her ribs pulled apart. It was traumatic each time her heart failed, we almost lost her, and they brought her back, each time putting her on more machines to try to keep her alive.
How do people who have been through terrible tragedies return to any trust in God? I think of the victims of genocide, war, rape, torture... For many, relief from the pain and answers on this earth never come. And for me, as for many, the pain of what she had to go through continues to grind away in the core of my being, at times with a literal, physical impact.
I know the pat answers Christians provide to these questions. That God didn't cause the event; a sinful, fallen world caused the event. But I struggle with how a loving God could even so much as allow these terrible, painful things - especially to one so innocent, so small, so vulnerable.
And it makes it very difficult to trust in God, for anything at all, great or small, ever again.
Nothing in my life experience prepared me for this. And it seems like a harsh way to learn.
The only way I know to break through this barrier of fear, though, is to begin.
It's very hard to return to an image of a good, caring, loving God after seeing him allow something terrible to happen to someone you love.
My daughter was the sweetest, most precious little baby girl I have ever laid eyes on. Even though she is now gone, I still love her as fiercely as any mother ever loved her child. And I wish with all my heart that she were here, that I was dealing with diapers and midnight feedings and fatigue and all the things parents complain about.
The strength of my love, from the time of my pregnancy onward, made it even harder to see all she had to go through in her tiny six pound body. She had two surgeries, the first on her abdomen resulting in a colostomy bag, the second with her returning from the ER with her chest still open and a small cloth tent sewn over the hole. We could see her fragile heart beating beneath the fabric patch. It was left open in case emergency intervention was needed. It was traumatic to see my babe of under two months old lying there open, bruised from having her sternum broken and her ribs pulled apart. It was traumatic each time her heart failed, we almost lost her, and they brought her back, each time putting her on more machines to try to keep her alive.
How do people who have been through terrible tragedies return to any trust in God? I think of the victims of genocide, war, rape, torture... For many, relief from the pain and answers on this earth never come. And for me, as for many, the pain of what she had to go through continues to grind away in the core of my being, at times with a literal, physical impact.
I know the pat answers Christians provide to these questions. That God didn't cause the event; a sinful, fallen world caused the event. But I struggle with how a loving God could even so much as allow these terrible, painful things - especially to one so innocent, so small, so vulnerable.
And it makes it very difficult to trust in God, for anything at all, great or small, ever again.
Nothing in my life experience prepared me for this. And it seems like a harsh way to learn.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Grief Work
If you've ever talked to a counselor or other trained professional about grief, they will refer to something called "grief work." In my experience, this is a lot like doing physical therapy after an injury, or working out to strengthen the body.
Today I did some Pilates which always challenges my body while leaving my muscles stretched and a bit tired. It feels good to work through some of the toxins and release the tension. My muscles like feeling the "burn" as they heat up through the movements, and I've come to look forward to that sensation.
When I work out, I have to intentionally set aside time in my busy day, or it won't happen. I plan for it, I set up a space in my home, or I go to a park or other location. It takes diligence and focus to work out.
Grief work is a lot like this for me as well. If I get too busy, I simply won't set aside time to "do grief." The emotional toxins build up inside of me and slowly leak into other areas of my life. I've gone a few weeks without doing any intentional grief work. The past few days, it has meant that I'm having strange dreams about babies, about giving birth, about babies being born and then dying.
So, I've been breezing past some of the early warning signs, but now it's time to be intentional about grieving. The toxic emotions need a release. Maybe I will journal or look at Liza's scrapbook. Maybe I will visit her grave. In any case, I'm signing off here and going to do the work of grief.
Today I did some Pilates which always challenges my body while leaving my muscles stretched and a bit tired. It feels good to work through some of the toxins and release the tension. My muscles like feeling the "burn" as they heat up through the movements, and I've come to look forward to that sensation.
When I work out, I have to intentionally set aside time in my busy day, or it won't happen. I plan for it, I set up a space in my home, or I go to a park or other location. It takes diligence and focus to work out.
Grief work is a lot like this for me as well. If I get too busy, I simply won't set aside time to "do grief." The emotional toxins build up inside of me and slowly leak into other areas of my life. I've gone a few weeks without doing any intentional grief work. The past few days, it has meant that I'm having strange dreams about babies, about giving birth, about babies being born and then dying.
So, I've been breezing past some of the early warning signs, but now it's time to be intentional about grieving. The toxic emotions need a release. Maybe I will journal or look at Liza's scrapbook. Maybe I will visit her grave. In any case, I'm signing off here and going to do the work of grief.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
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.
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.
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| Eastern Tiger Swallowtail |
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| 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.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
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.
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.
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?"
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.
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| 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.
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| 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?"
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Floundering
Losing a child has made me question everything I believe in. They say this is pretty common, although knowing that doesn't make it any easier.
My beliefs are what have given me steam my whole life. I am motivated by meaning, by purpose, and that has always been tied to my world view and my faith.
I don't think I am going off the reservation completely... at least not for today. But people who have known me for many years and think they know what I believe would probably be shocked at the paths that my views have taken ever since my daughter died.
It all started when she was in the hospital for the seven weeks of her life. Most parents will describe how things changed completely when they welcomed their first child. A massive transformation in perspective takes place. That's when the first shift occurred. Things I once thought were of paramount importance in life paled in comparison. Those things may as well have fallen off the face of the earth. Having a child changes everything.
It is a feeling that has to be experienced in order to be understood.
The second shift occurred when we realized we were losing her. As much as our world had changed when our baby arrived, it changed even more drastically as she faded from this life. The best way I can think of to describe this to parents who have not lost a child is that this shift in perspective is just as dramatic as when a child joins a family in the first place... maybe even more so.
Ever since she died, I have been floundering, especially where my beliefs are concerned. I feel like a fish out of water most of the time, flopping around, desperately trying to get to a place of safety where I can breath again. Yet I am running out of steam and resources trying to find that place back in safe waters, because...well... a fish out of water cannot breathe.
This has been a difficult topic for me to share about, because I feel very exposed when people know the struggle I've been having. I wrote and re-wrote this blog post, trying to figure out how to express what this feels like. My hope is that by sharing these feelings, though, all of you out there who are going through a similar experience will find comfort in knowing that you are not floundering alone, that you are not losing your mind.
Grief does this to a person, and my solution for now is to not take myself too seriously, and to allow myself to keep looking ahead.
My beliefs are what have given me steam my whole life. I am motivated by meaning, by purpose, and that has always been tied to my world view and my faith.
I don't think I am going off the reservation completely... at least not for today. But people who have known me for many years and think they know what I believe would probably be shocked at the paths that my views have taken ever since my daughter died.
It all started when she was in the hospital for the seven weeks of her life. Most parents will describe how things changed completely when they welcomed their first child. A massive transformation in perspective takes place. That's when the first shift occurred. Things I once thought were of paramount importance in life paled in comparison. Those things may as well have fallen off the face of the earth. Having a child changes everything.
It is a feeling that has to be experienced in order to be understood.
The second shift occurred when we realized we were losing her. As much as our world had changed when our baby arrived, it changed even more drastically as she faded from this life. The best way I can think of to describe this to parents who have not lost a child is that this shift in perspective is just as dramatic as when a child joins a family in the first place... maybe even more so.
Ever since she died, I have been floundering, especially where my beliefs are concerned. I feel like a fish out of water most of the time, flopping around, desperately trying to get to a place of safety where I can breath again. Yet I am running out of steam and resources trying to find that place back in safe waters, because...well... a fish out of water cannot breathe.
This has been a difficult topic for me to share about, because I feel very exposed when people know the struggle I've been having. I wrote and re-wrote this blog post, trying to figure out how to express what this feels like. My hope is that by sharing these feelings, though, all of you out there who are going through a similar experience will find comfort in knowing that you are not floundering alone, that you are not losing your mind.
Grief does this to a person, and my solution for now is to not take myself too seriously, and to allow myself to keep looking ahead.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Being Okay with Nothing
Coping strategies abound after the loss of a child. I have found ways to keep my mind busy, keep myself moving, averting the imminent feeling of falling apart.
Over the last week, though, I've been practicing the art of stripping away the crutches and working hard at being okay with nothing.
Luke was away on a trip for the better part of the week. A year ago, when our loss was fresher, I booked myself solid in the evenings after work while he was away on a similar trip. I made sure I was not alone on a single evening.
This year, though, I had some important work to do for a special baby shower for my sister and brother-in-law.
And while I wanted to lean on my crutches to get through the lonely evenings (TV, friends, computer, mind-numbing distractions), I powered through each lonely, solitary evening with only the company of the radio and my mixing bowl.
Each night when I rolled into bed, I was exhausted from the effort of keeping myself focused. I started reading this book which I someone gave to me a long time ago, but I only felt brave enough to crack open this past week.
I wasn't ready until now to think about what it means to "live fully right where you are." It didn't seem right to be concerned about living fully when my precious daughter cannot live at all.
But it was time, and on several evenings it brought a flood of new tears. And that is okay. Tears are healing, and there is no way to go through the pain except to keep going.
Luke came home from his trip safely this weekend. Another time I will write about the fear that grips my heart every time he leaves on a trip. The fear that was not there before we lost our daughter, but now that we have been so close to death, brings into sharp focus the reality that when a loved one walks out the door, it literally may be the last time I see that person... ever.
Today, Luke and I were thinking about planning something special to do together, maybe a trip to the art museum to see the Van Gogh exhibit. We realized, though, that we both just need to chill and allow ourselves some time to recover from all the excitement.
I am working on being okay with doing nothing again today. Being okay with rattling around in this large, too-quiet house all by ourselves. This house that we specifically designed for our growing family during the months that I was pregnant, the same house that is now too-large, too-empty for just the two of us.
So here I am, facing the pain, facing the emptiness, and working on being more than okay with it. Working on being thankful for the quiet blessing of this moment, this day.
Over the last week, though, I've been practicing the art of stripping away the crutches and working hard at being okay with nothing.
Luke was away on a trip for the better part of the week. A year ago, when our loss was fresher, I booked myself solid in the evenings after work while he was away on a similar trip. I made sure I was not alone on a single evening.
This year, though, I had some important work to do for a special baby shower for my sister and brother-in-law.
And while I wanted to lean on my crutches to get through the lonely evenings (TV, friends, computer, mind-numbing distractions), I powered through each lonely, solitary evening with only the company of the radio and my mixing bowl.
Each night when I rolled into bed, I was exhausted from the effort of keeping myself focused. I started reading this book which I someone gave to me a long time ago, but I only felt brave enough to crack open this past week.
I wasn't ready until now to think about what it means to "live fully right where you are." It didn't seem right to be concerned about living fully when my precious daughter cannot live at all.
But it was time, and on several evenings it brought a flood of new tears. And that is okay. Tears are healing, and there is no way to go through the pain except to keep going.
Luke came home from his trip safely this weekend. Another time I will write about the fear that grips my heart every time he leaves on a trip. The fear that was not there before we lost our daughter, but now that we have been so close to death, brings into sharp focus the reality that when a loved one walks out the door, it literally may be the last time I see that person... ever.
Today, Luke and I were thinking about planning something special to do together, maybe a trip to the art museum to see the Van Gogh exhibit. We realized, though, that we both just need to chill and allow ourselves some time to recover from all the excitement.
I am working on being okay with doing nothing again today. Being okay with rattling around in this large, too-quiet house all by ourselves. This house that we specifically designed for our growing family during the months that I was pregnant, the same house that is now too-large, too-empty for just the two of us.
So here I am, facing the pain, facing the emptiness, and working on being more than okay with it. Working on being thankful for the quiet blessing of this moment, this day.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
A Special Day
Honoring the ones we have loved and lost is an important part of grief. Today, in memory of our sweet Liza Jane, here is a shout out for 3/21. Today is World Down Syndrome Day.
This is celebrated internationally on March 21, symbolic of a third copy of the 21st chromosome that characterizes Down syndrome. This year the celebration is amplified as it is the first time that the date is officially recognized by the United Nations.
I'm joining NDSS to "do something extra" in honor of those with an extra 21st chromosome. Here I sit on my couch, tired after working an extra long day, ready to veg out. But I don't want to throw in the towel on the day without taking a moment to honor my sweet baby girl.
Just a few short decades ago, people with Down syndrome in this country were committed to institutions where they were given little opportunity to thrive. You can vist here for one person's story about how it used to be.
Today, people with Down syndrome live productive and meaningful lives. They go to school with all the other kids, and most of them graduate with their high school class. Some even go on to college, and many have jobs when they are older.
Despite all this progress, people with Down syndrome are more at risk for not making it into the world than ever, due to new prenatal tests that are now available. I think it's sad, because now is probably the best time ever for these individuals to be alive in our society. When their diagnosis is discovered prenatally, though, about 90% of mothers make a choice to end their lives.
So today, I want to send a big hug out to all those who know and love somebody with Down syndrome. And to all the people born with Down syndrome, thank you for making this world a better place, for bringing a little something extra to our lives. We are all better off because of you.
This is celebrated internationally on March 21, symbolic of a third copy of the 21st chromosome that characterizes Down syndrome. This year the celebration is amplified as it is the first time that the date is officially recognized by the United Nations.
I'm joining NDSS to "do something extra" in honor of those with an extra 21st chromosome. Here I sit on my couch, tired after working an extra long day, ready to veg out. But I don't want to throw in the towel on the day without taking a moment to honor my sweet baby girl.
Just a few short decades ago, people with Down syndrome in this country were committed to institutions where they were given little opportunity to thrive. You can vist here for one person's story about how it used to be.
Today, people with Down syndrome live productive and meaningful lives. They go to school with all the other kids, and most of them graduate with their high school class. Some even go on to college, and many have jobs when they are older.
Despite all this progress, people with Down syndrome are more at risk for not making it into the world than ever, due to new prenatal tests that are now available. I think it's sad, because now is probably the best time ever for these individuals to be alive in our society. When their diagnosis is discovered prenatally, though, about 90% of mothers make a choice to end their lives.
So today, I want to send a big hug out to all those who know and love somebody with Down syndrome. And to all the people born with Down syndrome, thank you for making this world a better place, for bringing a little something extra to our lives. We are all better off because of you.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Welcome, guests...
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.
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.
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