For they shall be comforted

When someone dies, they are gone. Whatever our beliefs about the afterlife, nothing prepares us for the harsh reality that the person we knew and loved is not here on earth anymore, for the remainder of our natural lives. The finality of this is shocking and intense, at least it was for me when I experienced it.

Friends lost a loved one this week, and the familiar feelings are all haunting me again. The vacancy, the hole. The impossibility that a person can be here one day, gone the next. It is a reality altered, our world unhinged. It is a great mystery of the universe, how a life can profoundly impact others so greatly, yet be gone in the blink of an eye.

It's been over two years since Liza passed. And yes, I am still processing her death. In our society I could be blamed for wallowing, but friends, our society isn't so good at grief.

A book I'm reading featured this quote.

"Healthy are those who mourn. Only very recently have we begun to realize that to deny grief is to deny a natural human function and that such denial sometimes produces dire consequences.

"Any event, any awareness that contains a sense of loss for you can, and should, be mourned. This doesn't mean a life of incessant sadness. It means being willing to admit to an honest feeling rather than always having to laugh off the pain. It's not only permissible to admit the sadness that accompanies loss - it's the healthy option."

- Donald L. Anderson, Better than Blessed

Sometimes when I read the Sermon on the Mount, it brings feelings of anger. "Blessed are those who mourn," Jesus said. Mourning doesn't feel like a blessing. It brings about some of the most painful feelings I have ever experienced. It has been one of the darkest seasons of my life.

It seems to be an essential part of the human experience, though. It is necessary in a fallen world where things are far less than ideal. So I'm clinging to the second part of the verse, "for they shall be comforted." Whether in this life or the next, I believe there is comfort for all who mourn. And that is worth holding onto.

Still Learning

I'm still learning about this thing called grief and what it means.

This week I had a goal to clean out our Liza Jane's closet. It's the last thing in her room that I haven't gone through. All of her clothes were in there, neatly organized by her Mimi more than two years ago when we arranged her room in anticipation of her birth.

She never made it out of the Newborn size sleepers and into the 0-3 month size, partly because her heart condition made it difficult to eat and gain weight.

All the baby clothes she never got to wear were just one more reminder that her precious life was ended far too soon. As I folded a sweet little pair of jammies with colorful hearts on it, I cried because she never made it into the three month size range.

I remembered the stages of grief when I was six months pregnant and we learned that she had Down syndrome. People with Down syndrome tend to be small for their age, even without a heart condition. So would she have gotten big enough to fit into that three month sleeper before the weather got too warm for her to wear it? I will never know.

This task of cleaning her closet is a very necessary one, because we are in the process of adopting a sibling group of children. We don't know yet who our future children will be, but we are actively going through a matching process. And the room that was Liza's needs to be ready for our children.

Last night we had a beautiful snowfall. I had a rough time last night after meeting a friend's newborn baby for the first time yesterday. All the feelings of anger, rage, and deep sorrow came rushing back.

The tree in our front yard, covered in snow.

Ordinarily, snow like this gives me a giddy, happy childhood feeling. I waltz around the house singing "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow," while making cups of hot tea. This time, though, I felt I was clinging onto a shred of my former self. I was sad, I was depressed, I could hardly function.

So, I'm still learning what it means to grieve the loss of a child. Tuesday will be two years since she died, and sometimes the loss is still fresh, as if it happened yesterday. She just didn't have enough time. I didn't have enough time to love her, to be Liza Jane's mommy. The pain is still there, churning in the core of my being. And it is still hard.

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.

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.

One of Those Days

Yep, it was a rough day, in case the title of this post didn't give it away. It snuck up on me and I wasn't ready for it. For anyone who has lost a child, you will probably understand what I mean by that. There are some occasions when you are prepared for the painful memories. You anticipate that a certain family gathering or holiday will be hard. Other times, though, the intense sadness hits at unexpected times.

It all started over the weekend.

It happened to my husband, Luke, and I at exactly the same moment. There was a family with a baby who looked almost identical to Liza. She had the same hair color and skin tone. She was asleep, and from the angle we saw her at, she looked just like our baby girl used to look when she was asleep.

We stood there, silently, each of us with a single tear running down our cheek. We didn't have to say anything. We both knew. Later, in the car, I said, "that baby today...". And he said, "yeah." I said, "she looked just like her." He was quiet for a minute. "Yeah. I miss her."

Then we went about finishing out our weekend, not thinking or saying much about it. Today, though, the pain came back with a force that was unexpected. Sadness hung like a cloud all morning while I was at work. I literally had to motivate myself about every ten minutes to keep working, to try to do something that resembled productivity. There were cups of coffee with actual caffeine in them (normally I just drink decaf). There were a couple pieces of candy from the drawer in my desk. Anything I could think of to keep my brain occupied. And the sadness still rolled in, wave after wave.

I wasn't specifically thinking about that baby we both saw or the feelings that resulted. I hadn't spent time going over that moment in my mind. Yet it lingered, it brought her back, and the missing her was as strong as the day we held her as she faded away from this life.

When I got home tonight, I told Luke how difficult the day had been. To my relief, he said, "me too." When spouses grieve the death of a child, we're not always in sync. In fact, we rarely are. One of us can be having a terrible day while the other one is humming along, feeling fine. On this occasion, though, we both felt it. The unbearable sadness, the depression, the pain, the longing.

All for one tiny little baby. So much love that it hurts.



Liza Jane at a little over 3 weeks old. Her facial expression is telling us that her tummy is bothering her. Due to her heart condition, she didn't always have enough blood flow to her digestive system, which caused her pain sometimes. Here, she is trying to sleep through it and is thinking about whether it is worth waking up to cry. She was always given medicine by the nurse when she had a lot of pain, but it didn't diminish our heartache at what she had to suffer.

Missing my little beauty

Lately I've been thinking about how beautiful my daughter was.

She was truly a joy and a delight in the 7 brief weeks that we got to treasure her. I miss holding her so much.

Precious little eyes, nose and mouth. Eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of the universe on the rare occasions she could keep them open long enough for us to peek inside.

I feel like she was trying to tell me something whenever I look at these photos. The first time I saw those eyes was in the moments immediately following her birth, when she looked right at me through the haze of the goop that they always put on newborns' eyes.

To this day, I wish I knew what she was trying to say.

Uncooked

It is difficult to know how to grieve in Western society. I've been encouraged to share my feelings with others more, to talk about what I'm going through, because it aids the healing process. In our world, though, there are not a lot of good outlets for this.

One family I've observed who recently lost a precious 5-year-old daughter seems to be facing the same problem. They have posted about their anguish on their daughter's Facebook page, and I'm happy to report, many people either "like" those comments or reply with encouraging words.

Maybe the internet is the new way that we share our grief. There certainly are not a whole lot of other socially acceptable ways to express grief.

I've quoted Joan Didion's book before on this blog. It's so insightful that I just can't help it. Here's what she found about grief in our society.

"Philip Aries, in a series of lectures he delivered at Johns Hopkins in 1973 and later published as Western Attitudes toward Death: From the Middle Ages to the Present, noted that beginning about 1930 there had been in most Western countries and particularly the United States a revolution in accepted attitudes toward death. 'Death,' he wrote, 'so omnipresent in the past that it was familiar, would be effaced, would disappear. It would become shameful and forbidden.'"

- Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking



Try to stay with me... I know this is a bit academic-sounding, but in my experience it is pretty true to life.

"The English social anthropologist Geoffry Gorer, in his 1965 Death, Grief, and Mourning, had described this rejection of public mourning as a result of the increasing pressure of a new 'ethical duty to enjoy oneself,' a novel 'imperative to do nothing which might diminish the enjoyment of others.' In both England and the United States, he observed, the contemporary trend was 'to treat mourning as morbid self-indulgence, and to give social admiration to the bereaved who hide their grief so fully that no one would guess anything had happened.'"

- Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking



Now, any therapist worth their salt will tell you that mourning is not self-indulgent. It is an absolutely critical process that a person has to walk through, often for years, in order to heal emotionally. And yet, our society doesn't seem to be comfortable with letting people do just that.

Maybe for we Americans, it is our independent streak that gets the better of us. Our culture prizes the attitude of pulling ourselves up by our boot straps and moving on. Often I've heard the quote "when the going gets tough, the tough get going." This isn't always the healthy thing to do though. The many emotions of grief, if not given air, will fester below the surface and eventually come to the forefront again.

This is an excerpt from the memoir Angelica Huston has been writing since her husband of 16 years, the artist Robert Graham, died in 2008.

"I like to be associated with strength rather than weakness and misery. But we're made up of all of these components. There's always a moment where you are deeply alone in your own skin, and it's hard to come to terms with it. There's a period after something like the death of a spouse where you can totally understand why widows wore veils.

"Because no one should really look upon you for a couple of years, and you really shouldn't look upon anyone else. You're very tender; you feel like something uncooked. And people can be very unpleasant when you're in a state of grief."

- Excerpt from Angelica Huston's memoir, as quoted by the Wall Street Journal online

I love the way she uses the word "uncooked" here. I've often felt tender, vulnerable, like I was going out in public with a big bulls eye on my torso. To me, it seems like people should have a special designation when they are going through grief. Like a "fragile, handle with care" sticker that lets others know this individual is going through a difficult time, so please show some mercy.

It doesn't work that way, though. I've come to grips with the fact that in most social settings, I will have to be the one to bring up my daughter in conversation. Most people will not ask how I'm doing or extend their sympathies at this point. They look embarassed, averting their eyes and mumbling condolensces, if I relate a lesson that she taught me, or a story from her life.

And I cannot blame them: they have no pattern for doing this; they haven't observed anyone else around them responding to grief in an open way. Maybe they don't realize that it takes a long, long time for these wounds to heal, and that I will never forget my daughter, she will always be a part of me, always on my mind. If that means I have to walk through life a little bit uncooked, then it is worth it... she was, and is, worth it.

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.

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.