Mourning the loss of your child comes with more emotions than anyone could ever expect to handle. Devastation. Denial. Guilt. Anger. Fear. None of them really surprised me. The intensity of them often caught me off guard, but all of these emotions seemed very normal when given my circumstances. I was not, however, expecting to experience the level of jealousy I have been.
Sometimes, when I see another mother in public with her child, I immediately scrutinize her every move. What would I have done differently? What would I have done better? How is it that she is awarded the privilege of having a living child, and not me? When I catch a glimpse of a baby being cradled lovingly in her mother's arms, or pushed in a stroller, I think to myself that I should have that. That baby should be mine, not hers. Lady Justice clearly was on a smoke break the day Kenley died. Someone owes me a baby!
The greatest bane of my existence right now is Kim Kardashian's daughter. I am so jealous that Kim Kardashian has a baby and I don't that I seriously cannot see straight! My judgmental side rears its ugly head and terrible, catty thoughts spin through my mind. Thoughts I am not willing to put into print because they are really not nice at all - and they are also undeserved. She's probably not a bad person, but I can't help but think why does she get to have a healthy baby and I don't? The rumor is that her daughter's name will start with a K as well. It's enough to make me scream. Imma let you finish, Kim, but I had the best baby of all time!
I have become a thorn in the side of many a newsfeeds. I realize this. At first, I was worried that I was posting too much about my loss. I thought maybe people would get sick of hearing about the causes I was suddenly so immersed in - and worse - they would get sick of hearing about Kenley. That was the worst thing I could imagine - desensitizing people to my daughter. "Oh great, here she is again. Posting some random link or picture." I was careful not to be that person who posts every five minutes. (We all have one of those Facebook friends. The ones who post so often, we just keep scrolling past whatever random new thing they feel so compelled to share with us.) I didn't want to be that person because I didn't want anyone to ever scroll past any of my Kenley posts. I didn't want what I had to say about loss to lose it's sparkle from overuse. And I also didn't want to be a constant downer in everyone's online lives. "Oh Yay, Sarah got married! Hey look at this adorable picture of a kitten smelling a flower! Oh, yeah...Rebecca's daughter is still dead."
I'm not stupid. I suspect some of my posts, links, and pictures have been selected to be "hidden" from some people's newsfeeds based on a few clues I have put together. I also know for a fact that certain people who used to be on my friends list are no longer there. One person actually had the "good manners" to tell me in advance of my defriending due to it was all "just too much sadness." for them. Ok, fine. If you don't want to be a part of this, don't. But, by no means expect me to hold you in the same regard as I did in the past. (This paragraph is fairly moot since none of those people are going to read this, but it needs to be said)
For those of you who are either still my Facebook friend or who have "liked" the Kenley's Krew facebook page, you already know a few things I have become passionate about. The most pressing one at the moment is the Return to Zero pledge drive. The details of that can be read here. (While you're at it, go ahead and share it!) If you have already pledged to see the movie, thank you! If you've shared the link with your friends, thank you, thank you. Keep it up. We have until midnight on Thursday to get all of our pledges in for the first round. Depending on the results, we will either get to move closer to distribution or will be shut down. 100,000 pledges are needed. At the time of this post, 73,000 have been collected. I am working very hard to make sure this movie gets released. Yes, it might make people "uncomfortable" to see. Yes, it might be disturbing. It will definitely be emotional. But, the story needs to be told. The public needs to know how it feels to walk in our shoes.
I have finally come to the point where I just don't care what people think about me or what I choose to write about, support, or post. I don't care if it makes people uncomfortable or squirmy. I don't care if they are tired of seeing it on their newsfeed or of hearing me talk about it. I'm going to do it anyway. What I have to say is important. It is important to me, to the people who care about me, and to all of the women I have met or have yet to meet on this journey I have been forced to take. It is important to the millions of women around the world who share this path with me. Maybe not my exact personal details are important to them, but the fact that I am willing to be vocal about my loss - that I will not be silenced just because talking about the death of my daughter makes other people upset. If it makes someone upset, good! I'm glad it makes you upset. It should make you upset. I'm pretty darn upset myself! And I have no intention of shutting up about it.
Yes, those words. The words that can alter the Motion Picture Association of America's ratings on films. The words that get bleeped out on the Maury Povitch Show. The words that assail your ears when the NY Giants are winning in Philadelphia. Words of exasperation, of frustration, of anger. Words that you know you shouldn't say, but sometimes you can't help it. Those words. They have been slip-sliding out of my mouth more often than I care to admit lately. Sometimes, they are the only way to express how absolutely angry I am. Sometimes, I am so mad that multi-syllabic words just won't do. Eloquence is not what I need. I need grit. I need dirt. I need vulgarity. I need to spit out my words in hateful beats. Through clenched teeth and red-rimmed eyes. Sometimes, I am tired of communicating my grief through neat and tidy packages - and I need to just let some obscenities fly. I mutter them to myself. I shout them to the heavens. I don't care. I am angry!
There's only so much anger you can feel without it exploding. There's only so long you can keep a pot of water on the stove before it boils over. Some days, I reach my limit faster than others. There is no good reason for me to be without my baby. There is no good reason for her to be gone. She is dead because she twisted too far in her umbilical cord. One too many cartwheels. I cannot hold my baby ever again because she was too full of life before her life even had a chance to start. The injustice of what has happened is a volcano inside me. Always churning. Liquid hot magma coursing through my veins. It's an anger I can't explain, although I am obviously trying.
This is not something that can be satisfied with an "Oh dear!" or a "Fiddlesticks". Nope. These words are called "Bad Words" or "Foul Language" for a reason. That's what they express. Foulness. Disgust. Frustration. Rage. And sometimes, that is exactly what I am feeling. Sometimes, I admit, I have to drop the F bomb. I just do. Because it is fitting - because there is no other word that works. No other word poisonous enough to propel the black tar of emotions that are clogging up my heart. If your child were ripped from your arms forever, do you think you'd be able to hold your tongue? I'll bet you that you couldn't. I'll bet even if you've never uttered a bad word in your life, you'd let loose a stream of sentences that would make a sailor blush. No matter how Scarlett O'Hara you think you are, when grief takes a hold of you, sometimes you just don't give a damn!
My emotions run rampant on a daily basis. There are more ups and downs and twists and turns in my day than in Six Flags and Busch Gardens combined. Of all these emotions, four in particular are the most prevalent. Sometimes they hit all at once, like a gang sneak attack. Other times, they slip in silently one at a time, and envelop me like a blanket. No matter what, they are a part of everything I do. My grief is like a room with four corners. In each corner, an emotion I must confront, a challenge I must face. My room is surrounded by windows, but right now, they are all boarded up tight, and it is dark. As I face what is in each corner, I grow a little stronger. With strength and time, I will eventually be able to remove the boards, letting more and more light in to chase away the blackness.
Corner Number One
Sorrow overwhelms me. Loss brings devastation. Period. My heart has been torn into pieces, and when I try to put it back together, there is one huge piece missing - leaving me hollow and broken. When Kenley died, she took pieces of me with her. Sorrow seeps in like radioactive slime, filling the empty spaces. When I look through my photos of her, I trace her face with my fingers, and sorrow pours out in a waterfall of my tears. Sorrow for the life she will never have, for the hand I will never hold, for the laugh I will never hear. I am sad for the daughter I will never get to watch grow up. I am sad for the mother I am unable to be. I am sad for the nursery, full of owls and sunlight, that sits empty and unused. I am heavy and burdened with the weight of what should have been.
Corner Number Two
Guilt consumes me. Regardless of what people say, I can't let go of the guilt I feel. Truth be told, I cannot remember the moment when I felt her move for the last time. I know she was quiet on Sunday - gone by Monday. But, did she move on Saturday? Or was it Friday when I last felt that last ninja kick? I don't know. I try so hard to remember, not just to ease my mind, but to have just one more moment of being conscious of her life. I should have been paying more attention. I took her acrobatics for granted. I lost focus, and now she's gone. I failed her. I failed Mike. I failed everyone who loved her and waited excitedly for her to be born. I hold my guilt close. I clutch it to my chest with white knuckles. You can try to pry my fingers away, but they will not budge. They will not loosen. I should have known.
Corner Number
Three
Anger fuels me. There are no words to express the anger I feel towards the unfairness of everything that has happened. Of all the mothers in the world, why was it me? Of all the babies gearing up for life, why was it hers that was taken away? I deserve to be holding my daughter. She deserves to live the quirky and hilarious life we would have given her. I am angry at the universe - and I daily give it the proverbial middle finger. I am like the teenager denied a curfew extension who sneaks out to the party anyway. I'll show you! I am more determined than ever to live my life to the fullest. My anger propels me forward. When the grief is too much to bear, my anger is what picks me up and says to me "Are you going to let it win?", and I respond with an emphatic and resounding NO! I will not buckle to the grief. I will not let Kenley's death be in vain. I will push through this tunnel of death and darkness, and I will find my way to the light!
Corner Number Four
Love sustains me. As sorrow weighs me down, guilt cripples me, and anger boils my blood, it is love that keeps me strong in spite of these others. Love for life. Love for friends and family. Love for Mike. And obviously, love for Kenley. I am surrounded by love. It pours in from all directions, and I bask in it like sunshine. It warms my soul and glues my broken heart back together. I had never known a love like the one I feel for my daughter. It was overwhelming and surprising. I wasn't expecting to fall head over heels for my little ninja, but as soon as I knew her heart beat inside me, that is exactly what I did. In her short 8 months of life, she showed me how strong love can be and how strong love can make you. I cling to it in this storm of emotion. Love is my anchor. It is what helps me feel joy in a joyless time. I am lucky to have love in my room with me, as not everyone is afforded this luxury. As long as I hold on to my love, I will get through this hell alive.
Everyone who has experienced loss is in their own room too with their own corners to face. Sometimes, we are able to open the window and let in fresh air. Sometimes, we let others visit us. Sadly, some people never muster up the courage to deal with what is in their corners, allowing themselves to be defeated, and they live the rest of their life in stifling darkness. What I have come to realize is that I will always be in this room of grief. I will live the rest of my life within these walls. Over time, I will let in more and more light. I will get stronger and I will open the windows. I will paint the walls vibrant colors and I will make myself more at home. Friends and family will visit me and we will smile and laugh again. But the room will remain.
Mike and I clutched hands and ran towards the train station. Steam rose from the engine with a hiss as it readied itself for departure. We needed to make this one! Although the train schedule was fairly regular, once this one left, we'd have to wait several weeks for another one to come by, and the journey from here to our Destination was a long one. I didn't want to keep putting these travel plans on hold. It was time to go! We scurried up the wooden steps of the platform, our shoes click-clacking as we ran. Mike clutched the metal railing on the side of the train and pulled himself up. Then, he reached out his hand to me, swinging me inside. Whew! We made it! We found our way through the car to our seats and settled ourselves in for the long ride. The scenery rushed by in a blur, but it was still beautiful. As I sat there, I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like when we got to our Destination! So many of my friends had already arrived and sent me postcards and letters of their happy lives. Smiling, laughing, having a great time! I couldn't wait! It was going to be the best adventure ever!
After a while, the attendant came by to punch our ticket. Mike and I handed them over. The attendant took a quick scan of the barcode. It beeped happily. He smiled and handed our tickets back to us. "Enjoy your trip!" he said to us. As the train chugged along, Mike and I chatted excitedly about the first thing we would do when we arrived at The Destination. We made plans about all the sights we would see and the fun we would have. We had heard from our friends that sometimes, this place wasn't always rainbows and sunshine like in the commercials. Sometimes, it rained pretty hard. So hard, that the howling of the wind and the rumbling of the thunder was enough to keep you up all night long. We didn't mind. We knew we could handle a few sleepless nights. It would be worth it just to be there with everyone else, where we could all finally hang out together! Over the course of our trip, the attendant came by to recheck our ticket a few times. Each time, it beeped, he smiled, and the train continued to speed along.
The longer I sat in my seat, the more uncomfortable I became. My ankles started to swell from sitting down so long, my back started to ache, and I was getting really tired. Mike, being the wonderful and supportive husband that he is, rubbed my shoulders and brought me snacks. "We're almost there, Beans," he said, reassuringly. And we were! From the window of the train, I could see signs for our Destination, the number of miles next to the name getting smaller and smaller with each sign we passed. Soon! We'll be there soon! I could hardly contain my excitement. Even Mike, who was usually so cool, calm, and collected, was showing signs of joyous anticipation.
The train car door slid open, and the attendant made his way to us again. One last swipe before we arrive, I thought! We pulled out our tickets and handed them over. The attendant waved his scanner over our tickets. No beep. Nothing. That's weird. It should work. "Swipe it again," I said. "I'm sure it's just a glitch in your machine." One more time. No beep. The attendant's smile vanished. "I'm sorry," he muttered, "You're going to have to exit the train." What? Exit the train? That can't be. We bought tickets for the whole trip! The ticket worked fine until now! Why, all of a sudden, when we were so close, do we have to get off? Everyone is waiting for us! I'm sure they have already made signs for our arrival! "WELCOME!" lovingly and painstakingly painted for us. What are we going to do?
The attendant walked over to the side of the car and pulled a lever. With that, the train came to a sudden and screeching halt. Mike and I were thrown forward with such force we slammed into the seats in front of us and then fell to the floor. "I'm sorry" the attendant said again. "You're going to have to get off. Now." I'd hit my head against the seat pretty hard, and a soft, warm trickle of blood fell from my forehead. I was dizzy and confused. Mike looked pretty banged up too, but he stood up, brushed himself off, and then carefully and tenderly, helped me stand. I looked over at the attendant with pleading eyes, hoping he'd change his mind. He shook his head and pointed to the door.
We had no choice. Our ticket didn't beep. We weren't allowed to continue to The Destination without a ticket. We hobbled to the door of the train and gingerly eased ourselves down the steps and onto the platform. As soon as our feet hit the ground, the train doors zipped closed without apologies, and the train took off like a flash. Without us. We were stranded in the middle of nowhere. We thought we were about to embark upon the biggest adventure of our lives, and now here we were. Stranded, alone, far from home, and even farther from where we wanted to be.
The trains only travel in one direction - to The Destination. In order to continue our journey, we would have to start from the train station where we boarded - miles and miles and miles away. The only way to get to where we were going was to WALK all the way back home and then hope with all our might that our timing would be right enough to catch another train.
When the gravity of our situation hit me, I began to sob. "We were so close!", I moaned. "Why can't we just keep going? I just want to be there! I've already waited so long! I don't want to start over!"
Mike held me close and rubbed my back. With shimmering eyes, he said to me "I know, baby. I know. I don't want to start over either. But we have to. And we can do it. We can."
"But what if we can't catch the train again?"
"We will. We caught it the first time." He is soft and reassuring.
"But what if they kick us off again? What if our ticket stops working?"
"We will have to cross that bridge when we come to it, baby. I love you and we can do this. We'll get there, just little later than we thought"
We called all of our friends and told them what had happened - that we weren't going to make it this time. That we were going to have to walk home and try to catch the train another time. We cried. They cried with us. We were all so excited. To fall from such great heights to such a depth of sadness is like a punch in the gut. I fell to my knees and screamed. I clutched my chest. I wanted to go so badly - and I was almost there. Almost there! I didn't want to think about having to start again, not when I had been so close!
For quite a while, I sat at that train station and cried. Several trains whizzed past the station, but none of them stopped. They were someone else's train, not mine. Taking someone else to The Destination, but not me. Mike stood beside me while I moaned on the ground. Keeping watch over my grief. After what seemed like a hundred and one years, I realized I couldn't stay at this train station forever. If I ever wanted to get to the destination, I had to find my way back home. All. the. way. back. home. So, I stood up, and I brushed the dirt and dust from my coat. I picked up my suitcase, which felt so much heavier than it did before, and I took Mike's hand in mine. After one final glance into the horizon, where the sun shone bright over The Destination, we turned our backs.
And we began to walk.
I thought I could get back into the kitchen and start baking again. I was wrong. What once was so familiar and natural for me seemed foriegn and frightening. Just going through my cupboard to assess what I had in stock was overwhelming. I've attempted to bake a few times over these last few weeks and have not even made it as far as getting ingredients onto the counter. It's frustrating to me because it was something I really enjoyed. I loved to create something delicious and share it with friends and family. I loved to tweak my recipes and play with new tastes. I was by no means a professional baker, but it was something I liked to do. Now I want to, but I can't.
The last few weeks of my pregnancy, we bought some lemons with the intention I would make lemon bars. Then, I began having blood pressure issues and I had to lay with my feet up when I got home from work every day. I wasn't able to get into the kitchen. I told myself I'd bake as soon as I could get the swelling in my ankles to go down and my blood pressure was under control. It had been steadily declining due to my diligent efforts to drink lots of water and stay off my feet as much as possible -not an easy task when you are in charge of the daily education of 22 ten year olds. That dreaded Monday, I had gotten to the point where my blood pressure was lower than it had been in weeks. Plus, I was feeling less tired. I had already decided that once we got back from my doctor's appointment, I'd finally make those lemon bars. Good thing, because the lemons really needed to be used.
We all know I didn't make those lemon bars. We all know I didn't come home from my doctor's appointment that afternoon, and that my baby was already gone. We finally threw those lemons away the other day.
There are a great deal of memories in my kitchen. Obviously not just memories of being pregnant. After all, I've lived in my house for almost 4 years. I was only pregnant for 8 months. But pregnancy memories take up the most space in my mind. And I can't pull out the butter from the refrigerator or the flour from the pantry without thinking of her. I am overwhelmed with something that used to be second nature to me. I am lost where I should be at home. It is confusing and frustrating.
A few months ago, I pinned this picture from Pinterest. I had plans to take a similar picture with Kenley once she was born. I am reminded of this every time I try to pull out my mixer.
I hate that this has happened. I hate that it has spun me so out of control. I hate feeling so out of sorts. I just want everything to be normal again. I'm sick and tired of hearing (and knowing) that it will take time. I need normalcy now. Yesterday, even. The fact that I won't get that for a while -despite all the hard work I am putting into healing - is absolutely maddening! I just want to bake some stupid lemon bars and give my baby a kiss. Why is that too much to ask?
I don't have cable, and I haven't seen his new show, so I can not make a Charlie Sheen joke here, but what I can do is tell you that I am angry. If you're a person of at least normal intelligence, you are familiar with the 5 stages of grief, and you also know that anger is one of them. However, what I am learning about those 5 stages, is that they are not neat little packages of emotion that you open in a specific order before moving on to the next one. In fact, in my experience, they aren't stages at all. The word "stages" implies that they are levels or steps you move through with some sort of hierarchy or organization. There is no organization to grief. It's not a tidy, well-swept staircase you can ascend to the next period of your life. It's a rocky, slippery mountain. A steep cliff face that towers before you. Sometimes you have to climb sideways. Sometimes you have to work your way down to a better foothold before you can climb up again. Sometimes, you lose your grip and you slide back to the bottom, skinning yourself in the process. Grief is a mess. A bloody, scattered, incomprehensible mess. And the only way to get through it - is to just get through it. You have to square your shoulders, steady your hands, secure your foothold, and just climb. If you fall, you try again. Again and again and again - until you reach the top. Even then, the scars you got along the way will still be with you forever.
But, I digress. Back to being angry. I am fist clenching, teeth grinding angry. White hot, supernova angry. I am angry my baby is gone. I am angry I have to deal with this pain. I am angry my daughter was robbed of her life and of her future. I am angry that nothing is the same - and that it will never be the same again. I could go on and on. What angers me above all of this - the one thing that really puts me over the top is the phrase "This is part of God's plan". Are you kidding me? A plan? A plan for my child to die? A plan to take away my joy and excitement and replace it with the purest form of anguish you could ever imagine? I understand people don't know what to say to someone who is grieving. I understand they just want me to feel better. They don't know how to help, so they do the best they can to try to take away the pain. They bring food. They offer a shoulder to cry on. They say things like "She's in a better place." or "She's an angel watching over you." Those, I can handle. But, "God has a plan for you", sends me over the edge. I do not want to hear that. I do not want to believe that - and I won't. What lesson did I possibly need to learn that I could not have done so with Kenley in my arms? What path was I not following that my child needed to die for me to see? No. This is NOT part of any sort of plan. To say it is a part of a plan is to say that this was done on purpose. Let the magnitude of that sink in for a little bit. On purpose. I looked up the word "purpose" in the dictionary and got these two definitions " the reason for which something exists or is done" and "an intended or desired result, end, aim, goal" The reason for my child's existence was her death - and the life I would then lead because of it? She was intended to die? No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.
According to the US Census Bureau, there is one birth every 7 seconds. That means on the day my daughter was born, 86,400 other children were also born - just in our country. Of those children, some will grow up to do great and wonderful things. Some will grow up to lead average, normal lives. And, sadly, some will grow up troubled and will use their gift of life to inflict pain upon others. But, it's MY child that has a purpose to die? Not the one who will grow up to beat his wife and his children? Not the one who will grow up to go on a shooting spree? MY baby was selected for this "purpose"? HER death is a part of a "plan"? Nope. I will not swallow that. What happened was terrible. It should not have happened. But there is no rhyme or reason to WHY it happened. Trying to mold a tragedy into a grand plan is like trying to put toothpaste back inside the tube. Messy, impossible, and pointless. Life is not fair. Horrible things happen to wonderful people and wonderful things happen to horrible people. I refuse to believe that this was inflicted upon me with a sense of purpose and intent - even for the reason to make me "stronger" or to set into motion a series of events that would not have otherwise occurred. Tragedy is not a gateway to bigger and better things, and I take offense to the argument that says otherwise.
I know people who say this to me have all the best intentions. People who believe this phrase do so because it helps them make sense of the senseless. If something terrible is a part of a plan, if there is some "greater good" or end result, maybe it makes this bitter pill easier for some to swallow. (You can't have the rainbow without the storm, right?) Not for me. It does not make me feel better at all to hear this. When someone tells me that this is all "part of God's plan", I just get angrier than I already am. I want to scream and yell and stomp my feet. I want to throw things across the room just to watch them shatter like I have shattered. I do not believe that my pain was planned. I can't. I won't.
Instead of focusing on WHY this happened, I just have to focus on HOW I am going to get through it. I have to focus on securing my anchor point and pulling myself up this mountain, rather than getting caught up in the reason why I am climbing it. At this point, the reason is irrelevant. I'm here. I'm full of firey fury and icy sorrow - but I'm here and I have to do something about it. Every day is full of a myriad of emotions. Every day is an uphill battle, but it is a battle I will win. I will do it BECAUSE of my emotions and not in spite of them. Anger - above all emotions - is an excellent motivator. Just look at any war that has ever, or will ever, be fought. I need my anger. I need it to propel me forward, to keep me moving. So, yes, I am angry. I have every right to be. But, never forget - this blog is not a cry for help. It is a call to arms!
