The Tightrope

The wind is cold and biting so high above the earth.  The tightrope walker steadies herself against the chilly rush.   She bends and flexes her toes inside her leather shoes, curling her aching feet around the bundle of wires.   As her hands begin to sweat, she grips the pole a little tighter, it's heaviness spread out on either side of her weary body.  She is exhausted, having to balance for this long.  The canyon below her sprawls out from a dark and jagged crevice in dusty orange fingers, and the other side is so far away she can't even see it.   As she steps forward, her balance shifts too far to one side.  She pitches and wobbles, her heart jumping into her throat in a panic before she centers herself.  Careful.  Steady.  She takes a deep breath in, her knuckles white and her knees screaming for rest.  But there will be no rest.   There is no stopping and there is no going back.   She can only go forward.  One foot in front of the other.  One step at a time, she will cross this canyon, balancing everything she is with everything she has.   That's the key - balance.   She has to keep herself in line.  From her own posture to the position of her feet on the wire to the steadiness of the pole in her hands - it all contributes to keeping her from plummeting into the darkness below.  And it requires her complete and utter attention at all times.  The average bystander does not realize the amount of concentration it takes to stay balanced - or the amount of balance it takes to stay upright.  To her credit, she makes it look so easy.   She is graceful and poised, keeping the chaos of her racing thoughts hidden beneath her collected demeanor.  But underneath, she is terrified.  Not necessarily of falling, but of tipping.  Of giving too much attention to one side and not the other.  It is in that moment of tipping - that moment before the fall - that the terror is real.  It's not the fall itself, but the reason for it that is so upsetting.   The knowledge that she allowed herself to lean too far to one side.  That she allowed the other side to be neglected.  If she falls, it will be because she was unable to maintain equality.  If she falls, she is a failure.   She braces against the wind as it bites through the thin material of her leotard.  She takes a step.  And another.  And another.   Forward and balanced, she continues her journey across the canyon.  Head high.  Heart steady.  

Time Heals All Wounds

Yet another quote that is untrue.  I hate it when people say this to me.   It makes me feel like my pain is being dismissed.  "I know you are hurting right now, but one day you won't, so that makes it okay."  It's not okay.  It will never be okay.  No amount of time could pass to ever make it okay.  You could travel in your TARDIS to the origin of the universe and back again and it still would not be okay.  

Time heals nothing.   Time fixes nothing.  Time cannot make things better simply by passing.  What time does is give you the tools you need to make your pain more bearable.   Time allows you to work through your grief - to take tiny bites, to chew, to swallow, to digest, and then discard what you can't hold onto. 

A year from now, I will not feel better because a year has passed.   I will feel better because I have been able to learn how to better manage my pain.  If a person is in a severe car accident and shatters their leg, it is not time that heals them.   It is surgery and physical therapy.  It is their body creating platelets and reconstructing bone and fighting infection.  If they received no medical attention and their body shut down and was unable to do what it needed to do to heal, no amount of time would fix their injury.  Their leg would still hang useless and they would still be tormented by pain.   Mental anguish is the same.  Time does nothing but to provide the vehicle for change.   It won't take us anywhere unless we fill up the tank.  And even then, some things will always hurt.

With time, we learn how to manage our pain.  We learn how to shift our insides around the shards of glass wedged in our heart so they only poke instead of slice.  We learn how to control the deluge of tears that seem to always be on the edge of our eyes.  We learn how to move that river further down - how to shift its course.  Time allows us to figure out how our brain responds to triggers and how our emotions can be affected by the outside world.   We begin to understand how we need to approach our lives in order to function with greater purpose and less impulsiveness.  We learn how to walk again after being cut off at the knees.    Time doesn't do all of this.  We do.   Time just gives us the opportunity to do it.

So, no, time does not heal all wounds.  Some wounds do not heal.   Never.  I know people say "Never say never."  Well, I'm saying it.  Some wounds never heal, and this is one of them.  Time will let me discover how best to live with this wound, but it will not heal it.  It will not make it better.  It will not make it okay.  Nothing will make it okay.   But, with time's help, I can learn how to make it bearable.  



 

The Journal

When I discovered I was pregnant with Kenley, I began writing to her in a journal.  The intention was I would write to her throughout the pregnancy and then whenever I had time once she was born.  I would write about all the milestones and emotions that come with being pregnant and having a new baby.   When that journal was filled, I would simply get another one and continue writing to her - all throughout her childhood and her teenage years.  I would give her the journals- maybe one at a time, maybe all at once - when she was old enough to appreciate them.   Then, she'd be able to read all about how wanted she was.  How loved she was.  Even in times of frustration, her mother always loved and cared about her.  I wanted to leave her this legacy - her own story told through the eyes of her mother. 

Into that journal, I poured all my love for her, all my dreams for her future, all my joy for her arrival.   I told her about my swollen feet and heartburn - and how I knew it would all be worth it one day.   I told her about how excited I was to meet her and how beautifully her nursery was coming together.  I told her about all these things with the idea that she would read my words one day. 

As we all know, that will never happen.  I didn't get to finish even one journal for Kenley.   The one I started, a beautiful tan leather journal with sleek, blank pages edged in gold, is only filled about a quarter of the way.  It stops abruptly and with great heartbreak.  The rest of the journal is empty.  Pages and pages of nothing - of a future that never was.  That journal is tucked inside Kenley's memory box.  I placed it inside there the day after her memorial and haven't taken it out since.  One day, I might have the courage and strength to re-read it, but not now.  It's hard to think about reading those entries - full of so much hope and innocence - knowing how it all ended.  

Someone asked me recently if I will still keep a journal for my future children.  Absolutely!   Kenley did not get to have the life I'd planned for her, but that will not stop me from planning the lives of my other children.   My future pregnancies will be full of stress and worry, that's for sure.   But, I will not stop hoping and dreaming of their future simply because my first child was robbed of hers.   Imagine if NASA had given up planning for the future when their first attempts at rocket launches resulted in spectacular explosions.   Imagine if J.K. Rowling had stopped submitting Harry Potter when she was rejected the first of twelve times.  Imagine if Albert Einstein's family had believed the doctors when they told them he was "dim and slow witted."  Our world is made great by people who refused to give up on their dreams, who used their negative experiences for good instead of allowing their past to dictate the course of their lives.  I will not let my past get in the way of my dreams for the future.  

Kenley will always be my firstborn child.  She will always have a place in my heart, and I will always, always miss her.   But, what good does it do to shut myself up and keep myself from dreaming?   How is stagnancy honoring her memory?   It isn't.  The only way to give her life purpose is to bring purpose to mine.   The only way to truly honor her is to do all the things for my future children that I would have done in the first place.   I will announce my pregnancy with joy and pride.   I will trace my belly.   I will take maternity pictures.  I will get a nursery ready.  I will keep a journal.   Not in spite of what happened - or necessarily because of it either - but because it is what I want to do.  It is what Kenley deserved and it is what my future children deserve.   If my heart is broken again, then I will pick up the pieces again.   But, what if it's not?  

I am not going to live my life in fear.   I can't control what might happen to me.  I can't promise myself a quick conception, an easy pregnancy, or a healthy baby.   But, I can hope.  I can dream.   I can plan for the future.  Kenley will still be there.  Forever and always, nestled inside my heart, making room for her siblings to come.   

I already have what will be the first volume of their life story.   Smelling of clean leather and a fresh start.   

A Good Day

Saturday was "Cupcakes to Cherish", a Cherishing the Journey fundraiser I have been helping with for the past several weeks.   I have been putting a great deal of energy into it; writing press releases, securing a few raffle and silent auction items, and other miscellaneous things.  Mike and I arrived at 9:30 to help set up.  We made some signs to put out on the road and helped get the area organized for the event.   When it started, I was in charge of selling the raffle tickets as well as some baseball game tickets for another fundraiser in August.   For the entire afternoon, I was extremely busy selling tickets.   Several friends came by to say hello, which meant so much to me.  I am so honored that they would take time on their own Saturday to come support my efforts and to remember Kenley.  Towards the end of the afternoon, I spoke to the crowd about how much the memory box I received from Cherishing the Journey meant to me.  I was nervous because I thought I would lose it, but I think I held it together fairly well.   I wavered a few times throughout my speech, but I didn't go over the edge.  Mike stood behind me the whole time.   

The day ended with me completely exhausted.   But, I realized something amazing.  I smiled - almost all day long.  Except for the five minutes of my speech, I smiled.   For a good part of the day, I felt like an enormous weight had been lifted from my shoulders.  Not permanently, but just for a moment. For a moment, I could breathe again.  For a moment, I could feel the sorrow slipping away from my heart.   For a moment, I felt like I had purpose again.   I felt good about what I was doing with my life.   And I realized something.  I am not beaten.

I am still in charge of where I am going.   My grief may have changed my course, but I can still chose my path from here.   For the past few weeks, I have been having a very difficult time.  The reality and finality of losing Kenley hit hard.   Once the initial shock of loss has worn off, you are left with an eerie silence.  Your heart has stopped its piercing screams, and instead settles into a dull and constant ache - and you begin to painfully realize that you will always battle the heaviness that accompanies loss.  That is a hard pill to swallow.  When you're forced to look down the road at a lifetime of hurt, you want to turn away in disbelief.  You want to throw in the towel and just give up.   What good is a life of pain?  What good am I with such a broken heart?  Saturday made me see that good.   My life is not at all what I want it to be - but since I still have to live it, I might as well live it the best I can.  I might as well bring as much light into it as possible.   Saturday made me realize that life can still be good - in spite of pain.   I can still find a place to put joy inside my broken heart.   It might slip through the cracks, and I might have to consistently monitor it to keep it from falling out - but there is still a place for it there.   

Everything that happens to me from now on is a falling domino from Kenley's death.   I realize this.   I can't change the past.   I wish I could - with every fiber of my broken being, how I wish I could - but I can't.  I'd like to tell you I can control my future, but I am not really even sure about that either.   What I am sure about though, is that I will not let either one of those defeat me.  I am not free of heartbreak.   My past will always hurt.  My future might have more pain tucked up its sleeve.  I don't know.  None of us know.   The only thing we know is that we are guaranteed nothing in this life.   But instead of allowing things to happen to me, I can choose to make them happen for me.

Working at Cupcakes to Cherish this weekend helped me to see the good that can be accomplished as a direct result of great sadness.   It helped me to see that I am stronger than my sorrow.   I will have bad days. For the rest of my life,  darkness and light will come and go.  For the rest of my life, I will have moments that bring me to my knees with a sucker punch of blinding pain.   I will have moments that open up old wounds, letting the blood flow freely from my heart.  I will have moments that make me feel like I have been beaten, like I have nothing left inside of me but razor sharp shards of a fractured soul.  For the rest of my life, I will fight this.   And, while it seems so daunting sometimes, other times it seems like a fight I can win.   And as long as I keep fighting - as long as I keep pulling my bloodied and broken self up onto the ropes - as long as I keep getting back on my feet - I will win.   I am not beaten.  I'm just catching my breath.

Hope

I am a member of a few message boards and online groups, and something about them all completely and utterly terrifies me.   Women several years out from their loss post about how meaningless and empty their lives still are.   They post about tears that won't sop flowing, hearts that won't stop breaking, and lives that can't move forward.   They post about how terrible their pain is.  How broken they are.   Years from their loss.  What am I supposed to do with this information?  Does this not get any better?  Does it hurt like this forever?    

What if this never gets better?  What if, in twenty years, my heart still gapes open like a gunshot wound?   What if, after trying so hard to climb this cliff face, I discover there isn't anything at the top?   Just a tiny plateau and another cliff to climb?  

I might put on a good front - a brave face - but underneath it all, I am still sad and broken and scared.  I have learned to live in this new life, but that doesn't mean I am accepting of it.  Every day, I shake my fists in anger.  Every day, I wipe away tears I can't keep in.  I keep hoping that the sharp edges of my pain will dull.  After all, I am working so hard to make that happen.  But, it hasn't yet.  And what if it never does?  

The thought of that terrifies me more than anything I can imagine.  A lifetime of this?  Could you do it?  Could you wake up every day with a part of you missing, knowing it will never be filled?  Could you walk around with daggers in your heart, knowing they will only keep slicing you deeper and deeper?  Maybe if you had a glimmer of hope.  A speck of a promise that it won't always hurt so bad.  It won't always be so hard.  

I cling to hope.   Hope that this pain will ease.   Hope that I will regain my footing.   Hope that my life will one day have color and light again.  Hope that moving forward is possible, that finding joy is possible, that I won't be stuck in heartbreak forever.   Hope is all I have.   And I am terrified that hope is a lie.   A soft, warm lie we tell ourselves so that we don't give up.  So, we keep fighting.  

But, what happens if there is no hope?  What then?

Gratitude

As part of the photography project I am participating in,  I have been assigned to write about what I am grateful for in my life right now.  I imagine the purpose of this is to get me focusing on the good things as opposed to the staggering emptiness of my loss.  This is something I try my hardest to do every single day, but it is often very difficult.  It is not easy to look at my life with anything other than distain.  Everything good that has happened since February has happened because Kenley died.  How can I be happy about something that is a direct result of my child's death?  How can I find fulfillment in joy that rises from such emptiness?  It's not easy, but I am trying.  So, so, hard.   So, here goes.  Things for which I am grateful (in no particular order):

My amazing support system of friends   
It's sad but true, nothing brings people together like tragedy.  When Kenley died, everyone pulled together like a drawstring bag, nestling in and holding tight.   I'm not just talking about the initial support of food, money, and condolences.   People I haven't heard from in years - decades even - pulled themselves back into my life to support me.   Friends who had lost touch made contact.  Not just, "Hey, I'm so sorry" contact, but "Hey, let's be the good friends we should have been all this time" contact.  I have rekindled real and true friendships with so many people, and I am so grateful for these wonderful souls who were so willing to hold me up even though we hadn't spoken in ages.  That is the mark of a true friend.  

I am also obviously grateful to those people who had strong footholds in my life before loss and have not allowed that grip to waver.  No one knows what to say to give comfort, but these people did not allow their loss of words to stop them from being there for me.  When their shoulder was soaking wet from my tears, they offered me their other one.  Words cannot do justice to the swelling of my heart that occurs because of these people.  

My family
I have never once doubted my parents' love for me.  Oh, there were moments in my childhood and teenage years when I was convinced they did things just to spite me - but beyond not being allowed to eat a Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pie or staying out past midnight, deep down, I knew everything they did was because it was what was best for me.  They are the parents I want to be to my children one day.  I am grateful they have taught me the true role of a parent and have shown me the full extent of a parent's love.   
When Kenley died, I became a child once again.  Weak, scared, and completely unsure of where to go.  My parents were right there by my side to help put back together their broken little girl.  They still are.

My sister and I have really found a support in each other during this time as well.  Our trip to Boston recently is a great example of that.  I am truly grateful to have a sister with such a big heart - especially when my own seems so small.

My husband
I can't say it enough.  He is my other half.  Despite both of our flaws, despite how this journey has left us exhausted and broken, we are in this together.  In the four and a half years I have known him, the one and a half we have been married, and the four months we have been parents, I have never once doubted that he is the one for me.  From our first date to this morning when I woke up with him by my side, I knew.  I have always known.  Loss is hard.  Loss changes you.   But what hasn't changed, and what will not change, is our love for each other.  We understand each other when no one else does.  We cling to each other in this tornado.  While the world spins angrily and destructively around us, we find sanctuary in each other's arms.  I am grateful that I have him by my side, now and forever.  

Community Outreach
Volunteering with Cherishing the Journey has been healing for me in so many ways.  It has given me a purpose again.  I am grateful that charities like this exist to help grieving mothers remember their babies - and I am grateful to have found myself a part of their mission.  When I return to work in August, I realize that less of my efforts will be spent on this cause, but I will give all I have to give because it is important to others and it helps me give meaning to my loss.

My blog and new friends
Like the pole a tightrope walker carries to hold her balance, this blog is what keeps me careening over the edge of my own emotions.  It keeps me sane.  Without the ability to write it out, my feelings would kill me.  I would be locked inside a maze I couldn't navigate.  I am grateful for my ability to sort through this mess through my writing.   Because of my blog, I have been able to grieve appropriately.  I have been able to work through my grief in increments I can handle.  I am certain I wouldn't be as far as I am now without my writing.  

In addition to helping me sort my own grief and find my new path, my blog has put me in contact with many women wading through their own rivers of loss.  My blog has made me feel less alone in this fight.  I have met sisters in loss who are fighting with me.  I like to think we are helping each other figure out how to live again in the face of grief.  I am grateful for all of them.

I have also forged some very strong friendships in the wake of Kenley's death.  Friendships that wouldn't exist had our children lived.  So, in this way, these relationships are very bittersweet.  Some women I have met in person and some I only know through facebook, blog comments, or email, but each of these friendships are invaluable to me.  Some of them have recently discovered they are pregnant with their rainbow baby.  Some of them are still waiting for that moment, myself included.   Even though it is sorrow that brings us together, it is hope that will bring us through.

Gratitude is a difficult emotion to grasp when your fingers are stiffened by sadness and grief.  It is hard to find things to be thankful for when everything that happens in your life is a result of your loss.  But, I cling to all of these things with every part of me.   They are the lights in my darkness, and they help me find my way.  

Saturday Spotlight #13

This week's photography project was 100 Steps.   My assignment was to walk 100 steps from a starting point and take some pictures.  The point of this particular assignment is to get us out of the house at a time it may be difficult to do so.  Had I started this project in March, this would have been helpful.  When you are first fighting grief, the outside world is terrifying.  100 steps doesn't sound so bad.  It's doable.  While this summer has not been at all what I had planned or even wanted, it has taken me all across the country.    For my 100 Steps project, I picked a few starting points during my trip to Boston and I took pictures where I ended up.   (The journal assignment to accompany these photos was to write about what I am grateful for.  I decided to do that as a separate post.  It's entitled Gratitude and should be posted at the same time as this one.)

My sister is training to run her first marathon in October, so she was starstruck by the Boston Marathon course.  One of her goals for our time there was to walk up Heartbreak Hill.  So, we took the T to Boston College armed with our smartphones.  Using a clever mixture of Wikipedia, Google Maps, and some helpful locals, we were able to find the start of the hill, at mile marker 20 of the marathon's course - and three miles from our train stop.  I thought it fitting that my 100 steps begin at the bottom of a hill named after the moment someone's heart was broken.   I snapped a picture of Kenley's Boston K at the bottom of the hill and then began to walk as I counted to 100.

100 steps isn't really all that far.  It was just enough to get about four houses up the hill.   In the corner of the yard where we stopped, there was an old, gnarled tree stump.  It reminded me of the trees I pictured while writing this post.  The only difference is the trees in that post were looming over me and this one had been cut down to a stump.  A stump is a defeated tree.  To me, this stump meant more to me than just a tree that once was.  It was a symbol of my grief.  Cut down to size by all of my efforts to heal.   I used black and white for this picture for the obvious reasons of how sometimes the world seems gray and colorless, and no matter how hard I might work to chop this forest down, the stumps will always remain.  For the rest of my life, all of my victories will always be bittersweet.  

Across the sidewalk from the stump was a round traffic mirror attached to a tree.  There are so many different ways I could take this symbolism, but I have chosen to look at it like this: the mirror is a reflection of myself and how I have changed in this journey.   It reflects down to the bottom of Heartbreak Hill.   It shows me where I have been, the path I have taken to get here.  The reflection is distorted, like memories are distorted with grief and pain.   I can look in that mirror all I want.  I can focus in on where I have been and how much it hurts - or I can turn away and focus on the road ahead.  I choose to move forward.

I took a few other pictures at this location, but they weren't all that exciting.  I do, however, want to tell you about a few pictures I took several hundred steps later.  At the very top of Heartbreak Hill.  The trek down to the base from our train was rainy and gray.  The mugginess of the air rivaled Florida on it's worst days.  It was oppressive and heavy.  As we crossed the street to begin the 100 steps, the air started to clear a little bit.  The thick cloud cover began to break apart like a crumbling cookie, and a cool breeze managed to find its way through the sticky stillness.   Walking uphill somehow seemed easier than walking down in the first place.  The top of Heartbreak Hill is crowned by Boston College.  Obviously, I needed to get a picture of Kenley here, so I did.  

But, the remarkable part of this trek up the hill was the sky when I reached the top.   The clouds had parted.  The threatening storm dissipated.  The weight of air lightened.   At the top of the hill, directly above me, was this sky. 

A parting grief to make way for the sunlight of days to come.  I am not finished with this journey.  I have reluctantly realized I will never be.  Heartbreak Hill is here to stay.  So, I'll lace up my sneakers and pound that pavement. I will walk this path until the day I die.  The road may smooth a bit.  The clouds may drift away.  But, I will still be here.  Walking.  Fighting.  Living.  

More Mangoes

Something amazing has happened.  Yesterday, Mike was outside doing yard work because the weeds in our grass were waist high.  They had actually formed a small government and were in the process of organizing their militia.  Something had to be done to get them under control.  I was inside cleaning the kitchen because the dishes had been watching the weeds and were developing mobilizing plans of their own, when Mike came in through the back door and smiled at me through the kitchen window.   "Come outside," he said.  "I have something you'll want to see."

I followed him through the back yard to the north corner.   There, behind the gardenias, was my dead and withered mango tree.  Except, it wasn't dead.  The original tree was still brown and dried, but down by the grass, two healthy shoots of leaves have started to grow.   Two new branches sprout from the shriveled trunk.  It's not dead!   Life still remains. 

 As you know, that mango tree reminds me of Kenley's life.  We planted it the weekend I discovered I was pregnant.  It died at the same time we lost her.  And now, it is growing new leaves.   The main tree was beyond saving.  We had to cut it down, so now those two little sprouts are growing alone.

I can't help but point out the symbolism with this.   That tree was dead.  At least everything above ground was dead.  There is no question whatsoever.   

For some reason, seeing these tiny shoots spring from the base of a dead tree  takes away the sense of desperation in having another baby.  It's not "I have to", it's "I will".   I don't feel like I am scrambling to fill the emptiness - not anymore.   Instead, I feel like I am capable of creating joy out of sorrow.  I feel like I can carry on.  Like the happiness I procure is a result of her existence and not in spite of her death.    Trying for another baby feels like it has more purpose now, but with a sense of calmness and not panic.  

I know it's just a tree.  I know there really is no deeper meaning, but I want there to be.   I want this new growth to signify moving forward.  Healing.  Living.  Thriving.   Trying again.   Not to replace, but to honor.  

There is always hope.  

She Is Gone

My last day in Seattle was cloudy and gray.  Although this is fairly common Seattle weather, it was not common for my trip.  Up until that last day, the skies were blue and bright.  Everywhere we went, people commented on how beautiful the weather was - almost as if they couldn't believe it.  As we wandered the city, we saw people sprawled across any available green area, enjoying the sunshine.   I loved it...I felt as if Kenley and I had brought the sunlight with us.   And when that last day dawned with the heavy softness of clouds, I knew it was time to go home.   That last day, we ventured into downtown Edmonds - a small suburb of Seattle.  The downtown area was just a few cross streets of small shops and cafes.  Very quaint and adorable.  The chilly, gray afternoon added to the ambiance of a pacific northwest town square.  We walked in to a small stationary shop - the kind full of journals and thank you cards, fountain pens and knick-knacks.   As I browsed the shelves, I came across a book entitled " Better Because of You".   The title and the bright yellow color enticed me.   I always want to think that I am better because of Kenley - and not worse because of what happened.   I picked up the book and opened to a random page - as I tend to do.   The book turned out to be a collection of quotes, stories, and poems relating to a smattering of topics.   The page I randomly opened to started the category "Death".   This poem was the first entry.  

She Is Gone 

By, David Harkins

You can shed tears that she is gone
Or you can smile because she has lived

You can close your eyes and pray that she will come back
Or you can open your eyes and see all she has left

Your heart can be empty because you can't see her
Or you can be full of the love that you shared

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday
Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday

You can remember her and only that she is gone
Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back
Or you can do what she would want; smile, open your eyes, love, and go on

Now, even though I like to think that when I see Owls, Kenley is saying hello to me,  I really only half-heartedly believe that.  I realize I am just clinging to her memory through tangible reminders, and I am usually only a believer in signs when they comfort me.  But, this moment in this store made me take a minute to pause.   On this gray and melancholy day, this is what I needed to see.   This is the message I needed to hear.  This poem embodies everything I am trying to do in the wake of her death.  And, even though I don't truly know if someone was trying to tell me something, I still am grateful I was able to hear it.

Brave

In the three months since my life split into two, I have met several completely amazing women.  All of them at different points in their journey.  All of them hurting with the same pain.  A wonderful thing about human nature is that we come together in times of trouble.   Heartbreak unites us.  Those who share a common thread are tied together.   When I know another woman has experienced this tragedy, I immediately want to reach out my hand to her.  I want to give her hugs and be her friend.   I am not the only one.  This seems like a very common attitude.   We hold each other very dear.    All of us.  All the time.  I've called it a Sisterhood before and it is.  We are sisters, walking this path hand in hand in hand, pulling each other forward, holding each other up, allowing each other to rest.

As you know, this journey is not an easy one.   It's an uphill battle every day, but we do it.  Sometimes because we want to - but mostly because we have to.   Move forward or die trying.  Every day, each one of us wakes up and faces her day without her child.   Every day, each one of us goes through hundreds of mundane tasks that should be easy, but are not because nothing is routine anymore.  Every day, each one of us pulls herself up by her bootstraps and goes out into a world that doesn't understand her.  Every day, each one of us has so much to say, but can't always say it because not everyone wants to hear it.

Let me tell you, it takes courage to live a life like this. When our children died, our lives lost all meaning.  We felt we had no purpose, no direction, no future.  We had to rebuild from the ground up.  Everything.  All of it.  We want to live our lives the same way everyone else does, but our perspective has completely shifted and we see the world in a totally different light.   And we know that the world sees us differently too.   We see the look in your eyes when we talk about our children.  We see you flinch when we bring up our pregnancy or a memory we have of our life just before loss.   We see you waiting in shifty uneasiness to see if we are going to make it through this conversation with you without tears.  We are well aware of our scarlet letter, and we are all doing the very best we can each and every day to wear it with dignity and pride, despite the various attitudes toward it.    We face the world with deep breaths, with our shoulders squared, and our heart on our sleeve.

To my sisters in loss, to the proud mothers of Hunter, Avery, Keelin, Josie, Brooke, Tyler, Matthew, Zoe, Ava, Gabriel, Joseph, Jack, Olivia, Janessa, and Declan,  I'd like to say you are my hope.   You help me see that life without my daughter is hard, but not impossible.   You inspire me to continue with my efforts to find meaning in the meaningless.   To those I have met and those I have yet to meet, you are so brave, whether you think you are or not.   Just the fact that you are here, reading this, living without your baby, proves it.

On a day when you don't want to get out of bed because it's too much, think about the rest of us who are fighting the same fight.   You are our sister and we love you, whether we've met you or not.  We fight with you.  When you feel you can't walk, we will hoist you on our shoulders.  When you feel lost and alone, we will hold your hand in the dark.   When you can't find your voice, we will speak for you, and we will say what you need us to say.   So, get up, put on your gloves, and show the world how brave you really are!

Brave

by, 

Sara Bareilles

You can be amazing

You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug

You can be the outcast

Or be the backlash of somebody’s lack of love

Or you can start speaking up

Nothing’s gonna hurt you the way that words do

And they settle ‘neath your skin

Kept on the inside and no sunlight

Sometimes a shadow wins

But I wonder what would happen if you

Say what you wanna say

And let the words fall out

Honestly I wanna see you be brave

With what you want to say

And let the words fall out

Honestly I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you

I just wanna see you

I just wanna see you

I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you

I just wanna see you

I just wanna see you

I wanna see you be brave

Everybody’s been there, everybody’s been stared down

By the enemy

Fallen for the fear and done some disappearing

Bow down to the mighty

Don’t run, stop holding your tongue

Maybe there’s a way out of the cage where you live

Maybe one of these days you can let the light in

Show me how big your brave is

Say what you wanna say

And let the words fall out

Honestly I wanna see you be brave

With what you want to say

And let the words fall out

Honestly I wanna see you be brave

Innocence, your history of silence

Won’t do you any good

Did you think it would?

Let your words be anything but empty

Why don’t you tell them the truth?

Say what you wanna say

And let the words fall out

Honestly I wanna see you be brave

With what you want to say

And let the words fall out

Honestly I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you

I just wanna see you

I just wanna see you

I wanna see you be brave

Breaking the Silence

There is a cloud that surrounds infant loss, blocking it from the mainstream's view.  It is a cloud of uneasiness, fear, and uncertainty.  If you aren't a part of this sad community, you can't fully understand what it is like to be, and you realize you'd never want to.  We don't want you to either, but what we do want is to be heard.   Our children do not have a voice, so we speak for them, and we want you to listen.   

Until recently, I never thought about the fact that babies die.  I knew of women who had miscarriages, but I didn't really stop to think about what that meant, how much that must have hurt.   I never thought about the emotional roller coaster a family goes through when they lose their child.  About the strain it puts on all of their relationships.  About how much they want to scream out in anguish, reaching with outstretched fingers just for a speck of understanding.   Of recognition of their pain, of support in their journey.   

Think about this:  how many times do you see a Facebook post calling for prayers or support for someone with cancer or another disease?  How many times is it shared, liked, or commented on?   How many posts plead for help with abandoned animals?  How many posts share the pride and service of our nation's soldiers and call for your support?   You probably see two to three of these types of posts a day.  Maybe you share it.  Maybe you like it or comment on it.   Maybe you even visit the website in the link.  All of these are wonderful causes and should be supported and shared.  Please, keep doing it.  

Now, think, before this happened to me and I began sharing my blog and links with you, how many times did you see a post on infant loss?   A website to support grieving families?   A link to a Wall of Remembrance for children lost to still birth or miscarriage?   How many 5Ks did you attend that raised awareness of SIDS?   It's probably safe to guess that the answer to all of those questions is slim to none.   That's because no one talks about it.  No one outside of the baby loss community, at least.   If you go to your search bar on Facebook right now and type in any sort of related keyword, you will find hundreds of pages set up for these types of things - most of them administered by a brokenhearted parent who is just trying to be heard.   When you tell someone your child has cancer, banners fly into the air, fists are raised, shared statuses fly through the internet at lightning speed.  It's a fanfare for salvation.   When you tell someone your child was stillborn, people shy away in silence.  A few people will quietly tell you it happened to a friend of a friend too.   But, that's about it.  A few people have shared my links when I post about a charity I am trying to help or a website I have found that offers support, but not many.  

 Babies dying makes people uncomfortable.  While I admit, it is not the most cheerful of topics, that doesn't make it any less worthy.  Women affected by infant loss deserve to be heard in the same fashion as women affected by breast cancer.  According to the National Cancer Institute, 12.5% of women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetime.  According to Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness and Information, 32% of pregnant women will experience loss.  That does not include the children lost to SIDS or other issues after birth.  That's a staggering amount of women.   Women whose pain isn't talked about or acknowledged in the same way as others.  We are still fighting for our lives, just not in the same way, and we need just as much support by our society.  

I have unwillingly joined this community at a very pivotal time.  Two films are being made as you read this to help bring this issue to the forefront.  The first is The STILL project, which is a documentary about infant loss.   The second is a major motion picture called Return to Zero.  This movie, starring Minnie Driver and Alfred Molina, is based on the true story of its writer and producer, Sean Hanish.  It tells of the journey of one couple as they face the storm of losing their child and how they cope with that loss.  It is the first movie ever to be made with still birth as the main focus.  Because it is an independently funded movie, its advertising budget is nil, which means very few people will know about it and even less will actually see it.  There is even a chance Hollywood won't release it (even on DVD) if it doesn't feel that there is a willing audience.   But, not if I can help it.

This is where you come in.  Stand with me to help break the silence surrounding this issue.  Help me give my community a voice.  Help us be heard by everyone - not just the people who know and love us.  The first step is easy.  Click on this link and sign the pledge to see Return to Zero when it comes out in theaters.   When it asks for your Local Leader, type in my name. As a Local Leader, I will continue to promote this film in my community until its release.  (It will ask for your email address.  Don't get squirmy.  You have a "junk" account, I know you do.  It's just to keep track of actual pledges.)   The second step is a little more difficult.  Share my blog post or the link to the pledge form with your friends.  A few days later, share it again.   And again.  And again.  Share it until the movie comes out next Spring.  Don't let people forget.   If you find yourself thinking, "Oh, what if people don't want to see this kind of thing in their newsfeed?" then you have hit the nail on the head as to why we have to share it.

Click here to see a few clips from the movie and interviews with the actors and writer.

I know this movie will be difficult for you to see.  But, think about how much more difficult it will be for that 32% of women to see it.   I am one of those women.   I have made friends with some of those women.  We are everywhere.   There are far too many of us for silence to be even remotely acceptable.  Be a part of something big.   Be a part of breaking the silence.  
You might as well do it now...I'm not going to shut up any time soon.  I promise.  

Finding Meaning

Did you know that, if not recycled into the soil by earthworms and dung beetles, cow dung can "dry out and remain on the pasture, creating an area of grazing land which is unpalatable to livestock?"  (Wikipedia for the win!)   Basically, if you do nothing to it, cow dung becomes so hard and crusty that it can cause the life around it to cease to exist.  Plants can't grow through it, so then cows can't graze in that area.   However, if the worms and the bugs are allowed to break it down, it becomes something useful.   Full of nutrients, the cow dung helps to fertilize the soil and continues the cycle of healthy grass growing to be consumed by the cows.   Even better, cow dung made into manure is fantastic for gardeners to help their plants grow full and beautiful.   From a disgusting waste product, beauty can emerge.  But, not on it's own.  It needs help.

To me, this analogy helps make sense of the horrible and hurtful "Everything happens for a reason" sentiment.   People want to look at the flowers sprouting out of the soil and say "See!   Here is your reason!  Good has come from bad!  Yay!"   If there was no cow dung, there wouldn't be flowers, right?   Wrong.   If there weren't earthworms or beetles, there wouldn't be flowers.   It's not the event that has a reason - it's what you do with it that creates reason, or rather meaning.  I could just leave the dung where it is.  I could not deal with it and let it dry and crust over.  I could let my grass underneath it die and, as a result, my entire herd of cattle would perish as well.  But, what would be the point of that?  What good would that do me?  Not only would my field be covered in cow poop, but then all my cows would be dead.  So,then I am left with a desolate and uninhabitable area.  

The popular saying is "Sh** Happens", and right now, I am neck deep in it.  But, I am not going to let it just meaninglessly lay there.  Instead, I choose to release the earthworms and the beetles - and make use out of it.   I will break it down bit by bit.   I will work through it and give it purpose.   I will use it to fertilize my field.  I will use it to plant a garden.  I will make it mean something because, otherwise, it will drive me crazy.

This is why so many mothers of loss form foundations in their child's honor.  This is why we all have blogs and causes.  Why we plunge into helping with charities.  This is why I am painting pictures and working on my cookbook.   It's the reason behind my Saturday Spotlights and my Kenley's Krew facebook page.  All of these things are my earthworms and my beetles, chewing through the muck, breaking it down to give it value.  When light comes out of darkness, we don't praise the dark.  We don't find meaning or good in the dark.  We don't say to ourselves "Hey...if it weren't for this darkness, I wouldn't have a reason to light this nice scented candle"  We say, "Hey...I'm going to light this nice scented candle because it's so dark in here."  The difference is subtle, but still there.   Kenley did not die so I could become a greater person or create a different future.  Her death had no purpose or reason, but I'll be damned if I let her death be meaningless.   

Her Room

I still have yet to stay in her nursery for more than a few minutes.   The door remains closed at all times.   When I do manage to work up the nerve to go in, the door knob creaks and pops and it feels like the air rushes out as if I'd just opened King Tut's tomb.   Inside, everything is still and stale and full of ghosts.  The emptiness echos with the sound of broken promises.

The outfits I had washed and hung up still sit in the closet.  The changing table still contains diapers and wipes.   Tiny barrettes and hairbows are scattered inside the top drawer.  The children books I received at my baby shower remain unopened.  Books containing loving inscriptions from friends and family - inscriptions addressed to Kenley.   Her crib is empty except for a maternity shirt I placed inside it.  A maternity shirt that reads "Carrying precious cargo".   I put it in her crib because I kept stumbling across it in my closet and it shattered my heart every time I saw it.  Her room is one of my last great barriers - and I cannot beat it.   It wins every time.

I try.  Man, do I try.  I walk in, strong and determined.  I take a deep breath.  I square my shoulders and hold my head high.   Like a warrior.  But, the room crushes me in a matter of seconds.   I crumple like a piece of notebook paper in the hands of a third grader.  I look at the crib she never slept in, the clothes she never wore, the books I never read her - and I break. Snapped in half like a twig in a hurricane.   I can't do it.   It is stronger than I am.

I wish her room could be a comfort to me, like it is to many other mothers.  I wish I could feel at peace in there, surrounded by her things.  But I don't.   I feel lost.  Overwhelmed by sadness.  I feel powerless and beaten.   Defeated every time, I leave her room in tears.  

Yet, I continue to go in there.   Not every day, but several times a week.   I continue to try.  I'm not really getting any better at it, but I'm not going to give up.  I refuse to hide from my grief.  I refuse to run away.  I cannot avoid sections of my own house.  I need to feel at ease when I walk by the closed door on the way to the bathroom.  I need to, eventually, be able to keep that door open.  I need to be able to be inside that room and feel more than utter despair.   One day, that room will hold a baby.  A baby and a memory.   And I need to rid that room of sadness.  For the sake of my own sanity.  For the sake of my future children.   And for the sake of my first daughter's memory.  I refuse to let her slip into eternity on a thread of tears.  

Forward

Over the last few months, I have met many women who have experienced the loss of their baby.  Through Cherishing the Journey, message boards, and facebook, I have come to learn of many heartbreaks as we walk together in this journey.   One of my closest confidantes right now is a woman I have never met who lives in what I like to call the Great, White North, but what is really just Massachusetts.    We chat on facebook all the time and sometimes text.   She lost her son only a few months before we lost Kenley for very similar reasons, so we have that in common.   Over the last few months, she has become not only someone I can vent to about random feelings and irritating issues, but someone who I enjoy talking to, and who's friendship I greatly treasure.  It's wonderful to have someone who truly understands what I am going through.  I like to think that I am as helpful and supportive to her as she has been for me.  We were chatting recently about various issues and I said something to the effect of moving forward instead of moving on.  I know she knows what I mean by that, but I figured I would tell you.

I have developed an aversion to the phrase "moving on".  It rubs me the wrong way.  Moving on implies that you are leaving something behind.   It implies you are getting away from something.  Heading towards bigger and better things.   When you lose a child, none of that is true, yet you still need to find a way to go on with your life.   You want to heal from your massive wounds.  You want to find a way to not hurt so much.  You want to remove the shackles that tie you to your pain - but you don't want for one second to forget about your child.   It's a very difficult balance.

Because no mother is willing - or able - to give up any pieces of her child for any reason, moving on is impossible.   We will never leave them behind.  We will crawl naked over shards of glass before we would consider going through life without them.   Sadly, Mothers of Loss have little choice.  Our babies are not here, not physically.   They are memories.  Whispers of love on our broken hearts.  Their absence creates giant holes in our lives.  Great, gaping chasms of darkness that can only be filled by our love for them.  So we have the world's greatest dilemma.   How do we release our pain without releasing our love?  Normally, people feel at peace when they have "let go" of what troubles them.  Letting go of our children is impossible for us.  So, we will never move on.   Not in a million lifetimes.  We will carry our children - and our pain - with us wherever we go.

What we will do, though, is move forward.   Before our loss, we were like a car with four fully functional tires and a full tank of gas.  We moved at an appropriate speed, smoothly and gracefully.  However, we hit a stop stick, flipped over a few times, and exploded.  Now, all of our tires are shredded, our body is dented and ripped away, and all of our fuel has detonated.  With all of this damage, you'd think the insurance company would just "total" us, but it doesn't.   The world completely expects us to rebuild ourselves and keep going.   So that's what we do.   We take every piece of ourselves and we keep going.   Every slice of burnt rubber, every shard of glass, every chunk of metal.  We gather it up and piece it back together the best we can.   And we move forward.  We are broken and slow, but we press on.   We have to stop and rest more than we did before - and we definitely can't go on any highways - but we keep going.  And we carry our pain with us.    It hurts to go through life like this, but we aren't about to trade in for a new car.  We aren't going to leave any bit behind.  

We will always hurt.  Always.  We will not leave our children behind - and so we can not leave our pain behind.  We will not move on.  We will not forget our past.  We will not forget what has brought us to where we are.  In order to remember our babies, we have to remember why they aren't here with us.  Our children and our pain are intertwined so we can't let go of either.   But, we can find a way to carry on.  Our love is glue and welded metal.  Our love patches our tires and seals the cracks in our windshield.   Our love cushions the sharp shards of glass we can't fix and fuels the gas tank.  It does everything it can to keep our car on the road.  While we know we are unlike most of the other cars - bright and shiny cars that have no problem keeping up with the speed limit - we are still moving.  Forward - not On. We never learn to move on from it - but we do learn how to live with it.  We carry it all with us.  Our memories. Our pain. Our love.  All equal parts of us.  All part of what pushes us forward. 

Writer's Block

I've had some serious writer's block lately.   My latest posts have been written for a few days and have just posted on a schedule.   My last written post was scheduled for today, so now here I am.  Trying to write something that will go out tomorrow.   And then hoping that by tomorrow night, I'll have more to say for the coming days.  
Usually, I can write one or two posts at a time - or sometimes polish one up for publishing.   But lately, I've been having trouble getting my words out.   Maybe I'm running out of things to say.  Maybe I'm just tired of saying the same things over and over.  Maybe I'm just plain tired and need a break.    Maybe it's all three.   

I do need to write.  I do need to sort and work through things.   My emotions get easily tangled up inside of me, and this blog helps me work through the knots.   But, I think sometimes, I just need a little bit to not think about it.   To not obsess over what happened and what I can't change.   Nothing will bring her back.   No amount of writing will keep me from losing her.   Words cannot take me back in time.   And these words, while so very helpful to me, are also becoming hurtful.   Sitting at my computer for thirty minutes to an hour at a time where all I do is think about how much I hurt is hard.   Cathartic, yes.  But still so very hard.    

I want to try to keep up my pace of posting daily, but I'm not sure I can right now.    I'm not sure I can keep focusing so hard on everything at the same time.   Everything takes an enormous amount of focus now.   Not just this blog or my Kenley's Krew Facebook page.  Everything.   I have to give everything my full attention in order to maintain some sense of normalcy.  It's like my brain is on a leash.   If I allow it some slack, it will immediately wander to how much I miss her.   How all I want to do is hold her in my arms and touch her soft skin.   How empty I feel without her here.    And then, I feel the tears rise hot and fast.  My breath catches and my heart breaks.   And I have to work so hard to pull myself back together.  Sometimes, writing is a welcome release, but sometimes, writing these posts seems like I am breaking my heart repeatedly on purpose.   

I'm tired.   I am going to try to keep posting every day, but if you check in and there is nothing new, just know I'm on a break.   I'll probably be back the next day, or maybe the next.   I just need a minute to regroup and recharge.   Maybe I'll get a second wind tomorrow.   Maybe that wind won't blow through for a few more days.   I don't know.  All I know is I am doing the best I can with what I have - and sometimes that just isn't enough.  

Can you Keep a Secret?

Chances are, a Mother of Loss can.  Chances are, she suffers silently and privately.  Chances are, she holds her loss in a quiet place and doesn't talk about it - not because she doesn't want to, but because it's so very hard to find an accepted place in our society for it.   

Now, as you can see, I have not taken that silent approach, but that doesn't make it any easier.  I know a handful of people visit my blog regularly - my close friends and family - and I know I have a few other followers whom I have met along this journey.  But, I am always thinking twice on whether or not I should post something on my Facebook page, whether or not people will really want to hear what I have to say.  I mean, how long can I really expect everyone to keep paying attention to my grief?  "Oh, there she goes again.  We get it.  She's sad."     I don't think it's a feeling of annoyance from people, but I know the more often I post things relating to this journey, the greater chance I take of making people's eyes glaze over with over-stimulation.  And there are times I want to talk about Kenley, but I don't because I realize that it is not really the right moment, or I am not around the right people.

In general, people don't know what to do with someone who is grieving. They know it is happening, but they don't feel equipped to handle it appropriately, so they move along.  Not out of callousness, but out of feelings of incompetence.  These feelings are compounded when it is a baby that dies.  The death of a baby is unlike any other grief.  It is not just the loss of life - it is the loss of possibility.  Nobody knows what to do when a baby dies.   They just want to make things better.  They want to soothe the wound, but they don't want to acknowledge that it is there.  And then, they want to pretend that this is a one time event that will never happen again.   Well, maybe not in your general life it won't - but it will happen to others.  Countless others.  And there needs to be a place for our grief.   


It saddens me when I hear stories of women who haven't talked about their baby for years.  Because it was too painful to think about.  Because everyone else moved on and told her to do the same.  Because the complex emotions that entangle you when you lose a part of yourself can often be suffocating.   
Because she felt guilty smiling when she thought of the happiness she felt towards her own child.   It's not fair that she has to suffer this loss and can't even find a comfortable way to deal with it.   It is wrong.

Women who lose their baby not only want to mourn them, but they want to celebrate them.   We need to be sad and angry.  We need to work through the countless negative emotions that come with our situation, but we also need to be able to be joyous in the life we created.   The beautiful and wonderful life that grew inside of us for however many months.  We are proud of that life, no matter how long it was on this earth.   Fiercely proud.  We want to share these feelings of pride and joy and wonder with you, but we also don't want that happiness to be misconstrued for lack of grief.  We will always grieve.  Until the day we die, we will grieve for our baby, but that doesn't mean we don't want to talk about them.  There needs to be a place where we are allowed to be sad without someone uneasily patting us on the back.  A place where we can cry without hushed whispers and sideways glances.  But also a place where we can glow and sparkle when we talk about the way our baby's hair fell across her forehead, or the way she loved to spin inside us without people assuming we have moved on and are fine. Because we are not fine. There is a duality to our situation that doesn't fit into this world.  Square peg, round hole.  For the rest of our lives, we will be full of both sorrow and joy.  The showing of one does not mean the other is no longer there.  


There are many organizations that are trying to break the silence about stillbirth and infant loss, and I applaud them.  Still Standing Magazine, The STILL Project, and the movie Return to Zero, are all trying to bring a voice to the voiceless.  They are talking - publicly - about what no one wants to.  They are giving women who would normally stay quiet the ability to make noise.  I make noise here on One Pink Balloon.  I make noise on Facebook and among my own circles.  I will make noise as long as I live - and I hope one day every woman who has to endure this pain will make just as much, if not more. 

The STILL project has a tagline "Say It Out Loud", which means talk about your loss.  Say your baby's name.  Tell people about your child and what they meant to you.  I have been doing this from the very beginning, and I am now convinced it has been an enormous part of my healing.   If you are a mother of loss, Say It Out Loud in the comments.  Let the world (Or at least the people in my tiny corner of the world) know how proud you are of your baby.   If you have not experienced this loss, share this post with someone who has.

Let the secret out!

External Parameters

As a teacher, I create a weekly newsletter outlining the things we are going to learn and do each week, including due dates of assignments.  Partially to keep the parents informed, but mostly to keep myself accountable.   If I told everyone we were doing this - then we have to do it.   I do the same thing when I invite people over to my house as much as possible.   Not just so I can see them, but because it forces me to keep things clean.  (Or at least to have a panicked cleaning session every once in a while)  I tell someone I am going to do something before I have full intention of doing it because the accountability of keeping my word keeps me focused.   I need external parameters.  I need restrictions from the outside world to help me set my own boundaries.  I always have.   

This blog is an external parameter.  So is the Kenley's Krew facebook page.   And my outings with friends.  And the foundation idea.   They are all walls I have set up for myself to maintain focus.  Like blinders on a horse.   Here...zone in on this.   The fact that other people are reading my blog keeps me focused in writing it.  I can't just slack off and not post for a while.  I need to keep the ball rolling.  Please understand, that ball isn't really for you.   It's for me.  I know myself.  I know that at the beginning, my words would come pouring out of me so fast and furious I wouldn't be able to contain them.  But, then I would get tired.  Not less full of emotion.  Not less in need of purging.  But tired.  And I would slack off, letting the feelings build up.  So, a public blog with just a few loyal readers keeps me focused.  The Kenley's Krew facebook page is basically the same thing.  I can't just say to myself "Self, you are going to find one positive thing about today".  I need to make myself accountable.  I need to at least pretend that other people are paying attention.   I can't fall apart right now because I am focusing on my positive facebook post.   I'll fall apart later.  But, then later doesn't come because I've made some plans with friends.  I'll hold it together for my friends.   All these things - these distractions - are to keep me together.   I have created all of them for the sole purpose of keeping me in one piece.   Like rubber bands around a broken vase.

I have constructed a maze of distraction for myself.  As long as I keep moving through the twists and turns, I can pretend I have purpose.   I can pretend that I am actually going somewhere.  Strangely, I can even sometimes pretend that none of this really happened.   Well, I can at least distract myself enough so I don't fully realize it in its entirety.   When you make enough noise, you can drown out the whispers inside you.  I am working so hard to keep her memory alive - to continually do things that make me think about her - so I don't have to feel the full impact of her absence.   If I just write another blog post, a piece of her is still here.  If I just think happy thoughts and post them on her Facebook page, I can feel connected to her.  If my friend comes over, we can talk about her some more.  Hold on a second, I'm feeling a little empty...oh I know...let's start a foundation!  We'll dedicate it to her memory!  Yeah...that will take a lot of energy!   I can focus on all of these external events I have created and I don't have to think about what is really going on, which is that my heart is breaking over and over and over again.  

If I just keep doing all these things all the time, then she's not really gone.  I'm not really broken.   Everything is okay.  It's really just an elaborate scheme to keep myself from completely breaking down. And it is exhausting.  I am so very tired.   I want to walk away from everything right now.  Mid-sentence.   Just go back to bed and stay there for god knows how long.  Pull the covers up over my head and let the world go by.   But then, I'll have to think about what has happened.  Full force, no distractions, pummeling me down.  Usually, you will see two types of reactions to grief.   Someone will either suddenly get very busy, or they will barely even be able to get dressed.    You do the first so the second doesn't happen to you. You focus on everything and anything but your sorrow.   Because grief without distraction is crippling.   Not, ouch, I stubbed my toe crippling, but oh no, I've been bitten in half by a Great White crippling.   I'm going to just pretend my legs are still there, even though they are not.  I am going to pretend I am not bleeding to death on the sand.   I'm just going to keep going, and going, and going, and going.  No matter how tired I am.  No matter how much I want to stop.   Because if I do stop, I'll never get started again.