Kenley's Krew

Today is my birthday.   I have completed one more year of life - but let's not talk about how many that makes.   A few months ago, I thought this would be the best birthday of my life.   I'd either be immensely pregnant and ready to pop at any minute - or I'd be holding my baby already and we'd be celebrating together.   I never even considered there'd be a third option.  No one does.

It doesn't seem fair that I get another birthday and Kenley didn't really even get one.  On the same day I celebrate my life, I mourn the loss of hers.  But, really, I do that every day.  Every day, I am alive and she is not.

Today, in honor of my baby girl, several friends of mine, along with my amazing mom, are running a 5K in Melbourne.   This 5K benefits the Brianna Marie Foundation, which was founded by a local mother who's daughter died 15 hours after birth due to fetal hydrops.   This 5K was promoted on the Cherishing the Journey Facebook page, which is how I found out about it.   I shared the link with my friends and they all jumped on it.   They had turquoise T-shirts made - an owl in a tree with the phrase "Kenley's Krew:  February 25, 2013"   Mike and I got shirts too, and so now we are heading down there to cheer them on at the finish line.   It really means a great deal to me that I have such a supportive group of friends - and that together we are helping fund research that may one day prevent other mothers from feeling such a devastating loss.   

In her heartbreakingly short life, Kenley has managed to touch so many people.   I am grateful for the time I spent with her.  I am grateful for the joy she gave me and for what I am able to do because of her.  Under the circumstances, I can't think of a better way to celebrate my birthday.

This one's for you, Little Ninja!

A Picture Worth A Million Words

When I first discovered I was pregnant, I knew I wanted a unique way to chronicle my growing belly.   Everyone takes those pictures with signs next to them (13 weeks!  14 weeks!).  While I think those are super cute, I wanted something different than what everyone else did.  (shocker, right?)  One of my friends saw something somewhere that involved tracing your profile on a canvas and then painting it later.   Right away, I knew that was perfect for me.   While I am not Picasso or Rembrandt, I do like to paint and make art when I can.   I also happened to have a three foot by two foot canvas that would be just right for the project.

We started before I really started to show, and then we traced my torso every few weeks - pretty much when we knew there'd be enough growth to show change.  There was absolutely no method to our madness, so each time we pulled out the canvas, we had to remember where I stood, how high we held it, how far back against my arm it was supposed to be.   It drove Mike crazy.  Finally, he just took the eraser of the pencil and drew a line across the canvas where my belly button was.  That way, he knew where to line things up.   Each time we completed a line, it was so exciting to step back and see how big I was getting.  Watching my stomach grow made me look to the future with joyous anticipation.   Each new tracing meant I was just that much closer to meeting my baby.  To being a mother.   The last time we traced my belly was February 22, the Friday before the Monday that marked end of my life untouched by grief.   I knew it would probably be the last time we traced, but I thought it would be because she'd arrive before we had a chance to do it again.   Little did I know that in a matter of days, my bright and sunny world would plummet into the shadows.

When I was in the hospital, my friends took some of the more emotional objects out of my house for when I was more ready to handle them.   My belly canvas was one of them.   The other day, something inside of me needed it.  I needed to paint those layers.   My journey to motherhood was abruptly halted and left unfinished.  Her nursery is empty.  Her clothes are unworn.   I needed to close the aching gap by giving a purpose to something of hers.  I needed to finish my painting.   I asked Mike to get it for me, and within a day it was back in my house.   At first, it was painful to look at.   Haphazard pencil sketches marking my growing joy.  My stolen joy.

I propped it on my easel upright, so it looked just as I would have if I were standing.   It didn't seem right to me that way.   How should I paint it?  What should I do with it?   I had no idea - I just knew I had to do something.  Annoyed with myself, I walked away for a little bit and plopped myself down on the couch.   I don't know how long it was before the idea came to me, but as soon as it did, I was on a mission.   I strode back onto the porch, grabbed the empty canvas, and turned it on its side - so that my traced belly looked like I was laying down, my stomach pointing upward.   I got down to business.   With drying time, it took me about 4 days to finish.  Mostly because I didn't want to smudge one layer by painting another one too soon - and oil paint takes forever to dry.   As I painted, the shadows around my heart lifted.  Each brush stroke was a remembrance of Kenley.   Each piece of the painting symbolized a different part of who she is.  She will not be forgotten.  She will not be pushed aside.   Her place in my heart is permanent.  As I painted, I felt joy again.  I was happy.   I would step back from what I was doing - and I would smile.  I would think about my baby - and I would smile!   Oh, I also cried, make no mistake about that.  My hands were covered in paint, my cheeks covered in tears, and my heart covered in love.  It was a greatly needed release.  Here's the finished product.  

Again, I'm no master artist, but I'm still pretty pleased with how it turned out.   I turned the belly tracings into hills.  On top of those growing hills, is Kenley's tree.   Perched in her tree is a white owl, and above her tree is her pink balloon, floating high and free.    You might not be able to see the words I etched around the hill line.  They are "As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be"

Kenley grew in me.  She lived in me.  I nurtured her and supported her, just like the hills in the painting support and nurture the tree.  She will always be a part of me.  No matter what changes life brings me in the future, Kenley will always be with me.   And that makes me smile. 

Defeating the Darkness

I'm not really sure what I am supposed to do with myself.  For so long, I prepared for this time off, but the plans I made no longer apply.   What once was time set aside to take care of my baby, to bond, to snuggle, to go for walks and outings - now stretches in front of me like a vast and desolate field.   An empty wasteland full of shattered expectations and broken dreams.   How do I spend the countless minutes of my future?   How do I fill the silence that shouldn't be there?
I write.  I clean my house.  I spend time with friends.  I talk to Mike.  I've started a few art projects.  But it is not enough.   It is never enough.   I can't occupy myself completely.   I can't fill all of my moments.  In the end, the emptiness prevails.  There is a hollowness to everything I do - like part of me is just on automatic pilot. It brings back memories of another dark time in my life - a time when my entire self was hollow, when nothing at all seemed to matter, when I was ready to give up on life completely - and it scares me.   It's like looking into an abyss I've already fallen into and narrowly escaped.
In my early teens, a gray cloud developed over me.  In the constant comparison of myself to others, I felt I could never measure up.   I felt worthless, meaningless, and ugly.   I was alive, but I didn't live.   I went through the motions of living, like I am doing now.   There was no joy inside me - and if any from the outside world managed to seep in, it was immediately squashed into oblivion.   Joy had no business inside my darkness.  I didn't deserve it.   What made me fall into this chasm, I still don't really know.   But, I know how I got out.  My writing.
I'd always played around with journals.  Buying one, writing a few pages, getting tired of it, and getting a new one.  I had countless journals that were barely 1/3 of the way filled.   Starting around the time the darkness fell, I began to write more seriously.  And the pages of my journals filled with ink.
At first, I wrote about how horrible I felt about myself, how worthless I was, how I was undeserving of happiness.   I wrote about feeling like I was covered in muck and mud, which weighed me down, pushed me down, kept me from reaching toward the light.  Day after day after day for years, my journals were full of nothing but despair.   It hurts reading them now because I crawled out of that hole, but I remember the feeling of being at the bottom.   Through my writing, I came to understand those feelings for what they were - complete and absolute lies.  Through my writing, the sadness and despair I felt became anger and determination.  I realized I didn't deserve to be at the bottom of this canyon, and I was angry I was down there.   I was steaming mad at myself for what I'd allowed myself to believe for so long.   Through my writing, I discovered who I really was and what I needed to do to pull myself up and out.  My words washed off the muck that covered me.  My words threw down a ladder and extended a helping hand.   I heaved myself out of that hole, and basked in the sunlight of self acceptance.  Finally, I was free.   
This was not an easy task.   It took me a good eight to ten years.   I was well into my twenties before positive thoughts about myself were automatic and not just something I one day hoped to actually believe.  
Why am I telling you this?   Why am I opening this wound when I clearly have another one that needs more immediate attention?   To give you an idea of why I am writing - of what this blog really means for me.  Yes, this is a great outlet to sort my emotions.  Yes, this is a wonderful way to remember my daughter and to share her memory with others.   But the real reason I write - the meat and potatoes of this tragic stew - is to keep myself from falling over the edge again.   I can see into the darkness.  I know what's down there.  And now, my balance is shaken.  I could so easily fall.  But my writing steadies me.  It helps me hold fast.  I write because, if I don't, I will be lost.
Now, you may be thinking, "No...your friends and family won't let you get lost. Everyone is here for you.  Everyone loves you and supports you"  While that is true, anyone who has ever struggled with this type of darkness knows that nothing anyone says to you matters at all if you don't believe it.  I have to keep myself upright.  I have to keep myself sharp.  This is a battle I have to fight on my own.  Don't worry, friends.   I've already clawed my way out of hell - I have no intention of going back.   I will not be beaten.  I will never again let the darkness win.  So, I write.  To sort.  To save.  To never surrender.