So, a year ago, I wrote this blog post. Christmas was coming and I was not even the least bit excited. I was facing a day that was going to be everything it shouldn't have been. Really, I'm facing a lifetime of that, but it seems exceptionally glaring during the holiday season. Christmas is a day of light, love, and family. Last year, I didn't feel any of that. I felt broken and sad. I was scared that Piper would never make it out of me alive, and I was worried that Christmas 2014 would also arrive joyless and dark. Well, Christmas is here again, and while it has much more light around the edges than last year, it's still no bed of roses.
You hear all about how the holidays are difficult for people. How people often feel the most isolated and the most hopeless than at any other time of the year. You hear it. You read studies and articles. Maybe you even know someone who has lost someone they love and you see them struggle during this time of the year. But, unless you actually are one of those unfortunate people, you really don't know just how hard it is.
The holidays are hard. Really, really hard. Sometimes, impossibly hard. Even when more joy has found its way into your life, this time of the year has a way of peeling it away from you. You see all that should have been instead of all that is. It often feels like you are stuck in a life that shouldn't be yours. At a time when everyone else is festive and excited, all you can think about is who is missing and what you aren't able to do the way you wanted.
This is Piper's first Christmas, and I am trying very hard to make it memorable. For the first time in my adult life, I have a regular Christmas tree. With lights and ornaments. I hung stockings. (four of them). I took her to see Santa Claus, which she couldn't have cared less about, but it was more for posterity's sake anyway. I bought her a "Baby's First Christmas" ornament and onesie with a little penguin on the butt. I even have a present wrapped and under the tree. I want to continue my family's tradition of receiving a nightgown on Christmas Eve and opening stockings before breakfast on Christmas morning. I want to start some new traditions even though I haven't thought of any yet. I want to be a family. I have waited so long to feel like a family. Christmas is the time, right?
And still, we are one less. We will always be one less. No matter how wonderful I try to make Christmas - or any day - Kenley will never be here to see it. It's really hard to not feel completely hopeless about that. It's hard to muster up feelings of joy and happiness when I know she will not get to experience it. Ever. Everything I do for Piper, I should also be doing for Kenley. But, I'm not. She's not here. She won't ever be here. And I will always put up the Christmas tree without her. Hang stockings without her. Open presents and watch her sister play - without her. Every day is without her, but it feels especially empty on Christmas.
How do you ignore such a gaping hole in your life?
You don't.
You just string some tinsel around what you can and you hope for the best.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Friday, October 24, 2014
"God's Plan"
I have been very vocal about Kenley and how I feel in the wake of her death. I have tried very hard to convey in a very public forum how it feels to lose a child, how the grieving deal with the aftermath, and how to respond to another person's grief in a helpful and productive manner.
So, naturally, I get frustrated when I keep getting the same (unintentional?) hurtful responses from people.
The one that hurts above all else are the comments surrounding the idea of "god's plan"
Telling a grieving mother that her baby's death is all part of "god's plan" is not helpful, even if you expand on it by adding, "we might not understand." Here are a few questions I'd like to ask those of you who follow the "god has a plan" OR "everything happens for a reason" mentality:
1. What loving god would let a baby die before taking her first breath? I mean, what's the point?
2. What lesson could god possibly want a mother to learn that would necessitate her child's death?
3. What loving god would sit and think out a map of someone's life and say "oh hey...here's where I want to rip her child from her arms and put her through horrible pain because...you know, reasons"?
4. What could be the reason behind a child dying? Am I to learn compassion or empathy? Am I to meet someone through my journey? Could that not happen another way? Why does death have to get involved?
You can tell me that I just don't understand those reasons right now and that would be a complete cop out on your part.
You don't know what the reasons are because there aren't any. YOU want there to be a reason because you feel better if bad things have a purpose, and saying that god's plan is too complicated for us to understand is your way of trying to make sense of what's happened.
But what happened doesn't make sense. My baby tangled herself up in her cord, lost oxygen, and died. It is horrible and devastating, but it is not part of a plan. A plan is purposefully constructed. Telling me that Kenley's death is part of god's plan is telling me god had a willful hand in organizing her death. How in the world is that supposed to make me feel better? Would that make YOU feel better? If it would, then clearly you and I have a very different take on things.
The truth of the matter is sometimes bad things happen for no reason. My child died. There was / is no plan involved. Please don't try to comfort me by saying that there was. If it makes you feel better to believe in god's plan, then go right ahead. I won't stop you. But, please, don't share it with me. I don't believe it and am upset by the thought of it.
This is my personal grief journey. I know I have opened myself up for comment by sharing it with you, but please remember it is still my journey. What comforts you might not be of any use to me. What comforts me might not be the same for you.
And just so you don't think this is just me....here are some links written by other people. "God's plan" / "Everything happens for a reason" is on ALL of them, among many other hurtful phrases.
http://www.whatsyourgrief.com/what-not-to-say-after-a-death/
http://www.hopeforthebrokenhearted.com/what-not-to-say-to-someone-who-is-grieving/
http://www.care2.com/greenliving/what-not-to-say-to-someone-grieving.html
http://www.caring.com/articles/10-things-not-to-say-grieving
http://www.mommyish.com/2013/11/13/10-things-to-never-say-to-a-grieving-parent/
I know this post might come across as irritated. I am not going to excuse myself away. I am irritated. This post was written out of frustration, but it needed to be written. I needed to say it. Some people needed to hear it. Again.
So, naturally, I get frustrated when I keep getting the same (unintentional?) hurtful responses from people.
The one that hurts above all else are the comments surrounding the idea of "god's plan"
Telling a grieving mother that her baby's death is all part of "god's plan" is not helpful, even if you expand on it by adding, "we might not understand." Here are a few questions I'd like to ask those of you who follow the "god has a plan" OR "everything happens for a reason" mentality:
1. What loving god would let a baby die before taking her first breath? I mean, what's the point?
2. What lesson could god possibly want a mother to learn that would necessitate her child's death?
3. What loving god would sit and think out a map of someone's life and say "oh hey...here's where I want to rip her child from her arms and put her through horrible pain because...you know, reasons"?
4. What could be the reason behind a child dying? Am I to learn compassion or empathy? Am I to meet someone through my journey? Could that not happen another way? Why does death have to get involved?
You can tell me that I just don't understand those reasons right now and that would be a complete cop out on your part.
You don't know what the reasons are because there aren't any. YOU want there to be a reason because you feel better if bad things have a purpose, and saying that god's plan is too complicated for us to understand is your way of trying to make sense of what's happened.
But what happened doesn't make sense. My baby tangled herself up in her cord, lost oxygen, and died. It is horrible and devastating, but it is not part of a plan. A plan is purposefully constructed. Telling me that Kenley's death is part of god's plan is telling me god had a willful hand in organizing her death. How in the world is that supposed to make me feel better? Would that make YOU feel better? If it would, then clearly you and I have a very different take on things.
The truth of the matter is sometimes bad things happen for no reason. My child died. There was / is no plan involved. Please don't try to comfort me by saying that there was. If it makes you feel better to believe in god's plan, then go right ahead. I won't stop you. But, please, don't share it with me. I don't believe it and am upset by the thought of it.
This is my personal grief journey. I know I have opened myself up for comment by sharing it with you, but please remember it is still my journey. What comforts you might not be of any use to me. What comforts me might not be the same for you.
And just so you don't think this is just me....here are some links written by other people. "God's plan" / "Everything happens for a reason" is on ALL of them, among many other hurtful phrases.
http://www.whatsyourgrief.com/what-not-to-say-after-a-death/
http://www.hopeforthebrokenhearted.com/what-not-to-say-to-someone-who-is-grieving/
http://www.care2.com/greenliving/what-not-to-say-to-someone-grieving.html
http://www.caring.com/articles/10-things-not-to-say-grieving
http://www.mommyish.com/2013/11/13/10-things-to-never-say-to-a-grieving-parent/
I know this post might come across as irritated. I am not going to excuse myself away. I am irritated. This post was written out of frustration, but it needed to be written. I needed to say it. Some people needed to hear it. Again.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Capture Your Grief Day 5: Journal
You have forgotten. You live your life unfettered by her memory. Maybe you are reminded every once in a while. A blog post in your newsfeed. An owl figurine in Marshall's. And then it's a fleeting thought of a fleeting life before you immediately think about how much things have changed. Your mind goes to Piper, a much anticipated rainbow, and your mind rests there. Because thinking of Piper is comfortng and joyful and safe. And you are not conflicted at all.
Let me set the record straight. Having children after loss is just as hard as not having them. It does not make the grief better or less painful. Rainbow babies are not signals to the end of the storm; they are simply reminders that the storm is not all there is, that the sun is still up there They are hope for the hopeless, and although a rainbow often exists because of a storm, it is an entirely different entity. One does not negate the other.
I still love and miss Kenley with every fiber of my being. Every day. Not a moment goes by where I do not think of her, of what she should be doing, of who she would look like, of the milestones she would be hitting. I still ache. I still hurt. I still cry. Probably even more so now that Piper is here. Piper is a daily reminder of where we are in life. Piper is our second chance. Because our first chance died. Every single laugh or smile, every roll over, every outgrown onesie is a reminder of what Kenley will never do. I can't even let myself get started on how Piper wouldn't even be here if Kenley had lived. That's an inner conflict I wouldn't wish on anyone. How are you happy for one when you know that happiness is a result of such sorrow? How do you chose the child to love? You can't. Yet, it seems the world wants you to. "Choose the living one," says the world. "You are alive. We are alive. Let's all focus on that. Forget about your other one. Death is sad. We don't like being sad. We don't know what to do with sadness."
You're going to say, "But Rebecca, I would never make you choose." No, not directly. Not purposefully. But, still every day, I have to choose. Is this the right time to talk about both my girls, or just the one who stayed alive? Would it be weird if after every new picture I post of Piper, I just cycle repeatedly through the four I have of Kenley? I so desperately want to show off both of my children equally, yet I know that's not possible. Piper will grow and change and interact. Kenley will forever be a black and white image of a sleeping baby. In the same dress. In the same position. Forever. She will never be more, but she is so much more. I have to choose because who she is doesn't fit in with how life changes. I have to choose because if I truly talked about her at the level I'd like, there would be an intervention. "Rebecca, we need to talk. We don't think this is healthy." You know what's not healthy? Outliving your children. Too often, the world tells the grieving to move on. Sometimes with words, but mostly through actions. Uncomfortable silences. Changes of topic. The not so subtle shift of focus to the living child.
I know I've said this before, but it can never be said enough. I have TWO children. I carried two babies. I had morning sickness and heartburn twice. I had glowing pregnancy skin twice. I felt two babies squirm and kick and flip. There is no difference between my girls, except for one. Only one of them is still here.
Let me set the record straight. Having children after loss is just as hard as not having them. It does not make the grief better or less painful. Rainbow babies are not signals to the end of the storm; they are simply reminders that the storm is not all there is, that the sun is still up there They are hope for the hopeless, and although a rainbow often exists because of a storm, it is an entirely different entity. One does not negate the other.
I still love and miss Kenley with every fiber of my being. Every day. Not a moment goes by where I do not think of her, of what she should be doing, of who she would look like, of the milestones she would be hitting. I still ache. I still hurt. I still cry. Probably even more so now that Piper is here. Piper is a daily reminder of where we are in life. Piper is our second chance. Because our first chance died. Every single laugh or smile, every roll over, every outgrown onesie is a reminder of what Kenley will never do. I can't even let myself get started on how Piper wouldn't even be here if Kenley had lived. That's an inner conflict I wouldn't wish on anyone. How are you happy for one when you know that happiness is a result of such sorrow? How do you chose the child to love? You can't. Yet, it seems the world wants you to. "Choose the living one," says the world. "You are alive. We are alive. Let's all focus on that. Forget about your other one. Death is sad. We don't like being sad. We don't know what to do with sadness."
You're going to say, "But Rebecca, I would never make you choose." No, not directly. Not purposefully. But, still every day, I have to choose. Is this the right time to talk about both my girls, or just the one who stayed alive? Would it be weird if after every new picture I post of Piper, I just cycle repeatedly through the four I have of Kenley? I so desperately want to show off both of my children equally, yet I know that's not possible. Piper will grow and change and interact. Kenley will forever be a black and white image of a sleeping baby. In the same dress. In the same position. Forever. She will never be more, but she is so much more. I have to choose because who she is doesn't fit in with how life changes. I have to choose because if I truly talked about her at the level I'd like, there would be an intervention. "Rebecca, we need to talk. We don't think this is healthy." You know what's not healthy? Outliving your children. Too often, the world tells the grieving to move on. Sometimes with words, but mostly through actions. Uncomfortable silences. Changes of topic. The not so subtle shift of focus to the living child.
I know I've said this before, but it can never be said enough. I have TWO children. I carried two babies. I had morning sickness and heartburn twice. I had glowing pregnancy skin twice. I felt two babies squirm and kick and flip. There is no difference between my girls, except for one. Only one of them is still here.
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