tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9029241622346651242024-03-28T03:28:00.346-04:00One Pink BalloonLearning how to be a mother to a Star and a Rainbow.
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.comBlogger256125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-88425885065787151382020-09-30T20:01:00.006-04:002020-09-30T22:02:33.388-04:00Capture Your Grief 2020<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">For the past 7 Octobers, I have participated in a Capture Your Grief project created by Carly Marie Dudley of The Carly-Marie Project Heal and the <a href="http://theseashoreofremembrance.blogspot.com/">Seashore of Remembrance.</a> I have not seen any information about it happening this year, but I know Carly has been through a great deal lately and has stepped back from being in the public eye. I do know that this event is meaningful for a lot of people. So, I have decided to use her as an inspiration and create a daily prompt list here. Many of these prompts are inspired from those of previous years I have participated. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Please note, this is NOT my idea or my project and I am in no way attempting to co-opt it for myself. </i> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I just wanted to carry it on for anyone who wanted to participate. Carly Marie deserves all the credit for the creation of this project. Also, my friend Elizabeth of <a href="https://ourlittlebeastieblog.blogspot.com/?fbclid=IwAR1gBGIzB4QrtiXLxIoNeazvgrTVzXciwUZKaQZ6_4J-_xIe3jRzRxAWHgE">Our Little Beastie Blog</a> has helped me put some topics together for this. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">For those unfamiliar, Capture Your Grief is a daily photo prompt challenge for the month of October - Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. It is meant to be a way to heal, to honor our babies, and to bring awareness to loss and grief. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">There is no requirement to do every prompt, so you should only do the ones that speak to you - or the ones you feel up to doing. <i>This should be helpful - not hurtful</i>. You know your heart the best. Do what you can when you can. Also, all prompts are completely open to interpretation. Feel free to change it to suit your needs.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 1: Sunrise </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">If you can, get up before sunrise and find a place to sit with your thoughts. Take a picture of the sunrise wherever you are. If the weather isn't ideal, take a photo from your window. Breathe and take some time to think of your child(ren). What do you hope this month will bring you? Healing? Time and space to deal with some difficult emotions? The ability to share your grief with others? None of us wish to be here, but you are welcomed into our circle with outstretched arms and an open heart.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 2: Named</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">What did you name your child(ren)? Write their name somewhere, even if you don't post it. Hold it in your heart for a moment and then if you're ready share why their name is so special. Share any memories you have regarding their name - how you feel when you hear it spoken by another person?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 3: Before </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Who were you Before loss? How did you see the world? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 4: After</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We are all profoundly different. How have you changed? How do you feel about these changes in yourself? What has been left unchanged? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 5: Friendship</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Is there a friendship that has become especially important to you? How has this friendship affected you in your loss? If you can, write a message to this person (people) to tell them what their friendship means to you.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 6: Space</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Do you have a specific area dedicated to your child(ren)? A memorial space you've put together? Or just a space in your mind and heart you've created as a pocket where you keep their memory tucked away? How does having this space help you honor them? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 7: Rights</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">What are some rights you feel the bereaved should be granted? If you could create a list of fundamental rules everyone would follow in dealing with those grieving, (or YOU in particular) what would be on it? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 8: Seasons</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Is there a particular time of the year that always makes you think of your child? What feelings does this season bring with it when it comes? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 9: Broken</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Loss destroys us. We all break and we all try desperately to piece ourselves back together. Where are you in this process? How are you feeling about where you are?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 10: Comfort</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Where do you find comfort when you need it? Is it in a family member or friend? A walk along the ocean? A warm cup of tea or a snuggle with a pet? What helps you find peace when you need it the most? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 11: Stuck</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sometimes, many times, we feel like we aren't moving forward. We feel stuck in our grief, unable to move. When is a time when you've felt stuck? What did you do to help yourself get out of that place? Or are you still there? (and that's ok) </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 12: Hope</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the darkness of grief, we can't always see the light of hope - of a life lived in the face of grief. Maybe it's too far away. Maybe the darkness is too thick. Have you found your hope yet? Are you still searching? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 13: Breathe</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Take a day to take a break. Focus on your breath and let yourself feel calm. In 2020, this is especially important. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 14: Support</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">What has been a support for you? An online group? A website? A book? A charity or organization? How have you found support in these places?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 15: Wave of Light</b> </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Today is Baby and Child Loss Remembrance day. Light a candle at 7pm to honor all of our children and let the wave of light carry their names around the world. Share anything about your baby you want carried on that wave of light.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 16: Treasured</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What is a treasured object(s) you have that reminds you of your child? What are they and what do they mean to you?</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 17: Beliefs</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What is your belief system? (spiritual, religious, agnostic, atheist) How have your beliefs (or non-belief) shaped your grief? How has your grief shaped your belief? Have others' beliefs helped or hindered your healing?</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 18: Empty</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Grief is a shattering followed by an emptiness that really never goes away. What does it feel like to be in that empty? Are you early on in your grief and overwhelmed by it? Are you farther along and able to sit inside that emptiness? What does The Empty mean to you?</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 19: Deed</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Grief is just love with no place to go". Today, find a place for your love to go and do a kind deed in honor of your child(ren). You could buy coffee for the person behind you in the drive thru - or donate to a charity in their name. If money is tight, send an unprompted message of love to someone who may need it. Anything you see fit to do is ok. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 20: Obligation</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What is something you feel obligated to do for your child - or for other loss families? Is it an obligation you enjoy and appreciate - or does it wear on you? Could you take a step back if you needed to?</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 21: Mantra</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What is a phrase or mantra that keeps you going - or one that you feel encapsulates your journey of grief? Share what has spoken to you and why. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 22: Create</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What have you created - or have had created - in honor of your child? Artwork you've made or purchased? Tattoos? Jewelry? Share something made by you - or by others - that honors your baby. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 23: Cultivate</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">How do you tend to your broken heart? Or, what would you like to be able to do to help yourself heal? How can you cultivate a place of healing within yourself? If you're not sure - where would you like to be eventually?</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 24: Music</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Share some music that reminds you of your baby. How did this music make you feel when you first heard it? How does it make you feel now? </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 25: Trigger</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What are some triggers that come with your grief? What do you do when confronted with a trigger? Have they gotten better or worse?</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 26: Release</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What especially painful piece of grief do you hold on to too tightly? Why is it so hard to release? Share your thoughts on how you can start letting go - not of your love, but of what causes you pain.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 27: Self Care</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Take a minute to do something for yourself today. If you choose, share what that is. Remember, you are worth taking care of. You are worthy of feeling good. Loss has not changed that. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 28: Love</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We grieve forever because we love forever. Share your love for your child in any way you see fit.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 29: Connect</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What do you do to feel connected to your baby? Do you have any specific rituals or routines? A yearly event? A daily occurrence? When and how do you connect?</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 30: Vision</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Take a minute to look to the future. Maybe it's a year from now. Maybe it's tomorrow. Where do you see yourself in your grief journey? Where would you like to be? </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Day 31: Sunset</b></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Find a moment to take in the sunset and reflect on this past month. Did you learn anything about yourself or your grief? Did you feel more connected to your baby? What did this month of prompts do for you? How are you feeling? Be gentle on yourself as you come out of this month of grief-reflection. Take care of yourself as you continue to heal - and thank you for sharing yourself and your baby with us. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg85ZgkTnq_dRlzVq83vLJBmPsRSb7diJbLqmS1KCz2OSyjUON-wYvhKcBzAwsPPNw_iB4z7kKIsZQpMV1DqGpdJ0mAEyBL1X_ODweZ-m86QTsduppfPTHVwn2oi4qXDS0bGti9kNV0JMPu/s526/sunset.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg85ZgkTnq_dRlzVq83vLJBmPsRSb7diJbLqmS1KCz2OSyjUON-wYvhKcBzAwsPPNw_iB4z7kKIsZQpMV1DqGpdJ0mAEyBL1X_ODweZ-m86QTsduppfPTHVwn2oi4qXDS0bGti9kNV0JMPu/s320/sunset.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-65115404996465868262018-02-08T08:12:00.002-05:002019-04-22T09:18:53.224-04:00The Kenley Project<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A few weeks ago, I spoke for the third time to the second year med students at Lincoln Memorial University / DeBusk College of Osteopathic Medicine on<a href="http://onepinkballoon.blogspot.com/2015/01/a-letter-to-my-doctor.html" target="_blank"> perinatal bereavement</a>. After my presentation, my sister and I were approached by some students with an idea. They wanted to use their Solidarity Week ( a week dedicated to compassion and patient care) to fund and create memory boxes for nearby hospitals. Within days, the idea was in the works - and the students named it The Kenley Project, which filled my heart with so much emotion. My part of the project was to write a letter to the newly grieving mother. It took me longer than I would have liked, as I had a hard time getting myself back into that headspace, especially given what month it is right now. But, I want to share that letter with you now, as well as the<a href="http://dcomalumni.lmunet.edu/s/1119/gid4/16/interior.aspx?sid=1119&pgid=1842&gid=4&cid=3665&ecid=3665&post_id=0" target="_blank"> link to donate to the project</a>. I am so very proud of my NInja and all she has accomplished. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A PDF of this letter is available for distribution <a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1VlFp9uYgCGFJILqMODMLbbCgzcj6B_Es">here.</a> You can also download the <i>unofficial </i>recognition of birth included in the memory boxes (because stillborn babies don't often get an official certificate) <a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=12XZ2BvG6OmWAZr7A3PpP2onSvPTzQrXq">here.</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Dear Heartbroken Mother, <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>I am so sorry you have this
letter in your hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m so, so sorry
you’ve had to say hello and goodbye to your precious child and that these last
days that should have been spent celebrating have been plunged into darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want you to know my heart has broken into
the same million jagged pieces yours has.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In February 2013, my daughter Kenley was born without breath or beat of
heart, and my world changed forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
a fellow grieving mama, I wanted to write this letter so you would know you
aren’t alone – that there is someone out there who understands the
indescribable heartbreak you’re feeling now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>The hardest thing you will
ever do is survive the loss of your baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You will feel broken beyond repair, but you’re not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly, you will gain enough strength to start
to crawl your way out of this pitch-black hole you have been thrown in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually, light will start to seep through
the cracks in the walls and you will begin to be able to see again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your heart will learn to hold itself up
around the empty spots where your baby should be – and you’ll be able to feel
more than simply emptiness and pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
know right now, you can’t possibly imagine this, but I promise you – you’ll get
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not tomorrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe not even this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, it will happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>In the meantime, be gentle
with yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Allow yourself to grieve
– to feel whatever you need to feel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t
put pressure on yourself to feel anything on any specific timeframe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone’s grief journey is different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well-meaning people will tell you
well-meaning things. You may hear things like “Everything happens for a reason”
or “Time heals all wounds”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some phrases
will be helpful to you and some will not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You may feel like people are trying to “fix” you - trying to make it all
better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, the reality is, you don’t
need to be fixed – you need to grieve. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s okay to have terrible days – days where
you feel so shattered you can’t manage to drag your broken pieces out of
bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s also okay to have good
days – days where you feel ok, where you maybe even realize you’ve smiled or
laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have all wondered if we are
grieving “correctly.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Truthfully, there
is no right or wrong way to grieve – and no one can tell you how you should do
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>You’re going to have to fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no way around that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re going to have to claw and scratch your
way through muck and mud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re going
to have to heave yourself over hurdles that may seem impossible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re going to ache and bleed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re not going to feel strong at all – but
you are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are a champion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are a Heartbroken Mother – a fierce
warrior broken in grief but strengthened by love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a quote that says “Grief is just
love with no place to go”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will
grieve as much as you love, which is an unfathomable amount.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while it may feel sometimes like grief is
going to break you – it is your love that will sustain you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hold on to that love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember that love – nurture it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Find as many places to put it as you
can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will never be enough, but it
will be something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some mamas find
healing in performing Random Acts of Kindness in their baby’s name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some mamas like to volunteer for
organizations or attend memorial walks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe you paint, or write, or knit, or run – whatever you do, find
somewhere for your love to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This will
probably be the strongest bandage for your heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Your life is now segmented
into two parts – the Before and the After.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As we learn to live in the After, it becomes our New Normal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your greatest challenge beyond initial
survival will be finding your footing in this new world and learning to walk
with purpose again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life will never be
the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are forever changed, and
the way you see the world around you has changed as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s okay if you find yourself unable to
relate to things you used to – and if your relationships with others seem
different. You’ll learn how to navigate this New Normal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll learn how it’s okay to not be the same
– and how your scars are nothing to be ashamed of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>You may feel guilty for your
baby’s death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you had known there was something you
could have done, you would have done it in a heartbeat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Repeat this mantra daily, “It was not my
fault”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may take you a long time to
believe it, but that doesn’t make it any less true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not your fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not your fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not your fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your grief will lie to you and tell you that
is was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It isn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It will never be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If you ever feel lost in this
dark and tangled forest of grief, don’t be afraid to reach out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a huge community of Heartbroken
Mothers just like you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve been where
you are and we’ve fought our way to where we are now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hurt with you and for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our arms will be open to you whenever you
need us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though I don’t know you
yet, my heart knows your heart, and I am more than willing to be your crying
shoulder or whatever support system you need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Feel free to email me at </span><a href="mailto:KenleyNinja@gmail.com"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">KenleyNinja@gmail.com</span></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> or
visit my blog OnePinkBalloon.blogspot.com if you aren’t ready to contact me,
but want to feel less alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will be
happy to help you find support groups or other resources you may not have the
energy to do on your own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Even though today seems so dark, I promise the light will
come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t give up, Mama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Love, <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Kenley’s Mom, Rebecca Wood</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-25910114829432770042017-09-28T15:39:00.002-04:002017-09-28T15:39:27.644-04:00Grief without God<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">While I don't focus much on it in my writing, nor am I extremely outspoken about it in my every day life, I do not believe in god. I am what you could classify as an agnostic atheist, meaning although I can't claim to know for sure, I am not inclined to believe there is a god. I would also consider myself a <a href="https://americanhumanist.org/what-is-humanism/" target="_blank">Humanist,</a> which is less about belief in the supernatural and more about faith in humanity and our responsibility to our fellow humans. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I came to my beliefs really over the course of my lifetime. I think all people search for meaning in their lives, and I was never one to find it in religion. It never made sense to me. I had too many questions and not enough answers. I was never angry or upset with god - I just never felt like the concept of god fit in with who I am. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Over and over, I see confusion regarding how atheists function as people. How can they be a good person without religion? How can they find meaning in a life without god? </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I've already written a <a href="http://onepinkballoon.blogspot.com/2015/03/typical-atheist.html" target="_blank">post</a> about the misconceptions others have towards non-believers and a<a href="http://onepinkballoon.blogspot.com/2014/10/gods-plan.html" target="_blank"> post</a> about how I feel about the phrase "God's Plan". Yet somehow, I have yet to write about atheism in how it relates to the main point of this blog - grief. So, here you go. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is that post. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Recently, I read an article that claimed the difference between how an atheist grieves and how a Christian grieves is that a Christian "grieves with hope" and that those without god "sorrow without hope." I've seen this same mistaken idea in many places throughout the online universe. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I, by no means, "sorrow without hope". Just because my hope doesn't come in the form of faith or belief in god, doesn't mean it isn't there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the darkness of grief, we look for light - any light - to help guide us through. This is universal. We all seek out ways to bring peace to a broken heart. For some people, prayer brings peace. Holding on to their faith in god and the belief someone loves them and guides them through the dark is comforting. God is both the buoy and the lighthouse in an angry ocean. I understand this mindset, but I don't follow it. So, what's my light in the dark? What keeps me, and any other non-believer, afloat? Honestly, I think that answer is very different for everyone. At the beginning, I don't really know how anyone gets through that absolute shocking pain - we just do. All of us, with or without god, broken to our very core, go into survival mode and for the longest time, we are alive but not living. We eat, we sleep, we cry. We feel empty and lifeless. It's when we reach that moment of wanting to live again - of wanting to try to feel something more than blinding pain - where the differences in grief manifest.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As a non-believer, I did not find comfort in faith in god. I didn't shun it, it just wasn't part of my thought process. A month after Kenley died, my first real act of healing took place when I volunteered for the charity that supplied her memory box. I spent time with other women who had lost babies and I created bracelets to wrap around the wrists of teddy bears. I helped pack the memory boxes with important items to help parents memorialize their child who will never come home. This afternoon was the first step in trying to make meaning out of what had happened. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For me, my hope comes not in the form of religion, but in action. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My hope is that I can bring positive change to my life through the things that I do. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> When I DO something to make a difference in the world around me, I feel connected to her. I feel like I am making her death mean something. </span><span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Grief is work. Anyone who says it's not has never done it. I worked hard to arrive at the place where I am now, and the road is long and treacherous.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> So, I do whatever I can to make an impact in her name. I volunteer. I </span><a href="http://onepinkballoon.blogspot.com/2015/01/a-letter-to-my-doctor.html" style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;" target="_blank">write</a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">. I carry out Random Acts of Kindness. I give presentations. I attend Walks of Remembrance. I </span><a href="http://onepinkballoon.blogspot.com/2017/03/kenley-ran.html" style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;" target="_blank">run</a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">. I do whatever I can to bring some light into my darkness and to walk this path with as much strength and grace as I can muster. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Obviously, taking action isn't unique to non-believers. I think most grieving parents, religious or not, seek out a way to honor their child. I have many Christian friends who head charities, run support groups, or write blogs and articles. The only difference between what they do as believers and what atheists do is that they do it while believing in god. Their charity may have a religious theme. Their support group may pray before meeting. Their blog may reference their faith. But, the purpose and the end result is the same. Our children are remembered and our hearts find some peace. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I think many people may think atheists grieve without hope because we lack a belief in the afterlife, therefore we have no hope of seeing our children again. Everyone has their own way of coping with the finality of death. For me, endings are comforting. When I was in elementary school, I remember being terrified of the concept of eternal life - even one in paradise. I imagined this beautiful expanse of pink, like a sun setting into infinity, and my stomach would drop and tingle in fear as I thought about how that would go on forever and <i>ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever.... </i>so I rarely allowed myself to think about it. As I grew into my mindset as an atheist, the idea of life ending at death actually settles me. I imagine it being like the time before we were born; we are conscious of nothing and so nothing matters to us. For me, I feel that knowing I won't see Kenley again is easier than thinking I might. I'm not hanging my feelings on something that won't happen until the end of my life, and I'm not having to envision her somewhere without me. I mean, I would do anything I could to have her in my arms again, obviously. But, that's not the cards I've been dealt, so I play the best I can with the ones I have.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A popular piece of writing in the atheist community regarding death is called "You Want a Physicist to Speak at Your Funeral" by Aaron Freeman. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><b>"You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.<br /><br />And at one point you'd hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.<br /><br />And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.<br /><br />And you'll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they'll be comforted to know your energy's still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you're just less orderly."</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While religion has never really made sense to me, science always has. I love the fact that energy can't be created or destroyed - only changed in form. I love thinking about how all of our atoms once came from the belly of the beginnings of the universe, swirling in a cosmic soup that would one day become galaxies - and how, long after our consciousness has ended, those same atoms will find their way back into the stars. Right now, the body of my child is in the form of ashes in a pink ceramic urn. Millions of years from now, when Mother Earth has breathed her last breath and our Red Giant sun engulfs our planet, my baby's atoms, along with mine, will return to the universe - and to each other. To me, that is beautiful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Despite what some people may think, Christians and Atheists don't really grieve all that differently. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We all love and miss our children terribly and we all do what we can to help ourselves get through our day. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We all need hope and, if we are lucky, we all find it in something. Maybe it's found in the belief in heaven and maybe it's found in the power of stardust. Either way, we are all just humans doing the best we can not to hurt as we live our lives on this spinning sphere.</span></div>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-20047988339926121182017-03-03T14:52:00.001-05:002017-03-03T16:22:51.985-05:00Kenley Ran<div><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br></span></div><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My half marathon weekend is over. Kenley Ran! My official time was 3 hours, 22 minutes, 48 seconds. I have already signed up for a 10 mile race in two weeks to help me qualify for a higher corral next year because I am apparently a runner now. Who knew?</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><u>Friday, February 24</u></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Our weekend started Friday morning. Mike got home from work (ah...the joys of working nights!) and we headed to Orlando around 8:30. We arrived at Port Orleans Riverside Resort and found my parents' room so Mike could sleep since we couldn't officially check in until 3. Even though I am fairly local, I love staying on Disney property. Disney does such an excellent job maintaining a sense of relaxation and fantasy in their resorts. Our building looked just like the mansions in the New Orleans Garden District. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">While Mike slept, we went to the Expo to register and look around. </span></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><br></font><span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi973hqiOWab_KpE5PT7t42DHIdEQ5vjrR55ePEz5FVGty3XpHnbnwqPGTEOTVuUl5wkl1AQx1HQYA1FlNKv13HodXuWmsj6lqx1VU3_9W4sM8lduJypIqF_dkXJsAfZsbd4GOpTD6C2b2I/s640/blogger-image--1445257991.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi973hqiOWab_KpE5PT7t42DHIdEQ5vjrR55ePEz5FVGty3XpHnbnwqPGTEOTVuUl5wkl1AQx1HQYA1FlNKv13HodXuWmsj6lqx1VU3_9W4sM8lduJypIqF_dkXJsAfZsbd4GOpTD6C2b2I/s640/blogger-image--1445257991.jpg"></a></div> </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Arriving at the Expo, I was immediately overwhelmed. It was enormous and full of people - not to mention this was the first official moment of Kenley Running. I teared up several times before we even got inside a building. In order to register, we entered gymnasium sized room where the entire length of a wall consisted of registration booths divided by bib number. I was 13655, which put me in corral 0 - two corrals from the end, unsurprising for a first race. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">To get to the vendors, we had to walk out of the giant registration building and into an even more giant building next door. </span></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><br></font>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The place was swarming with people and there was a literal buzz in the air. Booths snaked up and down the expansive room. There were vendors selling compression socks, hairbands, protein snacks, earbuds, running skirts, shoe inserts, race tiaras - you name it. If it was associated with either running or princesses, it was there. And it was amazing! </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">As we walked down one aisle, my mom pointed to a booth to my left and said "There's Jeff Galloway." I looked over and there he was - the man in my ear for the last eleven months. We walked over to meet him. I told him about Kenley - about why I run and about how he has helped me accomplish what I always thought to be impossible. He told me how running really helps with hard emotions like grief and he said he was proud of me for persisting. "You're doing it!" he said with a smile and a hug. Really, he is the nicest man. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">I left the expo with a green sparkly headband, some new earbuds for my strangely small earholes, and a new grasp on just how close I really was to my goal. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">The rest of the afternoon was spent getting settled in to the hotel and getting organized for my sister's Florida baby shower that evening. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><b><u>Saturday, February 25: Kenley's Birthday</u></b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">We all wore our specially made Mickey ears to commemorate the occasion. </span></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh617sKNMe8VbgYQSAnHeJsgZ2iOpHPs2a5aB3ajS5gftDjHiaOjngHIEuJ5Gu9ugDdmmxK72prwbwg1gDIv2ewXZf5fb3Y5ailU26Vxl9cyEH5z4tXuDMnWDQ-6CteBawfVVuaGL3yk236/s640/blogger-image--758358593.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh617sKNMe8VbgYQSAnHeJsgZ2iOpHPs2a5aB3ajS5gftDjHiaOjngHIEuJ5Gu9ugDdmmxK72prwbwg1gDIv2ewXZf5fb3Y5ailU26Vxl9cyEH5z4tXuDMnWDQ-6CteBawfVVuaGL3yk236/s640/blogger-image--758358593.jpg"></a></div> <br></font>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">We woke up bright and early to start our day at the Be Our Guest restaurant at the Magic Kingdom. Knowing how coveted and hard to get these reservations are, my sister made them in October. Because of them, we were allowed to enter the park before opening, which was pretty awesome. There's nothing quite like having Main Street mostly to yourself. We ate a hearty breakfast of meats, cheese, and pastries and headed off to try to ride the Seven Dwarves Mine Train before the crowd. As we were walking to the entrance of the coaster, what looked like a giant tour group came racing around the corner and slid into the line before we could get there. It was a giant snake of people that seemed to have no end - and we immediately realized we had missed our window. The park had opened and the crowd had arrived. The wait time jumped from 5 minutes to 90 in a matter of seconds. So, we hopped across to the Adventures of Winnie the Pooh instead. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Our day was full of family, food, and fun - mostly because of my sister's meticulous planning skills. We ate lunch at the Crystal Palace and Piper had a blast meeting her favorite characters from the Hundred Acre Woods.</span></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2tNHv4FIg2Nw1d8j68WmF1GNUuyYANKhzJlU84knFx4okfo-27bX-37xhYFaTN7gHs9gcd52be60eHfMu2FmSmuzbqBKQWPogjisZkQPA-kJBTJQwV5LnyEwfX5iiWMNbDTKhKksiRc1/s640/blogger-image-411069531.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2tNHv4FIg2Nw1d8j68WmF1GNUuyYANKhzJlU84knFx4okfo-27bX-37xhYFaTN7gHs9gcd52be60eHfMu2FmSmuzbqBKQWPogjisZkQPA-kJBTJQwV5LnyEwfX5iiWMNbDTKhKksiRc1/s640/blogger-image-411069531.jpg"></a></div> <br></font>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Towards the end of the day, I felt the familiar twinges around my eyes that signaled a migraine. I am prone to them anyway, but I always get one the day after Kenley's birthday. I suppose my body must have known I couldn't have one on race day, so my yearly migraine came early. I didn't get to go to dinner with everyone else. I tried, but the restaurant was too loud and I knew I wouldn't make it. So, while my family ate dinner, I laid in my hotel bed, trying to keep myself from spinning into oblivion. Around 10pm, I had slept enough of it off in order to stand upright and I gathered my things together for the race. I laid everything out in the bathroom so when I started getting ready at 3:15, I wouldn't wake up Mike and Piper, and I went back to bed, hoping the last traces of it would be gone in time. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Sunday, February 26: Race Day!</span><br>
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">In case you didn't know, 3:15 isn't even the butt-crack of dawn. It's more like the small of the back of dawn. It's early! I woke up feeling a little fuzzy headed with some migraine residue still clinging to the back of my eyes, but I could tell it would fade away as I got myself moving. I put on my race outfit and laced up my shoes. I straightened my lace charms with Kenley's pictures on them, grabbed the oatmeal I had made myself with the coffee maker, took a puff of my inhaler, and out the door I went. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">My mom and brother-in-law were running too, so I met them at their rooms to walk to the bus. My sister was supposed to run, but got pregnant almost immediately after registering in July, so that was a no-go. Instead, she and her belly headed to Main Street to cheer us on.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">There were over 24,000 runners registered for the Princess Half, so the traffic to get everyone there was pretty intense. Our resort is almost directly next door to EPCOT, yet the bus ride took a good 30 minutes. Stepping off the bus, I could immediately see just how popular this race is. </span></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPmVpNRqpyHG4TY9pPnlxfLJLL6b1ZCS_5Ft2O2J8sUlJdW4mhLRILsjvtjKkn99lD8l4QkWuIozRDIwDj34Pdu9ZBopTwseVdqqnMCsJmG-FmxyO7sa64oI7lXO11t8QO3JiYPKExL7Jb/s640/blogger-image--1542125182.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPmVpNRqpyHG4TY9pPnlxfLJLL6b1ZCS_5Ft2O2J8sUlJdW4mhLRILsjvtjKkn99lD8l4QkWuIozRDIwDj34Pdu9ZBopTwseVdqqnMCsJmG-FmxyO7sa64oI7lXO11t8QO3JiYPKExL7Jb/s640/blogger-image--1542125182.jpg"></a></div></font><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object width="320" height="266" class="BLOG_video_class" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br></span></object></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxSCJpSwwhUoSlyajBKxTxfPD668GQ8MHcCwrXaMYKGNLiJ7FEUoUdswMuMnifMeqesmy76ex0Eia0hFwehtw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We found our corral - and wouldn't you know it - it was marked with a pink balloon. Well, hello there, little one! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR1TYkpI2lbdiAaJORDBQnonBeCFUgMi0zpuL1j_LKlYSgJ_XxvxzTDLbEuLt-XcZAG998YOx3LHQNVlr_dHvvYhRRURMFgmwkzU3znLD8Ku0DTCY2d4QRjIzQDerS8Zqv4SFSj3Iydv7x/s640/blogger-image--1967549582.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR1TYkpI2lbdiAaJORDBQnonBeCFUgMi0zpuL1j_LKlYSgJ_XxvxzTDLbEuLt-XcZAG998YOx3LHQNVlr_dHvvYhRRURMFgmwkzU3znLD8Ku0DTCY2d4QRjIzQDerS8Zqv4SFSj3Iydv7x/s640/blogger-image--1967549582.jpg"></a></div> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Corral A was released first, followed by all the rest. With each corral release, they shot off fireworks, which served their purpose of jazzing everyone up even more. As each corral was released, the crowd moved up, and we inched closer to the start line. Finally, it was time for Corral O to go. My heart beat frantically in my chest. I fumbled around to get my music started and my phone into my flipbelt in time. It had been an hour since the first corral left the gate, so the sun was starting to rise and the sky was changing from purple to pink to blue. It was just after 6:30 when the announcer screamed to Corral O, "Rrrruuuunnnners get rrrrreeeaaadyyyy!". Fireworks exploded over the glowing pink start line and we were off. Kenley was running!</span></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqInLmkm6s-Vl2HDDFRH47Cqx8Uaxu7klXvPKOOUtnCJa_dLo6WrUVueW-xbQ7EIlSjlQoajnArqZkEnScAGxJcy71bgmyTYf88spwYzzKgUFXCPs19D7L3DLmYtjUnr6ReuZ0CUC1KrWY/s640/blogger-image--548829238.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqInLmkm6s-Vl2HDDFRH47Cqx8Uaxu7klXvPKOOUtnCJa_dLo6WrUVueW-xbQ7EIlSjlQoajnArqZkEnScAGxJcy71bgmyTYf88spwYzzKgUFXCPs19D7L3DLmYtjUnr6ReuZ0CUC1KrWY/s640/blogger-image--548829238.jpg"></a> </span><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqInLmkm6s-Vl2HDDFRH47Cqx8Uaxu7klXvPKOOUtnCJa_dLo6WrUVueW-xbQ7EIlSjlQoajnArqZkEnScAGxJcy71bgmyTYf88spwYzzKgUFXCPs19D7L3DLmYtjUnr6ReuZ0CUC1KrWY/s640/blogger-image--548829238.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBJ8LBxBjHeIo0CgVFZkuRhYFS4kuBYNfyzWgEL3LedOMwZQuaLbVfzxv70upW2CuZZhpybbuf35H4u-xWjViZorNuTAb5GFYAtuaLVNjxOC2oxIUgH7BlabeNXudg4n4Zj7iUFXrF3JqN/s640/blogger-image--1530576918.jpg"> </span> </a> </div></div><br></font>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">The size of the crowd was enormous. Tutus were everywhere - and everyone was within elbow distance of everyone else. As we got further from the start, it thinned out a little in places, but not entirely. There were times when I was supposed to be running, but couldn't because the crowd around me was too thick. Although that was frustrating, it was still an amazing race. Each mile marker consisted of a rectangle about 8 feet high and 3 feet wide with a Disney character on the front. Inside, there must have been a speaker because all of them played songs related to the character. Mile Marker 4 was Peter Pan, so I made sure to stop and get a photo.</span></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMV5ZHSU1dQIT8LQfAZ2xs9-PUtJI311412_Axem_JHsYaIPe_Xq6CvK0Jn8AVb-I6isH2dRveWxBxtCeEyVCWTQd5BfljdVEhqoiiZTUYb2-zSLO3DOOPOW8j2HmMj7DU2R6MVmn7bo8/s640/blogger-image--1297044622.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMV5ZHSU1dQIT8LQfAZ2xs9-PUtJI311412_Axem_JHsYaIPe_Xq6CvK0Jn8AVb-I6isH2dRveWxBxtCeEyVCWTQd5BfljdVEhqoiiZTUYb2-zSLO3DOOPOW8j2HmMj7DU2R6MVmn7bo8/s640/blogger-image--1297044622.jpg"></a></div><br></font>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">All along the course were character stops and photo ops. From Jack Sparrow to Malificent to the Genie from Aladdin, there were plenty of opportunities to interact with a Disney icon. I didn't stop at any of them. The lines weren't super long, but I also knew I wasn't super fast and I wanted to finish on time. (maybe next year though). </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">The course ran from EPCOT up to the Magic Kingdom, through the park and around the castle, and back to EPCOT. My sister was on the corner of Main Street just as we entered Magic Kindgom, holding up a #RunKenleyRun sign and ringing a cowbell. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">My mom and I got a few quick photos in front of the castle before we were on our way out of the park and back down to EPCOT. </span></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8tOJ7MfKcTj7O5lYcIIl8uQ8WHM_q6Sqk2anHSlJliMbetSfkNfGaZEoEtJCTkAUDNpOHI_Wr57acUz6_I47eSTOQ_PDPBcEYwKOwr6E_1OTNH1fGzeLTEoQFirkJAcaFwBUDGrgoFzmC/s640/blogger-image--2013840822.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8tOJ7MfKcTj7O5lYcIIl8uQ8WHM_q6Sqk2anHSlJliMbetSfkNfGaZEoEtJCTkAUDNpOHI_Wr57acUz6_I47eSTOQ_PDPBcEYwKOwr6E_1OTNH1fGzeLTEoQFirkJAcaFwBUDGrgoFzmC/s640/blogger-image--2013840822.jpg"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8tOJ7MfKcTj7O5lYcIIl8uQ8WHM_q6Sqk2anHSlJliMbetSfkNfGaZEoEtJCTkAUDNpOHI_Wr57acUz6_I47eSTOQ_PDPBcEYwKOwr6E_1OTNH1fGzeLTEoQFirkJAcaFwBUDGrgoFzmC/s640/blogger-image--2013840822.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgES6Ym_XY-mBx7niEvVFFn4vMbirhiKBB7ugvjtXQgBouoxsTze5U4Q1qn59aLl59Y8zXgWXJYHsZNEHohMPNpFyHEF5o9RomaL2a8bSiQck9ExG6qZ5wLlfCX2yWeclaNu-zGHIWQsaxD/s640/blogger-image--3124728.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgES6Ym_XY-mBx7niEvVFFn4vMbirhiKBB7ugvjtXQgBouoxsTze5U4Q1qn59aLl59Y8zXgWXJYHsZNEHohMPNpFyHEF5o9RomaL2a8bSiQck9ExG6qZ5wLlfCX2yWeclaNu-zGHIWQsaxD/s640/blogger-image--3124728.jpg"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgES6Ym_XY-mBx7niEvVFFn4vMbirhiKBB7ugvjtXQgBouoxsTze5U4Q1qn59aLl59Y8zXgWXJYHsZNEHohMPNpFyHEF5o9RomaL2a8bSiQck9ExG6qZ5wLlfCX2yWeclaNu-zGHIWQsaxD/s640/blogger-image--3124728.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDh-FgSTUukyS0-6rv-FMThFl5c-6WfXWGQb-ksp2d_l201q4eo5hn23uUKbNXGZ6Mi9ia1Jttymh4eec80-2HHJEEUnYW78GQfLqIAcyAJqSMBqtD8IOXugv7X2ACLScnJ7b1ixGwIgXF/s640/blogger-image--1912984932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDh-FgSTUukyS0-6rv-FMThFl5c-6WfXWGQb-ksp2d_l201q4eo5hn23uUKbNXGZ6Mi9ia1Jttymh4eec80-2HHJEEUnYW78GQfLqIAcyAJqSMBqtD8IOXugv7X2ACLScnJ7b1ixGwIgXF/s640/blogger-image--1912984932.jpg"></a></div></div></div><br></font>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">I had expected the race to be extremely emotional. I was worried I wouldn't be able to run because I'd be crying so hard. But, honestly, I was just in the zone. I listened to my music. I talked to my mom. I walked. I ran. I took in everything around the course. I had a great time. There's so much going on at a Disney race, you can't help but have fun. Sure, there were moments when the magnitude of what I was doing hit me right in the face, when my heart swelled to wrap itself around the place she is missing, and when my love for her was so great, I felt like she was radiating out of me. But, the amazing part was - none of it was sad. I wasn't sad once - at least not in the sense of what I have been. Clearly, sadness comes with loss - but in the three hours and twenty two minutes I was running for her, I felt so many more emotions than sadness. I felt the joy of being her mother, the pride in accomplishing a goal in her memory, the excitement of running my very first half marathon, the support of those I knew were tracking me. I felt the most complete I have felt in four years. I almost felt whole again.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">The last mile or so was hard. I had to walk more intervals than I ran. As we looped back into EPCOT and passed Mile Marker 12, I felt so much relief I was almost there. We circled around Spaceship Earth, down to the World Showcase, and back again. At 13 miles, we passed a gospel choir. Almost there! I turned the final corner and there it was - the finish line flanked by grandstands full of cheering friends and family. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">A year of training - a year of taking my non-runner self out on runs 3 times a week - a year of researching interval training and running nutrition - a year of shelling out hundreds of dollars for workout clothes, shoes, arch support inserts - a year of focusing on challenging myself in the name of my little girl - had all come down to this moment. My moment. Her moment. OUR moment. </span><span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">I crossed the finish line with my hands in the air and tears in my eyes. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">I looked over to the stands to see a small crowd of people in green #runkenleyrun shirts and I waved at my family. Following the crowd, I walked over to collect my medal - a gold bell with a rose in the middle to go along with the Beauty and the Beast theme - and a box of post-race snacks. My mom and I walked around through the runner's section and into the area to meet family where we met up with Mike and Piper, my dad, my sister and her husband, and my friend Nanci who had come to watch me cross the finish line. I felt victorious. And exhausted.</span></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGm8kR-lBv5Zhy2kWZ6I1KIRybj9Geo42tJ_Leyi8mmX9PsujxRG9FXPI6U5meHJraNnp-uvJdRokZ2zCOhz4ZuHo9nIQAX-rnRt1OAD5b9YRgTHIQFLBg8cHHnqUottTcFt4LXwQQLgbO/s640/blogger-image--484949446.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGm8kR-lBv5Zhy2kWZ6I1KIRybj9Geo42tJ_Leyi8mmX9PsujxRG9FXPI6U5meHJraNnp-uvJdRokZ2zCOhz4ZuHo9nIQAX-rnRt1OAD5b9YRgTHIQFLBg8cHHnqUottTcFt4LXwQQLgbO/s640/blogger-image--484949446.jpg"></a></div><br></font>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">We all went back to the hotel for baths and naps. Once we were clean and rested, we spent the afternoon at EPCOT. I wore my t-shirt and medal with pride - as did many other runners. </span></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Agy0U0pJ7x4_6GdviGjpCTymKzypnqYTiuB_kYzDZOOmZiBLXOUZ2aj7gVKZlRQxHI99SzRrYRBNuQNJU13BEeR9kKFWOm6iUqug02dkyatiCYLMJdg-5D5K0UjrUDQY6Eah7sWXASKV/s640/blogger-image--1148883899.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Agy0U0pJ7x4_6GdviGjpCTymKzypnqYTiuB_kYzDZOOmZiBLXOUZ2aj7gVKZlRQxHI99SzRrYRBNuQNJU13BEeR9kKFWOm6iUqug02dkyatiCYLMJdg-5D5K0UjrUDQY6Eah7sWXASKV/s640/blogger-image--1148883899.jpg"></a></div><br></font>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">For a lot of people, this weekend was a fun-run, something they do every year with their friends. For me, this weekend was both the start of a new tradition and the end of a way to think about my daughter. Since the day she was born, an emptiness surrounded her memory. I carried her for her entire life and I left the hospital without her. It often felt like I left her there. For four years, that hospital was where I held her memory. I only knew her outside of me inside those walls, where she was still and silent in my arms - and so it's been so hard to separate Kenley from her death. Thoughts of her were memories of me holding her in that hospital, of me crying and empty and broken. Even in my writing and actions in the months and years after have been focused on stillbirth - on death. </span><span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">For four years, the focus has been on the fact my baby died. And, oh, how that is so very draining. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">This weekend (and the year leading up to it) changed that focus. I worked hard for a year to push my body to do something amazing. I worked hard for a year to transition Kenley's memory from a hospital room to a finish line. And I did it. She isn't still and cold in a bassinet. She is alive in my beating heart. She flows in and out of me with my breath. She travels miles and miles on the soles of my shoes. She is no longer something my body failed to do - but something it achieved. She is an accomplishment, a victory.</span></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7A3j6kJqfTUE5Zao-jeOAfdzhA9ouF-Oppw89GDwjsnZFPY_cfmJQQ9Nl-wTZPF_l6PFvcaY3RdI4c8KJzTGg3RZy-aJHYo-ywtt6W879KPm_GU1avfR84pWGtJ3J_x62nLKBPL5zU29a/s640/blogger-image-1756062339.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7A3j6kJqfTUE5Zao-jeOAfdzhA9ouF-Oppw89GDwjsnZFPY_cfmJQQ9Nl-wTZPF_l6PFvcaY3RdI4c8KJzTGg3RZy-aJHYo-ywtt6W879KPm_GU1avfR84pWGtJ3J_x62nLKBPL5zU29a/s640/blogger-image-1756062339.jpg"></a></div><br></font>
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<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">I will always struggle with grief because this is the journey child loss sends you on. I will always miss her and I will always love her. I will always, always wonder who she should have been. But, I will no longer let her memory be encased in death. As long as I'm living, my triumph she'll be. </span></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="verdana, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRbptH48h3kBEM97uddJ3zrlOFPrAxeJoGLQXkZBQGsEzKP4Iqp2dfCuJE29IdFrlN0yBVfvoZ73vOZQcwY7-B5jF0j9T_RhLjRNVO543MIKTOy_WRJYtP-NhfT16GVEAqbsMTQKdfpF6u/s640/blogger-image-481806149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRbptH48h3kBEM97uddJ3zrlOFPrAxeJoGLQXkZBQGsEzKP4Iqp2dfCuJE29IdFrlN0yBVfvoZ73vOZQcwY7-B5jF0j9T_RhLjRNVO543MIKTOy_WRJYtP-NhfT16GVEAqbsMTQKdfpF6u/s640/blogger-image-481806149.jpg"></a></div><br></font>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-19128133558179176912017-02-21T11:17:00.002-05:002017-02-21T11:17:28.917-05:00Run Kenley Run Playlist #8: Reason to Believe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The week before her birthday is a morbid countdown for me. Even though I have tried really hard this year to make February more positive, I still can't escape this. I can't stop myself from remembering - from reliving. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was swollen and my blood pressure was high. I had contractions for days, but I didn't know it. She was twisting herself into oblivion, but I didn't know it. Work threw me a baby shower and I felt her move for what would be the last time. I spent the day before her birthday wrapping teal and green ribbon around the base of her crib, but she was already gone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This week brings me back to that hard, raw pain. This week forces me to remember the noise of my own screams and the silence of where hers should have been. I thought maybe running this half marathon would somehow distract me enough where it wouldn't hurt so much, but I was wrong. The last week in February will always be my own personal Hell Week. I suppose the only difference this year is I have some sort of personal success to look forward to. The anticipation of that achievement has to carry me through. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This week is when I need my strength the most. It's the week where I am holding all the ropes I have with all of my might to keep myself from shattering. I can feel myself breaking apart inside. I can feel the holes where she is missing opening up even wider, the walls of my heart weakening around them. As I tumble through this week, I am constantly on the verge of tears, perched precariously upon the edge of a spiral into darkness. Granted, I get better at holding myself together as each year passes, </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> but the point remains <i>I still have to</i>. That will not change. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The desperation in this song reiterates how I feel in trying to power through this week - how I will feel every final week of February until my life runs out of them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Just one more breath, I beg you please<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Just one more step, my knees are weak<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />My heart is sturdy but it needs you to survive<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />My heart is sturdy but it needs you</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Breathe, don't you want to breathe<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I know that you are strong enough to handle what I need<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />My capillaries scream, there's nothing left to feed on<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />My body needs a reason to cross that line<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Will you carry me there one more time?</b></span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><b><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /></b></span>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-25006150074160107322017-02-15T11:32:00.002-05:002017-02-21T09:54:38.477-05:00Run Kenley Run Playlist #7: Titanium<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The only way to survive a lifetime of grief is to eventually become stronger than it. When you first begin putting yourself back together after the initial shock wave has demolished you, your pieces are weak. They easily re-shatter. You feel like you are in a constant state of breaking apart and reassembly - like a repeating loop of a car detonation - exploding out and coming back together over and over and over. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Eventually, after what seems like a million lifetimes of breaking apart and piecing yourself back together, you manage to stay adhered for longer and longer. You still shatter every now and then. You still break apart, but you become defiant about it. You look grief in it's ugly, little face and you tell it you won't let it beat you. No matter how many times it tries to tear you down, you will always put yourself back together. You will always get back up. You will always keep fighting. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><b>I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><b>Fire away, fire away</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><b>Ricochet, you take your aim</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><b>Fire away, fire away</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><b>You shoot me down but I won't fall</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><b>I am titanium</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><b>You shoot me down but I won't fall</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><b>I am titanium</b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For me, this song is a big <i>F You</i> to grief. Shoot at me. Break me down. Slice me open. Do your worst. I'm not going to let you win. I have allowed myself to be beaten for far too long and I am <b>done</b>. I know I will always hurt. I will always miss my Ninja fiercely. But I am not going to give in to that hopelessness that keeps me broken. I will continue to put myself back together. I will continue to walk through the fire. Day after day after day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Being weak has made me strong. I am titanium. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You shout it out,</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>But I can't hear a word you say</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I'm talking loud, not saying much</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I'm criticized but all your bullets ricochet</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Shoot me down, but I get up</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Fire away, fire away</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Ricochet, you take your aim</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Fire away, fire away</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You shoot me down but I won't fall</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I am titanium</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You shoot me down but I won't fall</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I am titanium</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Cut me down</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>But it's you who'll have further to fall</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Ghost town and haunted love</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Raise your voice, sticks and stones may break my bones</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I'm talking loud not saying much</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Fire away, fire away</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Ricochet, you take your aim</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Fire away, fire away</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You shoot me down but I won't fall</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I am titanium</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You shoot me down but I won't fall</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I am titanium</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I am titanium</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I am titanium</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Stone-heart, machine gun</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Firing at the ones who run</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Stone heart loves bulletproof glass</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You shoot me down but I won't fall</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I am titanium</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You shoot me down but I won't fall</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I am titanium</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You shoot me down but I won't fall</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I am titanium</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You shoot me down but I won't fall</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I am titanium</b></span></div>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-64701291578613921592017-02-09T14:57:00.002-05:002017-02-09T17:48:03.775-05:00Run Kenley Run Playlist #6 I Lived<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When our children are born, we automatically want the best for them from day one. We want them to live a life of greatness. We want them to accomplish their dreams and to have as few regrets as possible. We actually want this long before they are born. Before they are born, we have already pictured teaching them how to ride a bike, watching them teeter, then totter, then soar down the road. Before they are born, we have already imagined soccer games and dance recitals, first dates, school dances, and college graduations. We have already pictured a full and happy life for our child. And when they die before they've lived, it all crashes down in the cruelest of ways. It becomes an alternate timeline that we carry on our backs - a timeline we assume responsibility for. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Instead of teaching our child to ride a bike, we may instead train for a triathlon. Instead of taking them to dance class, we may teach ourselves how to salsa. Almost every Loss Mom I know has done something for the specific purpose of honoring the life their child didn't get to live. From taking on a huge endeavor of starting a non-profit organization to something as simple as walking on the beach once a week. We ALL do something to bring the life they should have had into the life we lead. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I already have so many regrets. I regret not paying attention to her movements. I regret not going to the doctor sooner. I regret not giving her the only bath she'd ever have. I refuse to live a life that will create more regret. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Kenley taught me to take chances. She taught me that consequence is better than regret and that life is here to live - not to watch. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Hope that you spend your days, but they all add up</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>And when that sun goes down, hope you raise your cup</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Oh, I wish that I could witness all your joy and all your pain</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>But until my moment comes, I'll say...</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>I, I did it all</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>I, I did it all</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>I owned every second that this world could give</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>I saw so many places, the things that I did</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>With every broken bone, I swear I lived</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My Ninja has taught me to live my life to the fullest - to take those leaps of faith that are often so terrifying, yet often also have the greatest reward. Four years ago, I would never have even thought about running a mile, let alone 13.1, and in sixteen days, I will cross the finish line of the Disney Princess Half Marathon. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Every word I have written, every speech I have delivered, every step I have run, is all for her. I live the life she will not live. She is my legacy - and I am hers. </span></div>
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-25205178863729229002017-01-30T14:09:00.000-05:002017-01-30T14:09:26.099-05:00Run Kenley Run Playlist #5: Perfect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's never been a secret that I have struggled with self-image long before loss. This song speaks to that struggle- and to the rebuilding of self both before and after.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In this song, P!nk is talking to someone who is also struggling with feeling confident. She tells them that even though they feel like they are worthless, she sees much more in them. To her, they are perfect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Before Kenley died, I had finally gotten to the point in my life where I was feeling good about who I was, what I looked like, and my place in the world. My fight with self-esteem had reached a point where I was the victor - and I had my demons tied up in the corner. But, Kenley's death changed all that. It not only released the demons I had gotten under control, but it created new ones - and together, they beat me to a bloody pulp over and over and over again. I not only once again hated who I was, but I didn't trust myself either. I had lost all faith in my ability to do anything because I had failed at the most basic of biological tasks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It took me years to regain my footing and to muster up enough strength to start fighting those demons again. Really, this entire Half Marathon Journey is because of my need to beat them. Last February was the turning point from "I have to fight" to "I have to win." Because fighting isn't enough when you're fighting a losing battle. There has to come a moment when you finally deem yourself worthy of winning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This journey has taught me a lot about myself - both who I was and who I have become. This past Saturday, I took a trial run in part of my race costume. I ran through my neighborhood wearing a lime-green tutu. I definitely got some odd looks from people, but it didn't phase me like it once would have. There were moments when I actually laughed at myself - chuckling at my own absurdity. I didn't care what other people thought of me because I knew my reasons for doing what I was doing were valid and wonderful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This song is me talking to myself. It's the healing Me talking to my broken pieces - to the parts of me who still don't feel deserving of happiness or wholeness. It's Me learning to love </span><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">all</b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> of myself again - even the pieces that are still so sharp and jagged. It's me telling myself, "Hey...I know you're hurting. I know you feel like a failure, but you're not. You're amazing. You're a warrior. After all you've been through, you're fu#%ing perfect."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Made a wrong turn</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Once or twice</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Dug my way out</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Blood and fire</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Bad decisions</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>That's alright</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Welcome to my silly life</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Mistreated</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Misplaced</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Misunderstood</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Miss no way it's all good</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>It didn't slow me down.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Mistaken</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Always second guessing</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Underestimated</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Look I'm still around</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Pretty, pretty please</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Don't you ever, ever feel</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Like you're less than</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Less than perfect</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Pretty, pretty please</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>If you ever, ever feel</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Like you're nothing</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Less than perfect</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You're so mean</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>When you talk</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>About yourself, you were wrong</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Change the voices in your head</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Make them like you instead</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>So complicated</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Look how we all make it</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Filled with so much hatred</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Such a tired game</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>meaning</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>It's enough</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I've done all I can think of</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Chased down all my demons</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>I've seen you do the same</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Oh</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Pretty, pretty please</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Don't you ever, ever feel</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Like you're less than</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Fucking perfect</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Pretty, pretty please</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>If you ever, ever feel</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Like you're nothing</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You're fucking perfect to me</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>The whole worlds scared</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>So I swallow the fear</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>The only thing I should be drinking</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Is an ice cold beer</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>So cool in line</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>And we try, try, try</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>But we try too hard</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>And it's a waste of my time</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Done looking for the critics</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Cause they're everywhere</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>They don't like my jeans</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>They don't get my hair</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Exchange ourselves</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>And we do it all the time</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Why do we do that?</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Why do I do that?</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Why do I do that?</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Yeeeeaaaahhh</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Oooooooh</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Oh baby pretty please</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Pretty, pretty please</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Don't you ever, ever feel</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Like you're less than</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Fucking perfect</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Pretty, pretty please</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>If you ever, ever feel</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Like you're nothing</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You're fucking perfect to me</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You're perfect, you're perfect</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Pretty, pretty please</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>If you ever, ever feel</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Like you're nothing</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You're fucking perfect to me</b></span><br />
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-23066581250705350632017-01-19T15:24:00.000-05:002017-02-21T09:54:50.494-05:00Run Kenley Run Playlist #4: Home<div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My sister listened to this song on the airplane when she flew down to be with me after Kenley died. She tells me she "ugly cried". Now, whenever I listen to it, I think of her, alone on an airplane, sobbing as she flies down, only to miss holding Kenley by just a few hours.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This song makes me think of my support system, the people who swooped in when I needed them, who gave me safe harbor in the storm, and who didn't abandon me when my grief didn't go away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So many people walked away from me. Some couldn't handle the initial blast and disappeared right away. Others couldn't handle the fallout and have drifted away over the years. And, at first, that really bothered me. It hurt. Sometimes, it still does. But, honestly, I am at the point where I am beyond forcing people to be a part of my life. It's not worth it. You're either in or you're out - make up your mind because I have things to do and my life will carry on with or without you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But, for every person who left, there is one who stayed, one who came back, and one who came in. So, even though my circles are vastly different from what they were on February 24, 2013, they are truer and tighter. The relationships I cultivate now are deeper and more meaningful. I appreciate them more. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Loss changes everything. From who you are to who you love to who loves you. Years are often spent losing one relationship after another. But, we come to cherish the ones who stay. We create a warm little nest full of the people who make us happy - who understand us (or at least try their best to). It takes a long, long while, but, eventually, we make it Home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Hold on to me as we go</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>As we roll down this unfamiliar road</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>And although this wave, wave is stringing us along</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Just know you're not alone</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>'Cause I'm gonna make this place your home</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Settle down, it'll all be clear</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Don't pay no mind to the demons</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>They fill you with fear</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>The trouble—it might drag you down</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>If you get lost, you can always be found</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Just know you're not alone</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>'Cause I'm gonna make this place your home</b></span><br />
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-77680575714800413922017-01-17T14:19:00.000-05:002017-01-17T14:19:45.290-05:00Run Kenley Run Playlist #3: Fight Song<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This song was released in February 2015, two years after Kenley died. It came out at a time when I had finally shaken off the fog of the early days, had struggled past simple daily survival, and was ready to actually start LIVING again. But living is harder than it looks. Living involves more than just getting through the day. It involves planning ahead and trusting those plans will come true. It involves enjoying as many moments as you can as they are happening without being constantly distracted by grief. Living means letting go of pain so you can hold on to something else.</span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At that time in my life, this song made be believe I could make my way into calmer waters - that I could finally - <i><b>finally</b></i> - start being a person again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2015 was also the year I posted "<a href="http://onepinkballoon.blogspot.com/2015/01/a-letter-to-my-doctor.html" target="_blank">A Letter to My Doctor</a>" and Kenley's reach started to go global. The tiny stone I dropped into my own internet pond created ripples across the loss community bigger than I could ever have thought possible, and I am grateful every day to have the opportunity to be heard and to educate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This song makes me feel powerful. Even though I am just one person, I can make a difference. I can make changes in my community and my life with my words and my actions. I can overcome the constant pull of grief and live a life that has purpose again, even if that purpose is something I'd never imagined it would be. I can take back my life - my body - my joy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>"I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become" -Carl Jung</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I choose to become myself again. This is never going to be an easy road. I'm going to have to work hard and fight to keep myself on track. That's just the way it is. But, it's okay. I've still got a lot of fight left in me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Like a small boat<br />On the ocean<br />Sending big waves<br />Into motion<br />Like how a single word<br />Can make a heart open<br />I might only have one match<br />But I can make an explosion<br /><br />And all those things I didn't say<br />Wrecking balls inside my brain<br />I will scream them loud tonight<br />Can you hear my voice this time?<br /><br />This is my fight song<br />Take back my life song<br />Prove I'm alright song<br />My power's turned on<br />Starting right now I'll be strong<br />I'll play my fight song<br />And I don't really care if nobody else believes<br />'Cause I've still got a lot of fight left in me<br /><br />Losing friends and I'm chasing sleep<br />Everybody's worried about me<br />In too deep<br />Say I'm in too deep (in too deep)<br />And it's been two years<br />I miss my home<br />But there's a fire burning in my bones<br />Still believe<br />Yeah, I still believe<br /><br />And all those things I didn't say<br />Wrecking balls inside my brain<br />I will scream them loud tonight<br />Can you hear my voice this time?<br /><br />This is my fight song<br />Take back my life song<br />Prove I'm alright song<br />My power's turned on<br />Starting right now I'll be strong<br />I'll play my fight song<br />And I don't really care if nobody else believes<br />'Cause I've still got a lot of fight left in me<br /><br />A lot of fight left in me<br /><br />Like a small boat<br />On the ocean<br />Sending big waves<br />Into motion<br />Like how a single word<br />Can make a heart open<br />I might only have one match<br />But I can make an explosion<br /><br />This is my fight song (Hey!)<br />Take back my life song (Hey!)<br />Prove I'm alright song (Hey!)<br />My power's turned on<br />Starting right now I'll be strong (I'll be strong)<br />I'll play my fight song<br />And I don't really care if nobody else believes<br />'Cause I've still got a lot of fight left in me<br /><br />No I've still got a lot of fight left in me</span></b></span><div>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-45299953912848899302017-01-13T08:33:00.001-05:002017-01-13T08:33:33.027-05:00The Dragon<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can feel the rumbling. Deep and guttural. The Dragon is stirring. He is shifting in the darkness, stretching his claws. I have quite literally tried to outrun him, but I know he will catch up to me. This whole time I have been running, I have known this. I have felt his hot breath on my neck. My old scars have ached with remembering. And the truth is, I can't escape this. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I feel weak and powerless. I feel like no matter how hard I try, February will still devour me. Chew me up and spit me out - again. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And the anticipation of what's to come makes me want to hide beneath my blankets until March.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The reliving has begun. The happy memories of pregnancy are tainted with what I know what is to come. The jokes I made about heartburn. My attempt at painting my own toenails. My baby shower. My maternity photo session. All counting down to my own personal D-Day. It all feels so pointless. Not all the time - just these memories - just these months. Everything good that happened from now until February 25th feels like blood money. I paid the ultimate price for those memories and I don't know if they will never not be tainted. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today, I am tired. I am wondering if I will be successful in my attempts to fight the Dragon that I know is coming for me. I've been polishing my armor and sharpening my sword. I've been keeping my eyes on the prize, visualizing my victory. But, as I begin to hear him start to wake, I am terrified it won't be enough. Already, my armor feels impossibly heavy - my sword awkward and unwieldy. These last few months have been nothing but preparing for right now, and I am scared he will still overtake me. Actually, I know he will. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He will rise from his cave and swoop over me like a thunderstorm. He will sink his claws into my back, his jaws into my neck. He will rip into me as I run. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">These next six weeks will be the hardest six weeks of this journey because I have to continue to work just as hard as I have been, but I will have to do it while being shredded by the Dragon. I will have to drag myself, limping and bleeding, through the rest of my training and across that finish line. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tomorrow, I run eleven miles. And as I run, I will turn my music up to drown out his growls. He's coming for me, but I won't go down without a fight. </span><br />
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-81002392512320164562017-01-11T08:34:00.001-05:002017-01-11T08:35:59.649-05:00Run Kenley Run Playlist #2: Compass<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I am not the biggest fan of country music. The Dixie Chicks and Lady Antebellum are pretty much the only two country bands I listen to - and a little bit of old school Garth Brooks once in a while because, hey, who doesn't have friends in low places? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I found "Compass" while searching for songs to add to my running playlist and it made me cry. Honestly, a lot of songs do because this is a pretty emotional journey I am purposefully taking, but this one, despite its peppy beat, simply wrecks me everytime. As my runs increase, and I am out there for a few hours focusing on both my body and why I am making my body do this, it's physically impossible not to cry, especially when this song comes on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The road of grief is winding and often very, very dark, and it's easy to get hopelessly lost. This song talks about your heart being your compass, and following it wherever it may go. I feel like that is how I have approached this journey from day one - doing whatever my heart needed me to do. Sometimes, my heart needed me to write. Sometimes, it needed me to speak out. Sometimes, it needed me to volunteer. Now, it needs me to run. So, I have done all of these things as demanded by my heart, and I truly feel that letting it guide me has been a key part in my healing. All of these things have helped light the way and have helped me understand the road - and myself - a little better.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">No one knows what they are doing when it comes to this journey - whether in grief or just in life - so we all just find our way the best we can. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>"Compass" by, Lady Antebellum</b></span></div>
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<b style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Alright</span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Yeah it's been a bumpy road</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Roller coasters</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>High and low</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Fill the tank and drive the car</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Pedal fast, pedal hard</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You won't have to go that far</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You wanna give up 'cause it's dark</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>We're really not that far apart</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>So let your heart, sweet heart</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Be your compass when you're lost</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>And you should follow it wherever it may go</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>When it's all said and done</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You can walk instead of run</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>'Cause no matter what you'll never be alone (never be alone) oh oh oh</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Never be alone oh oh oh</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Forgot directions on your way</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Don't close your eyes don't be afraid</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>We might be crazy late at night I can't wait til you arrive</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Follow stars you'll be alright</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You wanna give up 'cause it's dark</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>We're really not that far apart</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>So let your heart, sweet heart</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Be your compass when you're lost</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>And you should follow it wherever it may go</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>When it's all said and done</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You can walk instead of run</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>'Cause no matter what you'll never be alone (never be alone) oh oh oh</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Never be alone oh oh oh</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You wanna give up 'cause it's dark</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>We're really not that far apart</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>So let your heart, sweet heart</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Be your compass when you're lost</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>And you should follow it wherever it may go</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>When it's all said and done</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You can walk instead of run</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>'Cause no matter what you'll never be alone (never be alone) oh oh oh</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Never be alone oh oh oh</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>When it's all said and done</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>You can walk instead of run</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>'Cause no matter what you'll never be alone</b></span><br />
<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-39968573108286797032016-12-27T18:12:00.000-05:002016-12-27T18:12:49.949-05:00Run Kenley Run Playlist #1: Inner Ninja<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I went on vacation the summer after Kenley died, I made a <a href="http://onepinkballoon.blogspot.com/2013/06/kenleys-playlist-1.html">playlist</a> for some of those days full of songs that spoke to my grief or my healing. I did the <a href="http://onepinkballoon.blogspot.com/2014/04/pipers-playlist-1.html">same thing</a> in the days leading up to Piper's birth. So, it seems fitting that I create a blog series of songs that are getting me through to February 26th, 2017. <br />As my running distance increases each week, I have to find more songs to fill the time. This song has been in my iTunes for a while now, but I have only recently added it to my runs. Obviously, the title was what grabbed me first - and the beat is catchy and uptempo - but it's the words in the second verse and the chorus that really make this song meaningful. <br /><br /><b><i><br />Hey yo, I've been high and I've been real low<br />I've been beaten and broken but I healed though<br />So many ups and downs, roughed up and clowned<br />We all got problems, but we deal though<br />I'm tryin' to do better now, find my inner peace<br />Learn my art form, and find my inner Chi<br />When my backs on the wall, I don't freeze up<br />Nah, I find my inner strength and I re-up<br />Here we go, I know I've never been the smartest or wisest<br />But I realize what it takes<br />Never dwell in the dark cause the sun always rises<br />But gotta make it to the next day<br />It's a feeling that you get in your lungs when you run<br />Like you're runnin' outta air and your breath won't come<br />And you (uh) wheezin', gotta keep it movin'<br />Find that extra (uhn) and push your way through it<br /><br />I've had bad habits but I dropped em, (I dropped em)<br />I've had opponents but I knocked them out<br />I climbed the highest mountains<br />I swam the coldest seas<br />There ain't a thing I've faced that's been too much for me</i></b></span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Grief is hard work. Yeah, it looks like a few years makes it easier, but that's not true. I have worked harder than anything in my life to get through the coldest sea imaginable. I continue to work every day to keep myself afloat. I am proud of that. It isn't just because time has passed. Time does nothing to heal. WE heal OURSELVES. We do whatever we can to climb that mountain of grief every day. We learn the mountain. We learn its crevices and cracks. We learn the shortcuts - oh wait - there aren't any. We push through the day with everything we have and some days are definitely more victorious than others. But, we find that part of ourselves that WANTS to make it through and we hold on to it hard and tight. That part of me that wants to be happy - that wants to face her day with joy - that wants to triumph over the cold, dark days of February (and many others) - she's my Inner Ninja. </span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><b>Chorus:</b></i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><b>Nobody's gonna see me comin'<br />Nobody's gonna hear a sound<br />No matter how hard they're tryin'<br />Nobody's gonna bring me down<br /><br />Nobody's gonna see me comin'<br />Nobody's gonna hear a sound<br />No matter how hard they're tryin'<br />No stoppin' me since I've found<br />My inner ninja </b></i></span></div>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-21891226711215342182016-08-08T22:36:00.001-04:002017-02-21T09:55:07.693-05:00Reasons to RunI've started my training for the Princess Half Marathon. Slow and steady, I've been following the Galloway method and running and walking in one minute intervals. So far, I feel like I am being successful. I've only worked up to 3.5 miles, but I can keep a fairly good pace - a full two minutes ahead of the required max. You all know that I am running it in honor of Kenley for her 4th birthday. That is true. However, there are deeper reasons to why I am running this race. It's more than just remembering my daughter on her birthday. It's about forgiveness, reconciliation, and survival. I'm running this for her - but I am also doing it for me. Because I have to. Besides honoring Kenley, there are two main reasons why I am running this race. <br />
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<b>Reason 1: Surviving February</b><br />
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It's no secret this past February was really hard for me. If I'm going to be honest, it was absolute hell. Every day was a flashback to horror. Every day felt impossibly heavy and painful. I really wasn't sure I was going to make it through without losing my mind. My fellow loss moms helped immensely. Other people in my life did their best to be supportive, and I am extremely grateful for all of the notes and messages and gifts. But, all of that really just kept my head above water. I was still drowning. <br />
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I can't do that again. I can't continue to do that every February for the rest of my life. I am not strong enough. Her birthday was simply a countdown of pain, and that's not fair to her. She doesn't deserve for her birthday to be filled with pain. She deserves to be celebrated. She deserves to be remembered with joy. And, as of this last February, I am completely incapable of doing that. <br />
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When I was at the Princess Half waiting for my sister to cross the finish line, I noticed there was a buzz in the air. Excitement. Anticipation. Triumph. Joy. People crossed the finish line and threw their hands up in the air. They smiled and laughed and hugged each other. As I watched them finish, I could tell which runners had just accomplished something meaningful to them. Sweaty and exhausted, they still had the energy to dance with joy. They had done something amazing and were celebrating it - and everyone knew it and celebrated with them. As I recall these moments and write them here, I am crying. I am literally crying right this minute because I desperately need a reason to celebrate in February. I need to feel that joy like I need to breathe. Grief is suffocating. It pushes all the air out of your lungs and squashes you flat. It makes you feel like you will never be able to breathe again. And I need to breathe. Most of the time, I can keep grief off my chest. I have my bad days here and there, but I have gotten to the point where I can shoulder this weight. Not in February. In February, I feel like I am dying. And, really, parts of me are. February is so horrible, I am willingly running 13.1 miles at one time to make it more bearable. I need to reclaim February for something beautiful and triumphant. So, I run. I run to have a reason to breathe again. I run to celebrate an accomplishment I NEVER would have accomplished otherwise. I run because I can't continue to face February without something amazing in my pocket. <br />
<br /></div>
<div>
Crossing that finish line will be something worth celebrating. Months of training down to that moment of triumph. I will cross it with a victorious heart - a heart full of love and joy, as it should be. <br />
<br />
<b><br />Reason 2: Reclaiming My Body</b><br />
<br />
<br />
For most of my life, I seriously struggled with body image. I remember thinking I was fat as early as 7 years old. I remember thinking I was disgusting and fat around 12. I remember feeling unworthy of human affection due to my disgustingness around 16. I never developed an eating disorder. Honestly, it was simply because I didn't have the willpower to not eat and I hated throwing up. There were actually times when I was angry at myself for not being able to go a whole day without eating - and days when I tried to think about what would be the most comfortable way to trigger my gag reflex. It was a serious issue. An issue I never really talked about with anyone. I struggled with horrible body image well into my twenties. Around 24, I just got tired of hating myself. I came to a crossroads where I could either stop living - or find a way to bear being alive. I chose to live. I journaled. A lot. I filled pages and pages of journals with automatic self-conditioned words of hatred and slowly and consioulsly, turned them into words of self acceptance. It took me years. YEARS. It wasn't until I was around 30 when I finally got to the point where I liked what I saw in the mirror. From 7 - 30. For 23 years, I hated my body with a firey passion. Then, I had a happy 4 1/2 year span where I actually felt comfortable in my own skin. I was beginning to appreciate my body. I remember thinking "So, THIS is what it's like to not want to claw at your own thighs. Nice!" <br />
<br />
<br />
And then, my body betrayed me in the most awful way it could. It killed my baby. And just like that - I was back to square one. I plummeted headfirst into a deep, dark abyss of body hatred. I couldn't look at myself anymore. Everything about me was wrong and hollow. I ate to fill the holes that were left behind, but obviously, those holes can never be filled - and definitely not with food. I gained weight. I got pregnant again and gained more weight. Even giving birth to a healthy baby girl couldn't restore my trust. My body was not my own. It was a foreign object. A meat suit I wore - a meat suit I hated. I didn't buy myself new clothes. I didn't wear make-up. I didn't care about looking good or feeling good. I lied and blamed being a new mom. I could feel myself barreling towards that crossroads again - and I wasn't sure if I would make the same choice this time. So, I decided I had to take action. I had to take my body back. I had to reclaim it for myself. First, I had to forgive it. I have been doing A LOT of work on that. I will always feel guilty for her death. I know I can't do much to help that. But, I can no longer blame myself. I need my body to be mine again - not this dull glob I hate so much. Reconciling with my body is one of the reasons I run. I run to feel the power in my legs and the air in my lungs. I run to push this cluster of cells farther than it's ever been, to know that it can accomplish great things. Every time my foot hits the pavement in my training, I feel a little freer from the shackles of self hatred. I run because crossing that finish line will be my victory over it. I will be me again. I NEED to be me again. So, I run.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
We all do what we have to do to heal. Right now, what I have to do is to run 13.1 miles on February 26, 2017. I am determined to make this happen. For Kenley. For myself.<br />
<br />
<br />
It is time to take it back. Her birthday. Feburary. My body. My joy.<br />
I will do this. <br />
<br />
<br />
Run, Kenley, Run.<br />
<br /></div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-73179366017732922822016-06-05T22:13:00.000-04:002016-06-05T22:15:20.409-04:00After Boston: Why Choice Matters<p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b><i>This post is a guest post written by Boston's Mom, Jaye. She had something to say and nowhere to say it, so I offered her this space. </i></b> </span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Another day, another abortion restricting law passed.</span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Generally speaking, I get a little frustrated, a little ticked off. I will repost the article on social media, queued up alongside a hastily written, often profane-laced half-rant. I will note the “likes”—and, now, the sad or angry faces—and respond in kind to the WTFs and the SMDHs. And then I move on. Not because it doesn’t matter—it matters infinitely—but because I feel that, at the end of the day, I can do nothing.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">“All I have is a voice, to undo the folded lie…”</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">I have often thought of telling my story in the context of abortion, but other than offhand conversational moments, it has never happened. I think too much and I feel too little, and my story is a little too personal, a little too raw—even after all this time (yes, “Always”)--to spread myself so thin. We know how it works—if you can’t handle others’ opinions, don’t put yourself out there to begin with. To open up something so devastating and so intimate for it to be judged, mocked, ridiculed by those “That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me” seems almost unbearable. But then, I have braved the unbravable a time or two. And my own person notwithstanding—women’s lives are on the line. My voice might change very little, if anything, but I’ll be damned if my silence contributes to another woman’s pain.</span></span></p><p class="s6" style="text-indent: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It broke recentlthat Governor Nikki Haley signed a bill into law that denies a woman an abortion after twenty weeks gestation. CNN reported that “Abortions may be performed after 20 weeks only if the mother’s life is in jeopardy” (cnn.com/2016/05/25/politics/sc-abortion-bill/). Reuters reported that the bill does include a second exception “if severe fatal abnormalities will mean a fetus would definitely die at full-term birth” (mobile.reuters.com/article/idUSKCNOYG2XA).</span></p><p class="s6" style="text-indent: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I am not here to go over the usual abortion arguments. They are already out there, written upon extensively and far more astutely than I ever could. I am here to tell my story. </span></p><p class="s6" style="text-indent: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">To begin: I have never had an abortion. I have also never needed an abortion.</span></p><p class="s6" style="text-indent: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Nevertheless, access to safe, private abortion care is a very real concern for me. Not just because I am a woman and not just because I have daughters. But also because I had a son.</span></p><p class="s6" style="text-indent: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">His name was Boston Wilde. </span></p><p class="s6" style="text-indent: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Our first wedding anniversary was the day my husband, father of four daughters, found out that he had finally made a boy.</span></p><p class="s6" style="text-indent: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I had a normal pregnancy. Some placenta previa, which corrected itself. A nasty bout of pneumonia. Boston had a cleft lip, but we had fought that cleft battle before with my second daughter, so we were ready. In short, everything was fine. There was very little, if anything, drastically abnormal about my pregnancy.</span></p><p class="s6" style="text-indent: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I fantasized about my little boy. Would he be bold and headstrong like his big sisters and mother, or more demure like his father? What would he be like as a teenager? Who would he love?</span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We bought all the baseball things. His baby shower invitations sported a big Boston Red Sox “B”, announcing the celebration of he who was “joining our starting lineup.” Baseballs sat atop the shower cake. We served popcorn, peanuts, hotdogs and nachos, and, of course, Cracker Jacks. My oldest daughter, nearing four at the time, told everyone she met that she was finally getting brother, something she had requested since she was eighteen-months-old.</span></p><p class="s6" style="text-indent: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">A week after my baby shower, everything began to implode.</span></p><p class="s6" style="text-indent: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">On August 7, I checked myself into the hospital. I will not get into the treatment I received that day—nor in the weeks to come—because that is another story. Nonetheless, my water had broken at 34 weeks. The next morning, just before eight a.m., I started having contractions. Hospital staff moved quickly to prepare me for an emergency caesarean, for which I had need to be put under since I could not have an epidural or any significant pain medication. I was scared. I was only 34 weeks, after all but 34 weeks was better than 24 weeks. Pushing down the extreme paranoia, it never occurred to me what I would wake up to.</span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">I awoke about 45 minutes after surgery to excruciating pain and to the nurses marveling with my husband about the baby’s soft, fire-kissed hair. They had allowed my husband to carry our son from the operating room to the NICU. Though he didn’t know it then, my husband would be the only person to hold an alive Boston not attached to life-preserving devices.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Time passed and though I still hadn’t seen my boy, I was reassured he was alive—and big! Thirty-four weeks gestation and he weighed 4 lbs., 15 0zs. and measured 17 ¾”. </span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">The NICU doctor visited us, a grim look on his face. Boston was fine, looking, but something was wrong.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">I still remember his face, that doctor’s, as if this had all transpired just this morning. I locked eyes with him and asked for a matter-of-fact, no bullshit answer. The doctor dropped his pretenses: “50/50 chance of survival. If that.”</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">In that moment, a mere ninety minutes into my son’s life, I knew my baby would die.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;"><br></span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSZHVhjs99vbLTfxfknhyu1z0Pqod3_yugTO87TjEN4Nn1qvDROYb-eKyR6KV_qkK_sfXpMTUUUNMyaHZzb1r0tOV9vVq2UHf4Hn1AJBKhZzKbxu2ab_wQRnAbYc3qSCpmIdnR3LhaYw_/s640/blogger-image-736439510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSZHVhjs99vbLTfxfknhyu1z0Pqod3_yugTO87TjEN4Nn1qvDROYb-eKyR6KV_qkK_sfXpMTUUUNMyaHZzb1r0tOV9vVq2UHf4Hn1AJBKhZzKbxu2ab_wQRnAbYc3qSCpmIdnR3LhaYw_/s640/blogger-image-736439510.jpg"></a></div> <p></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">It took hours to stabilize him for the inevitable transport. We lived in nowhere East Texas, and Boston needed to be life-flighted to Dallas if he had any chance of survival. Twelve hours after his birth, I finally got to see and touch him, this beautiful little boy of mine, for whom we had waited so very long. The flight medic team was there and we were told, repeatedly, that Boston was so weak they were not sure he would survive being moved from one hospital bed to the next, let alone the flight. But he had to go, if there was any hope.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">There was no hope, of course, and had I known then what I know now, I would have disconnected everything and held him on my chest until he died. But I didn’t know, and what was can never be.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Boston did make the flight to Dallas, but we were all in for a night of terror.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">The NICU nurse from the Dallas hospitals called my hospital to inform them the baby was dying. My doctor consented, and, twenty-four hours after emergency surgery, I found myself sitting in the passenger seat of our beat-up minivan, blazing down I-20.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Doctor after doctor. Nurse after nurse. Call after call. “He’ll be dead before you get here. We’re losing him right now. Can your aunt hold him?”</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Please, don’t let my baby died alone.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">At one point, my aunt held her phone to Boston’s ear so he could hear my voice for the first time since he had been ripped from my womb. I told him it was a lot for me to ask of him, but could he please hand on just a little while longer.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">He did, and we made it. I was broken physically, running on sheer desperation, adrenaline, and August-in-Texas heat. I couldn’t walk, so I was wheeled to the NICU where I finally held my baby for the first time.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;"><br></span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;"><br></span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJG1x1DE-qi67RM9aUMFo2JL-cW6xHqfZJmrLhwBs0xK7LpyeRi7TIRjotwgmn7vTN5EMeZWm94ugxQC95t6jI9VQEg-uDf-_Q13pUKUAITv0IxpBZ-HY_INbQIv0OQcVgEEnMMD6AEuj3/s640/blogger-image--1484653599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJG1x1DE-qi67RM9aUMFo2JL-cW6xHqfZJmrLhwBs0xK7LpyeRi7TIRjotwgmn7vTN5EMeZWm94ugxQC95t6jI9VQEg-uDf-_Q13pUKUAITv0IxpBZ-HY_INbQIv0OQcVgEEnMMD6AEuj3/s640/blogger-image--1484653599.jpg"></a></div> <p></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Everything happened so quickly. We were moved into a larger, more private room. The doctor visited. The prognosis was bleak. There is no reason for him to be alive. We have him stable, but we have no idea what is the matter. We intend to keep trying, everything we can, but the reality is…</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">A photographer came to give us the gift of memory. The nurses worried over me, far more than my own doctors had. My aunt stooped down to put socks on my frigid blue feet. I held my boy.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">After things had settled, my aunts, who had kept vigil all night, left for food and coffee. My husband went in search of Advil in attempt to curb the onslaught of pain raging through my body. It was just Boston—Archimedes Boston Wilde English—and his mother. I twiddled his touch-me-please peach fuzz hair in my fingers. I marveled at his size—his tiny fists, black and blue from IVs, his face—so like his big sister’s; his Daddy’s nose. His little body was swollen and yellow-hued, pumped full of the elixir meant to save him. As I whispered everything and nothing to him, he struggled to open his eyes, those mud-colored, jaundiced eyes, desperate to see me, but so fucking tired. </span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">“You don’t have to fight anymore. I am here now.”</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">His blood pressure dropped immediately. The nurse and doctor rushed in and I relayed to them what I had said. The doctor met my eyes quizzically but knowingly, nodding. “Let’s get Dad and the aunts back.”</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">I knew what needed to be done, but I was terrified. I had never watched death live, and everything in me wanted to pass that burden of Boston’s last breaths on to someone, anyone, else. But I held on. He had held on for me, I owed that much to him.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">The staff hovered at the door quietly. As a nurse worked to remove all the wires save the heart monitor, I hurriedly asked about organ, tissue, any donation that could make some sense of losing my only son. There was nothing. He was just too broken. By what, we still didn’t know.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Death wasn’t as dramatic as I had anticipated. Four short bursts of air rattled from his lungs and he was gone, like blowing out a small flame, the only evidence of its having been? The soft trail of smoke it left behind to waft in the air.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;"><br></span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ddVHwQKKFCyZEn8uvJSMW4RG_7o5kNmPyAKR8OC3UkfraVXVzvvQkfduw3BGdQl-Jlsbrp5QDvOeXIBPPk9d-uvHH4juayhN6HJhk8y8Wc02ATzU61A_zXwCYSzX9Gh0i3gu3BqQUTxq/s640/blogger-image--995823887.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ddVHwQKKFCyZEn8uvJSMW4RG_7o5kNmPyAKR8OC3UkfraVXVzvvQkfduw3BGdQl-Jlsbrp5QDvOeXIBPPk9d-uvHH4juayhN6HJhk8y8Wc02ATzU61A_zXwCYSzX9Gh0i3gu3BqQUTxq/s640/blogger-image--995823887.jpg"></a></div> <p></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">We consented to an autopsy. He was cremated and, two weeks later, we held a memorial service where everyone who came to say goodbye sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” I had no idea how haunting the refrain “One, two, three strikes—You’re out!” could be, until my third strike left my family shattered. Then, my husband and I, along with our little girls, had to get on with the hardest part of death—living without him, Boston, our son and baby brother.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">I know you are wondering by now why this is taking so long—it’s the internet, after. And what, exactly, does any of this have to do with abortion?</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">It took four months to get the autopsy results back. In those four months, we prepared for what we thought would be the worst possible outcome—that the results would be inconclusive and we would never know why our baby died. We never anticipated that what caused his death might be just as devastating as actually losing him.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">It’s called Neonatal Hemochromatosis. You have never heard of it. I had never heard of it. Most medical professionals have never heard of it. In fact, most of the time, it can only be diagnosed via autopsy. I am a liberal arts type, so science is lost on me, but the general course of the disease is as follows: there’s nothing wrong with the fetus. It isn’t a fatal anomaly, N.H. In fact, the pregnancy progresses perfectly and the very limited research into N.H. indicates that the fetus is not even impacted until late in the second trimester, potentially even into the beginning of the third. In short, about the time, or after, all these abortion bans passing through state senates like wildfire. Basically, the mother’s immune system rejects the fetus as if the fetus were a bad organ transplant. The mother’s antibodies cross the placenta and attack the fetus’ liver with fatal deposits of iron. This, again, takes place in the latter half (or latter third) of pregnancy. As of today, there are no prenatal preventative measures or even diagnostic techniques.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Some N.H. babies have survived after liver transplant. Almost all die before birth or shortly thereafter. For all intents and purposes, it’s a fatal disease. And it is at least 85% recurrent. Some estimates put that percentage even higher.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Imagine, for a moment, my devastation. As a woman. A wife. A mother. A scholar. A freethinker. A redneck-born, Harry Potter loving, baseball obsessed, liberal girl with no name from nowhere, Little Hope, Texas. Not only have I lost my only son; now I know that my body killed him. </span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">I am the atheist who ate her baby.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">At first, we were told there was no treatment, signaling that we could never have more children. Later, we found out there was a treatment: IVIG infusions that would need to occur weekly, beginning at 14 weeks gestation and culminating just before delivery. Replacing the mother’s antibodies with a donor’s has proven as, or more, successful than the rate of recurrence. Still, IVIG treatments for Neonatal Hemochromatosis are not yet FDA approved (meaning insurance can deny the treatment) and it is costly—some $10,000 per treatment according to one physician I questioned (multiply that by at least 14 weeks).</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">You might be beginning to see how my story plays into the abortion debate, but I will elaborate.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">I could go have my tubes tied. I could get on birth control. My husband could get snipped. We could take all the precautions—and every one could fail and I could become pregnant.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">On the other hand, say we did try to have another child (I suspect that I am infertile from the c-section, but that is also beside the point). Say we took every necessary step to ensure we had healthcare and that the insurance company has assured us that the treatment will be covered, so we press on, conceive, but only to meet that 14 week treatment commencement deadline just to be told the treatment will not be covered. Even if there are recourses we can take against the insurance company, that takes time, and while the bureaucrats fight over the red tape, this fetus inside me is actively being murdered by the body of its host. </span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">What if everything works out perfectly and I am approved the treatment, but I react negatively to it, or I simply cannot physically or emotionally handle the treatment? Am I, an adult American woman, going to be forced by my government to undergo invasive treatment to keep alive the fetus in my body?</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Do you see, yet, the problem here? The nuances of the circumstance(s)? The Pandora’s box of devastation these abortion restrictions open for women like me?</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Where do I fit in these Carolina restrictions? Where’s the slot for Neonatal Hemochromatosis? There isn’t one, you say? You have never heard of it, you say? It’s a minimal factor, you say? I say that almost all late-term abortions are for nuanced reasons the government and its lawmakers will not, and simply cannot, account for.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">According to this new law, what happens to me? My life is not in danger—treatment or no. My fetus, on its own, is fine. Technically speaking, there are no abnormalities or anomalies within my fetus. At 22 weeks, it’s fine. Perhaps even at 32 weeks. But every single day that that fetus is in my body, without treatment, it dies. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">I don’t want to hear about the precautions not taken that got me in this position. We are already there. Some woman, somewhere is already living these nuances. Now what? Do I petition the government? Who decides my fate? Who foots the bill once the government steps in? Who tells me that I must undergo treatment, that I must put my body through it, that I must buy a product I do not want? Or who tells me I must become a walking tomb to satiate your religious zealotry and bloodlust? Where does this fanatical, absolute regime end and reason and poetry begin?</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">My doctor. My husband. My daughters. Myself alone, if I so choose. We should be making these decisions. It is not the government’s job. The government isn’t set up to account for individual circumstances, so it should not be in the business of passing sweeping legislations over undeniably critical and nuanced situations. This is why we have a Constitution. This is why we have a Bill of Rights.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Neonatal Hemochromatosis is the monster that fosters life while it takes it away. The very body that would carry and sustain my fetus to birth is that same vessel that would see the same baby drown. At some point in my pregnancy, my body would become life support. The fetus will die, before birth or shortly thereafter. These are the fact of N.H. without treatment. There is no praying or hoping that those facts might change, and that, on its own, as a reason to carry a pregnancy to term, is a religious implication borderlining on violating my freedom of—or FROM—religion.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">The government was not there when Boston died. There was no lawmaker present when I signaled to the doctor that it was time, no Senator or Governor spouting off about the sanctity of life. I got to make that call. It is both my daily burden as well as the only gift I was ever able to give my son—letting him go gently into that good night. The government wasn’t there, then, when I pulled the plug on my already born son. How in the actual hell is it okay for it to intrude in the same scenario if my son were still in my womb?</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">In case you haven’t realized, all these hypothetical situations are deeply troubling to me. I am still grieving my son—my brave, beautiful, sweet, summer boy who comes flickering back to me every time I watch a baseball game, see a lightning bug or BB-8 from The Force Awakens; that amazing little man who should be celebrating his second birthday soon. Any pregnancy befalling me at this point would be so desperately wanted—and so achingly hard. Neonatal Hemochromatosis notwithstanding, there would be no easy outcome. Abortion would be devastating. Treatment would be devastating. No treatment would be devastating. Only one scenario would give us hope for a living infant, and even that treatment, successful as it has been, isn’t foolproof.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Please, please, Citizens, lawmakers, Governors, Americans. Please understand that this abortion issue has been as easy as “adoption or abortion.” It has never been about trite, bloody signs. Abortion is a deep river whose nuances are extreme and limitless and as vast as the multi-faceted face that is Woman. Please stop legislating grieving women into boxes that only contribute to their dying. You don’t know. You never did know. You aren’t equipped to know. You are too big to know.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">I am not here to argue about early abortions or those later abortions that aren’t because of medial issues (those I support as well, as I unequivocally support a woman’s right to choose to do whatever she will with her own body). Others have argued those and, again, far better than I ever could. I am only here to speak for myself—one solitary woman—and to advocate for myself, my son, and other women and fetuses like me and mine who do not fall into the neat little spectrum state after state is legislating. N.H. is just one of any given number of diseases that you haven’t accounted for because you have never heard of them. Not being educated is the worst possible place from which to pass laws that have very severe, very immediate, very real, very devastating consequences for real women like me.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">The party so concerned with big government’s intrusion into private lives is awful quick to tell me what to do with my womb.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">You don’t want to hear my story. You don’t want to face the very real nature of infant mortality. I have heard that since the day Boston died. It is a study in disbelief, though, that, in my experience, those ardently pro-life are those who tend to turn themselves off to any discussion of Boston, telling me to pack up the Boston Box and move on. Whereas those who lean pro-choice are the first to remember him, say his name, ask about him, love me right where I am in my grief.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Because the latter know that there is more to life than living, and there is more to death that an end.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">Let’s be real here: the reason I do not fit into these abortion restriction laws is because these laws are passed under false pretense. Lawmakers pandering to the radical pro-life right aren’t really concerned about fetuses, neither are those who claim to be “pro-life.” Those who claim these labels are nothing more than pro-birth. Would the government, after forcing me to carry a dying fetus to term, cover his medical costs, a transplant, his or her funeral? Where does it end? At birth. It ends at birth. Laws such as these are misogyny spray-painted with gold and wrapped with a bow. They look good on the outside, and they sound good on Sunday morning, but the real stories within reek. These laws aren’t about saving babies—they are about restricting women. </span><span class="s7" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px; font-style: italic;">You aren’t important enough, smart enough, educated enough, man enough to make your own decisions.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">You cannot legislate religion and you cannot keep women as second class citizens forever. And that is all this really is.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">To my sisters who have had abortion(s): I joy with those of you for whom it was the best choice. And I weep with those who had to make a bitter, heartbreaking decision but for whom abortion was necessary. Don’t let the world tell you that you can’t grieve. To both of you—your reasons, if any there are, are valid.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; padding-left: 36px;"></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 14.399999618530273px;">To the lawmakers: we will not be broken by you. Our grandmothers fought this battle before us, and we will continue the war. Because women are worth it and because, contrary to the dogma surrounding the debate, their fetuses deserve dignity as well.</span></span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ61S0T8YCgyZ-_FrP7wXeICl_DT0bxdDH1Dhmcx1TngkMlnsxGACU2BFg9KNiu-Wep2e97YayFXioga3gEemxL7MInzDAPNjjScC7wflhhJEZUIU4xdJ0VN58b_Wa5dCDD9IpjFncoKja/s640/blogger-image-998538826.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ61S0T8YCgyZ-_FrP7wXeICl_DT0bxdDH1Dhmcx1TngkMlnsxGACU2BFg9KNiu-Wep2e97YayFXioga3gEemxL7MInzDAPNjjScC7wflhhJEZUIU4xdJ0VN58b_Wa5dCDD9IpjFncoKja/s640/blogger-image-998538826.jpg"></a></div> <p></p><p class="s5" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 2.4;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-82366440566329811712016-05-14T21:00:00.001-04:002016-05-14T21:06:29.849-04:00StagesAnyone who has been through the loss of someone they love knows the traditional 5 stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance) don't actually happen in that order and often occur over and over, often at unexpected times. I suppose from a clinical perspective, the 5 stages can help some understand grief a little better. However, I came across a picture recently that I think explains the stages of grief pretty well. <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRi9MXYCcJYsoyOQg80di7377ZYOuvAntxoPM94A3Us8RoamvVqiE5hEcdaFL-WJWXS1uu8v0SvL66Z6UNPuJPtccPe3QuOj9BC0R_rHGlXF-WKZ_O0M4_rcxZgg5NqL-y9QOwPDiCwcPm/s640/blogger-image--183823532.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRi9MXYCcJYsoyOQg80di7377ZYOuvAntxoPM94A3Us8RoamvVqiE5hEcdaFL-WJWXS1uu8v0SvL66Z6UNPuJPtccPe3QuOj9BC0R_rHGlXF-WKZ_O0M4_rcxZgg5NqL-y9QOwPDiCwcPm/s640/blogger-image--183823532.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Let's break these down, shall we?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>The Beginning: </b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">If you've been reading my blog since March 4, 2013, you have seen my beginning. The beginning is darkness. It is pain and confusion. It is heart breaking and soul shattering. In the beginning, you can't breathe without the jagged pieces of your heart slicing you to bits. You feel like an elephant is sitting on your chest while the world carries on without you. You don't want to leave your house, let alone your bed, but you often force yourself to, and when you do, you are bombarded and overwhelmed by things that never bothered you before. Every minute of every day is spent hurting. There is no relief. No break in the constant battering of your heart. You are drowning. You spend half of your time wishing to die and half of your time fighting to live, and some days you aren't sure what side will win. But, you don't die. Slowly, slowly, slowly, you muster up enough strength to start gathering up your broken pieces to put yourself back together. You can't always hold them all, and the sharp shards often slice right though you, forcing you to take a break and heal some more before carrying on. You have no idea what you're supposed to do with all of these pieces. You just know you can't continue to have them scattered everywhere, covered in your blood. This brings you to The Middle. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>The Middle: </b> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">You've figured out how to hold all of the pieces of your shattered self. You've polished them up and wrapped the really sharp edges in fabric so they don't cut you as much. They slip and slide around, and you still get sliced up pretty often, but you're not the bloody mess you used to be. For a while, you just carry them around with you because you're not really sure what to do with them. You realize that many of those pieces are too smashed to be of any use to you now, and although it hurts to see them go, you start leaving pieces behind. You take what's left and fashion them into something presentable. You fill the holes with what you find along the way. As you go, your old pieces, already weakened, start to fall away, leaving even more holes. So, you continue to patch yourself with new pieces. You keep doing this until you realize you are made up of entirely different material than what you started with. You have discarded every fragment of your old self and have rebuilt who you are from the core. You spend time trying to understand this new person and how she fits in to your old world. Sometimes, parts of your old world are discarded too. You just don't belong there anymore. Every day, you learn more about who you are becoming where you need to be. The ache in your bones becomes familiar and y<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">ou begin to walk with less of a limp. Even though you are covered in cracks and scars, you are stronger than you were before. Not a moment passes where you don't hurt, but the hurt has become bearable for the most part. You still have moments where it knocks the wind out of you and brings you to your knees, but those moments aren't constant. You've learned how to breathe again. And you come to realize that this is the way it's going to be for The Rest of Your Life. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>The Rest of Your Life</b>:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This is where I am now. I am not drowning in grief. I get knocked out of my boat every now and then, but I have taught myself to swim and I know how to navigate this ocean. I have pieced myself back together into this new person that I am just now learning how to love. It's been three years. It's no secret this third year has been really hard for me. It is in this stage where you realize that it will always be hard. It will always hurt and you will always have to fight. But, you've learned super secret ninja skills and you know how. Most of the time, you are okay. You still hurt, but you know how to carry it. Your day to day life isn't consumed with surviving and you're able to focus more on actually living. Sure, you still get knocked down. You always will. But, you'll always get back up. Because, this is the rest of your life... and you have a long way to go.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-91300841375132410722016-04-28T14:57:00.001-04:002016-04-28T20:46:55.116-04:00Lost in a LegacyYesterday, I presented at the <a href="http://neonatalsymposium.com/" target="_blank">First Coast Neonatal Symposium</a>. This was my third time speaking in front of a group regarding stillbirth education. Each time I speak, the presentation goes well. People pay attention. No one is on their phone. I don't fumble for words. I just talk about each slide and show the video at the end. I have received a standing ovation every time. There are always people who approach me afterwards to thank me for speaking and to tell me how important this message is. I love feeling like I made a difference. There's a tiny little bit of healing that takes place on these presentation days - a little piece of my heart's gaping wound that seals with some scar tissue. <br>
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But, the few days leading up to the presentations and the mornings of are an emotional mess. I don't really have difficulty speaking in front of large crowds - that's actually not a big deal for me. As a teacher, I have a lot of experience talking to people in big groups. I do get nervous that I'm presenting in front of medical professionals. I have no background in medicine and I feel very out of place trying to tell this community how to do their job. I realize that my perspective and experience are what make my presentation so important, but I still struggle with feeling worthy of being listened to. I am guessing that will come with time and more presentations. As I do this more and get more positive feedback, I will probably start feeling more confident in the importance and validity of my message. <br>
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What I don't think will ever get better, though, is how my heart feels as I prepare to present. The hardest part of these presentations is the reason why I am doing them. I organize my slides and I think of those days in the hospital. I think of all the things I was able to do and all the things I missed out on. I think of the living baby I didn't get to have and the silent one I didn't get to bring home. I write out notes on what I am going to say, and I miss her so much it physically hurts. Honest to goodness pain in my chest - an empty ache that radiates from the hollows of my heart. The morning of the last presentation, I was given breakfast before the symposium began. I sat there, alone at a big round table for ten, trying to will my hand to bring the fork to my mouth. I couldn't do it. The few bites I got in sat in my stomach like rocks. I could only think about how broken I felt. How absolutely empty. I was about to speak about stillbirth because my daughter was stillborn. The death of my first daughter brought me to that point in my life. It took everything in me to keep the tears clouding my vision from running down my cheeks. It took all of my strength to hold myself together and not crumble to pieces right there in Banquet Hall 2. As much as I love to bring a voice to our children, it takes a lot out of me.<br>
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It is hard feeling proud of something you do in direct relation to the death of your child. It's a really tough concept to come to terms with. Every speech, every email, every Facebook message related to the Letter to My Doctor Snowball, is both a stab and a salve, a paradox of pain and passion. People often tell me how strong I am to do this. To write about this journey. To speak about it so openly and publicly. And, maybe I am. But, it sure doesn't feel like it sometimes. Putting myself out there like I do, I just feel cracked open. An egg on the sidewalk trying to ooze myself back into my shattered shell while everyone stands around and watches. <br>
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The reality of loss is draining. I often feel like the only way I can do her justice is to give this blog and the loss community everything I have, but then I have nothing left for anyone else. Today is Piper's birthday. I have nothing planned because I spent the last week and a half organizing myself for my presentation yesterday. We will have her birthday party Saturday, but today is just another day. She's only two - she doesn't know. But, I just couldn't get it together because the symposium took everything I had. It's hard living in two worlds - shouting for my child who can't speak for herself while still giving my full love and attention to the daughter here beside me. The middle ground is thin and shaky and so hard to balance, and I am really tired. <div><br></div><div>I don't really have a point anymore to this post other than to just tell you that what I am doing is equal parts rewarding and painful. I guess I just wanted you to know.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrEt8gXRNf6f1uqEs0aRsWKAe6uszgfZ45SeEbLlpcvS78Qc8LYIOOzkz66YR5GGEG1ybsIbOOCENyatVCxV0yfDzkOe1-VfGh_oHcNxY8jDMRRsCFTIDp2UfaGrDeIUmXtsK7lzMf1Bgr/s640/blogger-image-510481635.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrEt8gXRNf6f1uqEs0aRsWKAe6uszgfZ45SeEbLlpcvS78Qc8LYIOOzkz66YR5GGEG1ybsIbOOCENyatVCxV0yfDzkOe1-VfGh_oHcNxY8jDMRRsCFTIDp2UfaGrDeIUmXtsK7lzMf1Bgr/s640/blogger-image-510481635.jpg"></a> </div></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br>
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</div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-47554615724531409492016-04-21T11:48:00.000-04:002016-04-21T11:48:22.290-04:00We are ALL MothersMother's Day is right around the corner. Three years ago was my first Mother's Day. Two years ago was the first Mother's Day most people actually recognized me as a mother. Around this time every year, articles and blog posts circle the internet regarding honoring "all types" of mothers. Posts about single mothers, kids with two mothers, mothers who are veterans, mothers with disabilities, adoptive mothers, foster mothers...basically, all types of mothers are talked about and celebrated. Except one. The Heartbroken Mother. Of course, people like <a href="http://carlymarieprojectheal.com/" target="_blank">Carly Marie</a>, <a href="https://abedformyheart.com/" target="_blank">Angela Miller</a>, and Lindsey Henke write beautiful articles celebrating mothers who have lost their children. They are moving and inspiring and we share them with the members of our community in solidarity. Right now, the <a href="http://carlymarieprojectheal.com/the-mother-hearts-i-see-you-project" target="_blank">"I See You"</a> movement is swirling through our ranks, lifting us up and helping us feel a little less broken. We even have an International Bereaved Mother's Day the first Sunday in May, which began in 2010. All of us work so hard to heal, to feel like a whole person. We strengthen the bonds in our community with ways to recognize the mother in all of us, regardless of whether our children are in our arms or in our heart. To a Heartbroken Mother, being recognized as a mother of all of her children is so important. The Loss Community does a stellar job in doing that. The Mainstream Community? Not so much. <br />
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All of the things I just mentioned only exist in the Loss Community. I didn't know about any of these things before I lost Kenley. When I became a Heartbroken Mother, an entire world of sorrow and support opened up to me. And while I am beyond grateful for the undeniable validation and voice this community gives me, I still wish this could translate into the world beyond it. <br />
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I have the luxury of a Rainbow. Because she was born alive, I get wished Happy Mother's Day. I am included in the celebration of motherhood, even though it will always be bittersweet. But, what about those mothers who are still waiting for their Rainbow? Or those who never get one? Are they not Mothers? I know too many women who are completely ignored on the second Sunday in May year after year. Too many women who never get wished Happy Mother's Day because they have no living children. They want someone to remember their babies....and usually it's another Heartbroken Mother. Every once in a while, it's a kindhearted friend or family member, but more often than not their only recognition is within our own community, and while that doesn't make it less meaningful, it still stings. <br />
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International Bereaved Mother's Day is great. It's a wonderful way to include the mothers who don't have all of their children with them. It's a way for them to have a day of healing and recognition. But, it's not the same. We don't always want to be "Bereaved". We don't always want to have to turn to the Loss Community to feel like our children matter - that we matter as a mother. It shouldn't be too much to ask to be included in a standard holiday for mothers when we ARE mothers. <br />
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This Mother's Day, take a minute to think about the mothers who may be living that day in silence - who are spending that day hyper-focused on what should be happening but isn't. Take a minute to recognize that mother for who she is. Remember her children with her. Wish her a Happy Mother's Day. Here....I'll even give you the words:<br />
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<strong>"Happy Mother's Day to a wonderful mother. I am thinking of you and your children today."</strong><br />
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Second to the fear that our child will be forgotten is the fear that our motherhood will be fragmented to only include our living children, or will be ignored altogether. <br />
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Regardless of Rainbows, every mother deserves to be recognized. Every mother deserves to be included in Mother's Day. It's hard work living with pieces of your heart scattered across the stars. <br />
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-13946348992082585462016-04-14T09:46:00.002-04:002016-04-14T09:46:11.191-04:00Rainbow RoadIf your formative years were in the later part of the last millennium, you are familiar with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mario_Kart" target="_blank">Mario Kart</a>, a video game that pits players against each other on a split screen as they race their character's car over a racetrack. While there are several tracks, often racing over lava or under water, the final course of most games is Rainbow Road. Typically, Rainbow Roads appear beneath a starry sky and contain few, if any, railings. Because of this, and other obstacles unique to the course, Rainbow Road is often considered one of the most difficult tracks. It's also usually one of the longest. Rainbow Road is a hard course to master.<br />
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Someone watching a player nagivate Rainbow Road may think, "Oh...that doesn't look that hard. I could do that." In the same way, many people seem to think that Rainbows make life after loss all better - that they are the magical fix to a broken heart. While Piper has indeed been very healing to me, her existence doesn't make the difficulty of living without Kenley just go away. Like the colored turtle shells that send Mario's race car careening off course, there are a multitude of unexpected issues that arise when parenting a Rainbow. Some that even send us over the edge. <br />
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<b>Turtle Shell:</b> When you're holding your infant on a park bench, how to you answer the kind little old lady who asks you "Is this your first?". Do you lie? Do you say yes and sit there while she goes on and on about the joys of parenthood you should be experiencing for the second time? Do you carry on a conversation while your heart is screaming out in betrayal? Do you vaguely tell the truth, give a short "No", and hope the conversation doesn't go from there? Or, do you tell this well-meaning stranger about your first baby - the one who died? Do you sit there and watch her warm eyes shrink into her skull with uncomfortableness as she wishes she'd never asked? No matter what plan you have, it will never go the way you want in that moment, and more often than not, it's a sure-fire day ruiner. <br />
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<b>Turtle Shell:</b> You buy your Rainbow "Little Sister" t-shirts because she is one - and you feel that it's a nice tribute to your firstborn. But, you only dress her in them when you're not going out - or when you're headed to a remembrance event because you're scared of the conversations that might occur otherwise. "Where's your big sister?" And you feel terrible because you can't bring yourself to be comfortable with being so "in the world" about the fact you have more children. In the morning when you're dressing your Rainbow, you see that Little Sister t-shirt sitting in the drawer. You want to put it on her, but you don't because you know you have errands to run that day and you're just not in the mood for what might happen.<br />
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<b>Turtle Shell:</b> You see siblings at the mall. A big sister holding her little sister's hand. Their age difference is similar to that of your two and you instantly wonder what that would be like. What a wonderful relationship they would have had. Of course, they would have fought - all sisters do - but they would have loved and cared for each other like no one else. They would have made mud-pies in the backyard and constructed blanket forts in the living room. They would have been each other's partner in crime. You can hear their giggles now, coming from the back of the house, as they pull each other in to their hilarious private jokes. Every time you see siblings, you think of this. You think about all the things your Rainbow is missing out on - and all of the things your firstborn never got to have. The sadness over this missed relationship eats at you like acid, creating more holes in your already falling apart heart.<br />
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<b>Turtle Shell:</b> You watch your Rainbow grow. Every day, you are amazed by her more and more. From her first breath to her first step to her first day at school, you celebrate each milestone full of so much love. You are constantly thrown off guard by how much you love her - by how your heart skips a beat when you see her smile. You hold her in your arms, nuzzle her hair, wrap her little hand around your fingers, and you can't believe how lucky you are to have such a wonderful child. And then you remember why you do - and it rips you in half. This beautiful and fantastic little human would never have existed had her big sister lived. Every song she sings, every word she says, every picture she draws is because her sister died. <br />
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<b>Turtle Shell with Spikes:</b> The dichotomy is torture - and it's unavoidable. You can't simply forget this reality. This life exists because another does not. It is hands-down the hardest part about parenting a rainbow. Every. Single. Moment. is a reminder of what will never get to be. And, how do you find peace in being grateful for your rainbow when you know the price you had to pay? Even though you know in your heart of hearts you love your children equally, the only way to verbalize this struggle is to paint one life more visible than the other, which is so unfair. You know your Rainbow deserves more than to live in her sister's shadow. You are determined to keep her free of that - yet the shadow exists because only one of your children is still alive. And your firstborn deserves to be remembered and honored, but a memory is hard to hold when it's coated in grief. Some days, this duality seems impossible to maintain. <br />
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Rainbow Road is a hard course to navigate. On top of "regular" parenting challenges, you also have the challenge of finding that balance between two worlds. You have grief complicated with joy. Sadness mixed in with excitement. Pain swirled with hope. You are a walking contradiction, and no one would ever really know unless you told them. You do the best you can every day. You change diapers. You potty train. You cook vegetables. You wipe vegetables off the floor. You strap her into her car seat. You lay her down for her nap. Then, you look at her sister's urn. You touch the necklace with her initial. You lean into the ache she left behind and you wonder how you've managed to get through another day without both of your children. <br />
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Parenting is never easy. Clearly, parents who have never lost a child don't have it easy by any means, but there is an added level of difficulty that comes with parenting after loss. It's a track with the railings removed - where a slight spin out of control can send us straight over the edge and back into the darkness. A glance over at two girls laughing can be enough to shoot me into a cloud of grief for the rest of the day. A flickering thought of whether or not Kenley would also be able to sing her ABC's before she was two like her little sister will spin me around in circles of sorrow for hours. <br />
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There are some days when I think to myself, "I just can't do this." I can't be a parent to both of them. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. I am tired of hitting those shells every day. I am tired of feeling I am leaving out Kenley while parenting Piper. I write blog posts and raise awareness and admin Facebook groups just so I can feel like her life means something, and then, I get caught up in the world of loss instead. I can't be in two places at once, and yet I am - I have to be. And I feel so very unbalanced all the time. <br />
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There are more cars than people realize on Rainbow Road. Not everyone will tell you the child you see is a Rainbow. Not all loss is as visible and vocal as mine. We all zoom around this track the best we can. Sometimes we see those turtle shells in time to avoid them - and sometimes we don't. Sometimes we can keep ourselves from plummeting over the edge, and sometimes we can't. There's really no solution. Having a Rainbow is hard. I don't say this for sympathy, but for understanding. I want you to know what a difficult daily struggle it really is - how it's not as cut and dry as some may want it to be. <br />
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Life completely and irrevocably changes after loss. Nothing is the same. Especially parenting. <br />
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Safe Travels to all my fellow drivers on Rainbow Road. May your day today be free of shells...or at least the next few minutes. <br />
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-48416918422746127812016-04-08T23:12:00.002-04:002016-04-08T23:34:45.439-04:00Don't Judge the PathThere is a phenomenon present in social media that spans almost every public page. It is the need to assert one's own opinion. (I realize I am writing this on my very own blog that expresses my very own opinion, but bear with me for a moment.) Some posts call for an opinion. An example being People Magazine asking their followers who they think should be the Sexiest Man of the Year. All the people commenting would have experience thinking someone is sexy and base their answer on that experience. That's an appropriate use of an opinion. Sadly, opinions are not always used that way. Most often, they are not. The more common use is that of "hey, I know nothing about this topic, but I am going to assert my own thoughts about it because, you know, it's my opinion, man!" <br>
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This is everywhere. From men commenting on women's health issues to people without kids telling others how to parent. It's obnoxious. Jef Rouner wrote a really good article about this called <a href="http://www.houstonpress.com/arts/no-it-s-not-your-opinion-you-re-just-wrong-updated-7611752" target="_blank">"No, it's not just your opinion. You're just wrong.</a>" Yeah, it's your opinion. Yeah, you are certainly entitled to it. But, you have to realize that your opinion - and your reasoning behind it - can be wrong. "It's just what I think" isn't a good defense when you are talking about something you haven't experienced. </div>
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To be clear, I am not talking about what type of pizza topping is the best or what television show deserves the Emmy. I'm talking about actual issues and experiences of other people. If you haven't been there, you cannot tell those who are how to handle it. Period.</div>
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I see this all the time in relation to the Loss Community. I am elbow deep in that community, both by fate and by choice, and I know the women who live there with me. I know their lives because I live it too. We are all a part of an unwilling sisterhood - a sisterhood that understands the deepest, darkest depths of each other's hearts. We remember what it was like before loss - and we live each day in the after. Not a week goes by where someone I know isn't told how they should be feeling by someone who has never lost a child. Not a week goes by where I don't see someone with 100% living children make an assumption about what it is like to lose a child. In the past few days, this has happened excessively - which is what prompted this post. </div>
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You know, I've never dismantled a nuclear bomb, but....I think I'd probably cut the red wire first.</div>
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That sounds like a pretty stupid statement, now doesn't it? That's because it is. That's because there is no validity when there is no experience. </div>
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There is nothing more frustrating in the loss community than an "outsider" telling us how to feel or how they think a situation should be handled. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This happens a great deal on articles regarding memorial photos. People call them "creepy" or "morbid". People say things like, "If I lost a child, I'd never do that." Or, "This mother just needs to let go and move on." Almost always, their comment is prefaced with "I've never lost a child, but..." </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">A recently written article, which I won't reference here because I don't want to give it traffic, included a statement from the author (who has only had healthy, full term pregnancies) that said she thought taking pictures and holding onto keepsakes from a pregnancy that ended in miscarriage would be a "painful reminder" and she wouldn't do it. The community raged against her and she didn't understand why. Here is why.</span></div>
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You don't know how this feels. You don't know how it feels to break into a million pieces of pain and attempt to put yourself back together. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">You don't know what it takes to heal from a loss. It takes more than anyone could ever explain - and the only way you would ever know what this is like is if you had experienced it. To make a claim about how you would act after losing a baby when all of your babies are alive and well is an insult to all of the mothers who are living every day with one or more of their children in an urn - or simply in their memory. It's like sitting on top of a pristine white horse and telling the people trudging through the mud what you would do if you slid off. You're on the freaking horse. You're riding around all comfy and clean. You don't know how this mud feels. You don't know how it coats your skin and weighs you down. You don't know how it dries inside your ears and between your fingers - how it seals your eyelashes together and tastes like death. You don't know what it is like to wake up every day without your child and get through each moment with that hole in your heart. <b>You don't know. </b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I am all for discussing babyloss. I am an advocate for awareness and education - clearly. I love it when people outside of the community want to open up a dialogue and discuss miscarriage or stillbirth. I appreciate the desire to educate and inform. But - educate, don't speculate. Don't decide for Loss Moms how they should feel. Don't presume how you think you'd feel or what you think you'd do or want in that situation - because you don't. (When my nurse asked to take photos of Kenley, I gave her a horrified No. What in the world? Why would I want those? Today, they are the most treasured keepsake I have because now I know just how important they are.) When a Loss Mom comments about how maybe - just maybe - your opinion is wrong - believe her. She has been where you have not. She has been where you truly never want to go. She has taken the pictures of her dead child. She has baked a cake on their first, second, or twentieth birthday. She has created an alcove for their ashes. She has made a shadow box of the outfit they should have come home in. She has done all the things you want to say you'd never do. And yet, the one thing many people say they'd most definitely do - she has not at all - because she is still alive. She has fought to live in the face of grief - and she has done that by doing all those things she is constantly judged for. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So, when it comes to judgement calls regarding how to handle loss, if you've never had to do it, take a seat. Take a seat and listen to the voices of those who have. Don't try to shut us down and tell us who you think we are and how you think we should feel. This is not your life. And if you simply can't refrain from offering your opinion about how we choose to grieve, wipe your brow with relief that you don't have to make these choices, get back on your damn horse, and walk away. </span></div>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-4141476934976283312016-03-14T22:35:00.001-04:002016-03-14T22:42:34.018-04:00Run, Kenley, Run<br />
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Saturday was my fourth time attending the Brianna Marie 5K. For those who don't know, Brianna Marie is the daughter of my friend Aran, who I had not met until the first year the 5K was held. Brianna died as a result of Fetal Hydrops, which is an abnormal accumulation of fluid in areas of the baby's body while in utero. Aran started the Brianna Marie Foundation after her daughter died to help raise money for awareness and research. She works closely with local doctors to help save the lives of babies affected by this condition. Brianna and I share the same birthday, and the first year of the race was also my first birthday without Kenley. Attending the 5K that first year gave me a sense of purpose for that day, and it has been a tradition ever since. <br />
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My first year, I attended but didn't participate because I was still healing from my C-section. The second year, I was pregnant with Piper and had just gotten over being sick, so I didn't walk because I didn't want to chance it. Last year and this year, I walked with Piper in her stroller. What I love about this 5K, besides its wonderful cause, is that friends of mine just automatically sign up to run it in honor of Kenley. I didn't really do a great deal of Facebook promotion regarding it this year, but still, my "regulars" were there - for the fourth year in a row. It really warmed my heart to know that I have people in my life who support me and remember my daughter. I never really had any doubt about this - but it's nice to actually see in action. <br />
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It was a good day for a race. The sun was shining and the temperature was warm. I did my best to keep a pretty good pace and finished with an 18 minute mile, which isn't too bad for walking with a toddler in a jogging stroller. <br />
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After everyone had finished the 5K, we released butterflies in honor of all the babies who are no longer with us. <br />
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My walking partner all ready to go.<br />
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Colleen, Susie, and Me after the race<br />
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My mother, the marathon runner, finished the race, and backtracked to take Piper's stroller from me so I could cross the finish line without it. She's pretty amazing. <br />
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My Little Ham<br />
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Releasing butterflies in honor of Kenley and all the other babies<br />
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Medal winners!<br />
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Confession time: The Brianna Marie 5K was the first step in a year long journey I am about to take. After the race, I headed over to Running Zone and forked over a kidney for a new pair of Asics. Once I got home, I pulled my brand new FitBit out of the package to charge and set up. Today, I strapped Piper back into her jogging stroller and took her for a two mile walk. I'm building up stamina. I'm researching the Galloway Method and am working on a good running playlist. In the beginning of July, I will scramble to get myself registered for my end goal. And on February 26, 2017, I will complete the Disney Princess Half Marathon for Kenley's fourth birthday, most likely in a Ninja-worthy tutu. <br />
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I have no delusions. I know this is going to be hard. I'm almost 38 years old. I'm an out of shape asthmatic. I have a toddler and a husband who works nights, and finding the time to torture myself with long distance running is only one of the many challenges I am going to face this year to meet my goal, but Kenley's Legacy is more than being a voice in the loss community. Kenley's Legacy is also about making me a better person - about making me stronger than I ever thought I could be. Three years ago, when she died, if you had told me this is where I would be, I would have never believed you. Three Years Ago Me would have been convinced that she would have been in a mental institution by now - or maybe even in a vase right next to Kenley. But I'm not. I'm here. I'm surviving. I'm creating a life where she isn't. <br />
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I am going to do this. For her. For me. For the sake of accomplishing something I never imagined I could. <br />
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I'll see you at the finish line.<br />
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Run, Kenley, Run.<br />
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-38578034716795814532016-03-04T10:31:00.001-05:002016-03-04T14:22:00.576-05:00BlogiversaryToday, One Pink Balloon is three years old. Three years ago today, I woke up, belly sore and heart broken, and decided to do what I had always done when my emotions were too tangled to think. I started to write. Today is the day I decided to take charge of my journey and make it my own. Today is the day I refused to be beaten by grief. Clearly, it has not been smooth sailing. The seas at the beginning were angry and rough, and even now there are still days where I feel like I'm drowning. But, I'm still here. I'm still in this ocean, steering through this life as best as I can. Today is the day I broke the silence for the very first time. <div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">At the beginning, this blog was created to help me sort through my emotions and try to make sense of the shattered pieces of my life. I wrote to get my pain out, and my blog became my most important outlet. Whatever was floating around in my head was filtered through my keyboard and onto this page. I pride myself on the fact that every entry of this blog is 100% accurate and true. If I had the words to say it, I said it here. Even if I didn't have the words, I still tried. I credit this blog as the main contributor to my healing. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I am not one to give myself accolades, but I am very proud of what I have done with my little corner of the internet. Not just with A Letter to My Doctor (which, by the way, has over 175,000 views with the video at just under 10,000), but with every post. Every post I have written is every bit of my true self. I have always wanted to be a writer, and this blog has helped me become one. Of course it isn't the story I wanted to tell, but I have done my best to tell it in the most honest way possible. </span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></div></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">My hope is that people reading this blog - whether they've been here since the beginning, or backtracked through once they found me - have been given some sort of insight into what it's like to lose a baby to stillbirth. I hope I have brought comfort to any other loss-mom reading this in knowing she is not alone, that her emotions are valid, and her baby is valued. I hope I have brought awareness to those who need it and educated those in the dark. I hope the stone I threw in three years ago is still creating ripples. </span></div><div><br></div><div>So, I celebrate today. I celebrate the day I refused to go silently into that good night - the day I took the first step towards healing - the day I decided to share this very personal and difficult journey with the world. </div><div><br></div><div>Happy Blogiversary to One Pink Balloon. The words are mine. The legacy is hers. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIyJV2EI30G7bSMFkE7vlqUBn6uxnoIyaaTZB9wOcH5-KoyyRSQB0eSfUlZqU_9Nb4hlgkH3wOjykufCmMqwlJKB8bcmaLYz0Bfyp5r7BDZWXP8BfUIMJ5epbINw5930AnOBGoViFggz0_/s640/blogger-image--1437049707.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIyJV2EI30G7bSMFkE7vlqUBn6uxnoIyaaTZB9wOcH5-KoyyRSQB0eSfUlZqU_9Nb4hlgkH3wOjykufCmMqwlJKB8bcmaLYz0Bfyp5r7BDZWXP8BfUIMJ5epbINw5930AnOBGoViFggz0_/s640/blogger-image--1437049707.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-940448069855639322016-03-01T22:43:00.001-05:002016-03-02T16:36:59.818-05:00To Be or Not To BeWords are important. No one knows this more than a writer. The words you choose are the architecture of your story. They create sweeping entrances with pristine marble columns or humble stone doorsteps strewn with grass and dirt. They build palaces and cottages, soft, rounded arches and angled concrete corners. Language is the structure of thought. Language shapes and changes how people see an idea. Words influence images. It's why politicians have speech writers to craft the exact sentence structure needed to convey the point they want to make. It's why classic books are able to stand the test of time. It's why you get nervous before an important conversation - because you know that what you want to say is only slightly more important than how you say it. Or, maybe it's the other way around.<br /><br />Language Matters. It's why we've stopped using certain words in our society to prevent the spread of hate, ignorance, and destructive ideas. Language can minimize the marginalized or give power to the powerless. Language can be the difference between confirming someone's current ideaology and creating another one. Language is important when discussing race, gender, sexual orientation, religion...really anything near and dear to the human heart. Language matters. The words we choose are vital to the message we wish to convey.<br /><br />You see these phrases on baby shower cards and invitations. You hear them in conversation. "Congratulations to the Mother-To-Be!" "Welcome Baby-To-Be!" The words "to be" seem innocuous enough, but when paired with the word "Mother" or "Baby", their impact becomes greater than you think. "To be" implies "not yet", and while the majority of people may think it's not a big deal to consider a pregnant woman "not yet" a mother, an entire community would emphatically disagree. (To be clear, I am not talking about what consitutes a baby. This is NOT a post about the definition of life, and do not interpret my words as being part of a larger agenda. I am talking about Motherhood, not personhood.) So, why are the words "To be" so important they warrant an entire blog post? Because they influence how Motherhood is interpreted and how mothers are seen in society. <br /><br /><br />"To Be" makes it seem like Motherhood isn't already happening, like it's something that won't happen until a squirming, crying child is laid in your arms. "To Be" creates an end goal, and sets the expectation that pregnancy results in babies. "To Be" minimizes the connection between mother and child by implying that connection is not strong enough to occur before birth. "To Be" says: I'm not a mother yet, but I will be once my baby is born. Feeling her move in my belly is not enough to make me her mother. Passing her nutrients and oxygen through my body is not enough to make me her mother. Carrying her for weeks upon weeks as she grows and develops is not enough to make me her mother. She has to be born. She has to cry and breathe and look up at me with her brand new eyes - and then - wham! - then I will be her mother. "To Be" cultivates a sense of failure in the Heartbroken Mother. That end goal was never met. We didn't actually get "to be" anything but broken. <br /><br /><br /><div>
Mothers of Loss already have to work so hard to be recognized as a mother. I wrote blog post after blog post after blog post detailing my love for Kenley and my agony over losing her. I wrote daily for six solid months, and three years later am still writing about her and championing on her behalf. Honestly, if I wasn't so vocal, would you really think of her as my child? If I told you of her death and never spoke about it again, would you remember her name? Would you still think of me as a mother of two? I have actually had someone recently ask me if I wanted to give Piper a sibling, and when I explained she already had one, I was met with the words, "Oh, that doesn't count." Doesn't count?? Why? Because I was only pregnant with her? Because she didn't actually live outside of my body? How can she not count? Because, I was only a Mother-To-Be.<br /><br /><br />Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will break my heart. <br /><br />"To Be" reinforces the idea that mothers are mothers when their babies are born - and born alive. "To Be" is the reason so many women who ARE mothers don't feel like them, why so many women don't think they have earned the right to carry that title. Because of this, "To Be" creates an atmosphere that promotes silence after loss since no one seems to be able to wrap their brain around a Mother-To-Be who didn't get To Be. <br /><br />A majority of the baby loss community's skin prickles when they see the words "To Be" attached to a baby shower card or hear them in reference to someone who is pregnant. We see it as a slap in the face to our Motherhood - to our children. At this point, the less empathetic reader may be thinking "Oh geez, you're so sensitive. Why should I tiptoe around your feelings? Why do I have to change the language I use because you don't like it?" Well, the fact is, you don't. However, we really should care how we make others feel. We should care about whether or not our words hurt another person. It's simple human decency. The people who snivel about having to worry about hurting someone else's feelings frankly make me sick inside. Why wouldn't you worry about that? Why wouldn't you care about how what you say can affect someone else? <br /><br /><br />Really, it's not just about the feelings of mothers who have lost children. It's about the entire approach to pregnancy and motherhood. We can't keep promoting the idea that motherhood begins when a baby is born. It's just not true. Motherhood begins when a woman decides she is a mother. For some women, it starts with two lines on a stick. For others, it starts when her bladder becomes a punching bag. Rarely - so very rarely - does it delay itself until a squirming baby is laid in her arms. <br /><br /></div>
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Clearly, I don't have such high aspirations as to think I can completely change the way our entire society speaks about pregnant mothers. But, I do know change happens one person at a time. It starts with one person making a decision to do something different. So, I ask for all of you reading this to do one simple thing. Stop promoting "To Be." Stop saying it. Stop buying cards or gifts with those words. (Alternatives are out there. I know because I buy them.) Use different language. Be purposeful with the words you do use. Your pregnant co-worker isn't a Mother-To-Be. She isn't carrying her Daughter-To-Be. They are mother and daughter now. Birth will not change that. Neither will death. When choosing your words, remember that mothers are mothers, regardless of whether their children are in their belly, in their arms, or in the stars. Motherhood is not the culmination of pregnancy. Motherhood doesn't begin when pregnancy ends - it simply continues. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6U57vleJI2Prjr7qdXFP4kC0-VIWoDHkOIjWxonojb9BmTlFZ1y2PpoWaP5w064L04OG7zYlSc8XcbOq2ByK5_M7NbrGhogFDVKaKpklwhUc_cHr8QnT6kOmbNDMK9eB27nPFOFxtw5r9/s640/blogger-image-1821749859.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6U57vleJI2Prjr7qdXFP4kC0-VIWoDHkOIjWxonojb9BmTlFZ1y2PpoWaP5w064L04OG7zYlSc8XcbOq2ByK5_M7NbrGhogFDVKaKpklwhUc_cHr8QnT6kOmbNDMK9eB27nPFOFxtw5r9/s640/blogger-image-1821749859.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-32915089549944124782016-03-01T08:24:00.000-05:002016-03-01T08:24:26.389-05:00A Day with The MouseOur usual birthday tradition has been family photos at Kenley's tree. However, a few weeks before Kenley's birthday, my wonderful friend who takes our pictures told me of a family matter that would take her away to the west coast during that time. At first, I completely panicked. I couldn't have nothing to do that day. I couldn't just let that day pass without something special happening. What was I going to do? After talking to a few friends, I started mulling over the idea about going to The Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World. I had been thinking of getting myself an annual pass anyway to take Piper on the weekends and it would be kind of nice to get some photos of the K in front of the castle. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. What three year old wouldn't love a trip to Disney?<br />
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I knew I had to sell the idea to Mike. He hates crowds and lines and tourists. Good thing Disney has none of those, right? When I brought it up though, he went along with it right away. I think by now he has realized when it comes to me wanting to do things relating to Kenley, it's best to just let it happen. An emotional wife (especially mid-February) isn't something he wants to mess with. So - Disney it is!</div>
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As her birthday got closer, I found myself looking forward to it, which was a nice change from the horrible dread that had hung over me for most of the month. I started thinking about where I wanted to get K pictures and planning the rides Piper would also like. I was thinking about her birthday with a little bit of excitement in my heart - and that was amazing. Honestly, the only thing that got me through those last few days before her birthday was the knowledge that soon we would be going to Disney World. I clung to those plans for dear life. They were my bouy in an angry ocean.</div>
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Kenley's birthday dawned clear and cold. Piper let us sleep until almost 8. (Granted, she was sprawled out in our bed, forming the extra long middle of a capital H, but still....8 am!) I fed her a breakfast of an Eggo waffles and some raspberries and dressed her in a long sleeved tunic dotted with silver stars - in honor of her big sister. Just as we were about to walk out the door, Piper's belly decided the waffles and raspberries were no longer welcome, and she promptly threw up all over her outfit. As I changed her clothes, I worried that my rainbow was sick and we would have to change our plans - which filled me with such conflict I couldn't think straight. She was acting fine, so Mike and I decided that we'd get her in the car and see how the ride treated her. Worst case scenerio, we'd just come home. However, just as we drove into the stretch of highway that included no turnaournds until Disney World, she threw up again - all over her second outfit and her carseat. Twisting in my seatbelt, I cleaned her up as best I could, gave her some water, and she fell asleep. There was nothing we could do at this point. We would have to make a final decision in the parking lot. Obviously, I wasn't going to sacrifice the health of my living child for the memory of my other, but my heart was torn because I had pinned my hopes on this day being such a great day. I didn't know how I would handlle having to go home.</div>
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When we pulled into the parking lot, I woke up Piper from her nap - and she was great. She woke up smiling and happy and refreshed. Whatever the issue was had gone. Maybe it was just a bad berry. Maybe it was Disney Magic. We changed her once again, crossed our fingers because that was our last set of extra clothes, and headed towards the ticket counter. Even though it was close to ten o'clock, we still parked within the first ten rows, which meant the park wasn't nearly as crowded as I had expected it to be. We bought our tickets, used the Disney World App to secure our fastpasses, and headed to the monorail. Piper called it a train and we told her it was a monorail, so for the 10 minutes we waited to board, we got to hear "I ride mon-rail! Mon-rail right there!" I could hear a peppiness in her voice that meant she wasn't feeling sick at all - and I was getting so excited to have a family day with The Mouse. This day was going to be great.</div>
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I took my first K picture at the gates of the Magic Kingdom. I tried getting as many pictures as I could, but with an excited toddler, a crowd-hating husband, and a K going in an out of a backpack, I didn't always have the ability to get a good shot. Also, most of my pictures this day aren't the best quality. You try taking iPhone photos of a K with an almost -two year old tugging at you in a crowd of ten thousand people! You're going to get some blur! No matter the quality, it felt good to take my Ninja to the Happiest Place on Earth. </div>
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We walked through the gates and onto Main Street, where a parade was circling through the square. Even though I have been to Disney dozens of times, I can still see magic on those streets. Now that I can see it through the eyes of my rainbow, it is even more amazing. Piper's eyes lit up at the sight of the characters dancing to the parade music and the floats gliding through the street. The parade was just ending as we neared, so we followed it up Main Street to the castle. </div>
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From the castle, we hooked a left and headed over to Adventureland. </div>
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For whatever strange reason, my husband had never ridden Pirates of the Caribbean, and that issue needed to be rectified. The standby line was only 30 minutes, and it went by pretty fast. The line winds through cave-like rooms full of cannons, barrels of gunpowder, and various other pirate paraphernalia. I am sure the people surrounding us during the wait were just delighted with the constant repetition of Piper's excited "What's that?" </div>
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As we approached the boat loading zone, we were asked how many in our party and directed to row 3. My mom brain quickly connected that to how it was Kenley's third birthday and the very first ride we go on, we are in the third row. I said something to Mike, and he laughed and shook it off. Actually, this wasn't the last of Row 3. For the rest of the day, any time we waited in line, we were directed to Row 3 to load. Every ride. I only got pictures of two of them because I either had already put the K away - or I had a kid in my hands - or there wasn't time - but trust me. I know it's just a mathematical coincedence and it has more to do with numbers and crowd control than it does with my little girl - but it made me smile every time it happened. </div>
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Piper was a little nervous at the beginning and didn't really care for the slight drop into darkness, but once we rounded the corner into the Caribbean, she was happy as a clam, and "What's that?" came back with a vengance. This time the phrase was accompanied with cannon fire and "Oooh, noise!"</div>
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After Pirates, we headed over to use our first Fastpass of the day at Peter Pan's Flight. I tried getting a picture of Piper holding the K, but she wasn't too excited about it. She did enjoy screaming out "Moon!" at the top of her lungs as we flew over London though. </div>
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By now, it was close to lunchtime, so we headed over to Cosmic Ray's Starlight Cafe in Tomorrowland. Mike got in line and Piper and I headed down to Cosmic Ray's lounge where an animatronic alien, Sonny Eclipse, played 40's and 50's era style music. While we waited, I tried again to get a picture of my girls together. I could either get the K facing forward or Piper facing forward, but not both at the same time. Oh well....I guess that's how it is with siblings anyway, right?</div>
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As we were cleaning up from lunch Sonny Eclipse started singing a song called "Oh Bright Little Star", which definitely caught my ear. I looked up the lyrics online and part of them go like this: </div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><i>Oh Bright Little Star, </i></span></div>
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<i>though I'm light years away from her now</i></div>
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<i>I can't help but to feel that somewhow </i></div>
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<i>we're both wishing on you</i></div>
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<i>I imagine your light in her eyes as she gazes up into the sky</i></div>
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<i>At this moment does she realize</i></div>
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<i>you are in my eyes too</i></div>
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<i>Someday, somewhere I will find her</i></div>
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<i>In a universe up above</i></div>
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<i>Tell her, little star, I'll surround her</i></div>
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<i>With all my love.</i></div>
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Now, obviously, these lyrics are a cheesy love song between make-believe aliens, but since it was My Little Star's birthday, I chose to apply them to her. Finding connections in the smallest things can bring the biggest comfort, and I felt like letting that song comfort me.</div>
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Full of burgers and chicken nuggets, we headed over to The Journey of the Little Mermaid for our next Fastpass. Disney has changed a lot since the hay-day of my college days, and while I do miss some of the things that used to be, I do not miss the old Fastpass ticket machines. I would always get stuck behind someone who couldn't figure out how to put their card into the slot or who had seventeen of their closest friends' cards with them to scan at once. The new system has you link your tickets on an app and select your fastpasses all at once. Then, you just scan your own card or bracelett at the Fastpass line. With a toddler in a Tula, it made our day so much easier! </div>
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Piper loved the Little Mermaid. She loves blowing bubbles, so the entire ride had her amazed with under the sea bubbles and dancing fish. </div>
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By this time in our day, our spunky little rainbow was beginning to fade. I strapped her back into the Tula for a nap and true to form, she fell quickly asleep. Mike and I decided to take this opportunity to ride The Haunted Mansion. </div>
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While in line, he noticed the couple in front of us speaking German, a language dear to his heart since spending a year there in his twenties. He struck up a conversation with them, none of which I understood. The lady carried this purse. </div>
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Waiting in line while Mike chatted gave me the perfect opportunity to get another picture of my girls. </div>
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Piper woke up in the middle of the Haunted Mansion, but was pretty cool with everything. I had carried her in the Tula the whole way and sat with her still attached in our Doom Buggy, so I think she felt safe to begin with. Besides, the Haunted Mansion isn't really all that scary. It's Disney World, after all. <br />
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From the mansion, we headed back through Fantasyland to hit up our final Fastpass for the day, The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh. I am not a fan of the Hundred Acre Wood, but my youngest sure is. A few months ago, we met some friends for a character breakfast at The Grand Floridian, and Piper could not get enough of Tigger. Pooh bear was just alright - but Tigger was where it was at! So, I knew she would love this ride, which she absolutely did. Each time Tigger popped up, she pointed and said "Tigger! Tigger right there!" Oh yeah...and guess where we loaded onto the ride? </div>
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By now, it was around three o'clock and we figured we had at least two good hours left before we'd have to head home, so we ventured back into Tomorrowland for Buzz Lightyear's Space Ranger Spin. </div>
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Again, the Standby line was only 30 minutes, which is excellent for this ride and time of day. I popped Piper onto my lap, held her with my right hand and aimed my lazer with my left. I am absolutely terrible at this ride and barely cracked 50,000 points. My husband, however, had over 100,000 within the first five seconds and ended the game with over 600,000 as a Cosmic Commando. I had full intention of getting the photo they take of you on the ride, but when we checked it out, Piper's face was totally covered by the ray-gun, kind of like how Mike Wazowski's face is always covered in the Monster's INC commercials. It was actually pretty hilarious.</div>
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Right next to Buzz is an old classic - the Carousel of Progress. </div>
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Piper enjoyed the Carousel. She was a little confused by the rotating room at first, but she liked the show. This was our last ride. We grabbed some dinner in Frontierland and headed back to the car. Piper fell asleep before we got out of the parking lot. We drove home exhausted and emotional. </div>
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I<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"> had spent all month under a cloud of grief, all month dreading her birthday, all month wanting to crawl into a hole. A day like this one was just what I needed. Even though it's clearly not in the manner I'd like, I got to take both of my girls to the Happiest Place on Earth. I got to spend a day with my Night Shift husband, which is also a rare treat. The darkness that smothered me like a blanket all month felt brighter and lighter. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Kenley's birthday, which could have been another dark day in a month of grief, turned out to be a day of smiles and laughter. A day where I felt connected to my star while parenting my rainbow. I felt peaceful and happy. Those days are rare, but they do exist. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">No matter how horrible grief is, I have to remember that in between the moments of pain and sadness, there are moments of joy. I have to remember that I may have terrible days - I may have an impossibly long chain of terrible days - but life itself isn't terrible. There will be a break in the darkness. Sometimes, I will have to search for it. Sometimes, it might take me a while to find it, but it will be there. Waiting for me. A bright spot where happiness hides. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">"There's a great big beautiful tomorrow</span></div>
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Shining at the end of every day</div>
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Just a dream away."</div>
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Happy Birthday, Kenley. We love you.</div>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-902924162234665124.post-70464278821885650412016-02-25T06:00:00.000-05:002016-02-25T06:00:12.217-05:00ThreeDear Kenley,<br />
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Happy Birthday, baby girl! You are three years old today. Three! It's so hard to believe so much time has passed since I held you in my arms. 1,095 days. 1,095 times I have woken up with you missing from me. 1,095 times I have gone to bed without having you in my arms. If I live sixty more years, that will be almost 22,000 more days. All without you.</div>
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What more can I really say at this point that I haven't already said to you? How many more times can I say I miss you? How many more times can I tell you how much I wish you were here with us? How, more than anything, I want to be able to watch my two girls grow up together as the sisters they should be? </div>
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This last year has seemed so much more difficult than the previous two. I think it's because I'm getting even farther away from you - because the baby I know isn't even remotely the child you should be. Each day that passes makes you more of a mystery, and it breaks my heart. What would you enjoy doing? What would your favorite color be? Your favorite book? Would you be talkative like your little sister? Would you share her love of school buses? Would your hair have lightened or would you have stayed my raven-haired beauty? I look for you in the eyes of your sister, but you aren't there. I look for you in the children at the grocery store, but that's not you either. You are nowhere and everywhere all at once and it takes all of my strength to keep myself balanced between a world where you never died and the world where I actually live. </div>
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I miss you, my dear little ninja. My heart skips the beats where you should be, and I am forever out of synch. No matter how many years pass, my scars will always ache for you, scars that stretch over each other, winding around and across my soul in rivers of pain and hurt. Every day, they tear and heal and tear and heal as I settle into a life where you are not. A life where I work so hard to make your death mean something as I try to turn your memory into a legacy.<br />
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When I look at all I have done in your name - when I look at all that has been accomplished because of your tiny little life - I am both in awe and in tears. The more of a difference you make, the more I feel the sting of your absence. Every award, every accolade, every message of thanks, hurts as much as it heals. Because they wouldn't exist if you were here, and they are hollow replacements for your beautiful face - for the life you didn't get to have. <br />
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You are gone. You are not here to celebrate your third birthday. You will not eat cake. You will not open presents. You will not get ice cream all over your shirt and fall asleep in the car. You will not do any of those things this year or any year. You will not go to preschool, or kindergarten, or college. Sometimes, I am selfish and I make your death all about me. I am a Heartbroken Mother, and it's hard to live a life without your child. But, honestly, none of this is about me. The unfairness isn't that I have to live without you - the unfairness is that you never got the chance to live at all. YOU were the one robbed. YOU were the one who deserves more. <br />
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This isn't my story - it's yours. A story of a little girl who wasn't - who was loved so deeply and so fiercely that she still managed to change the world - even if it's just mine.<br />
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I will tell it until the day I die. <br />
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I love you, my beautiful girl. A mother's love is forever, spanning across time and space into eternity. When I think I have reached the end of my rope, I remember that I love you with the light of all the stars in the universe. - and that my rope, made from stardust, is infinite. <br />
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Starlight, Star bright, you're the star my heart holds tight.<br />
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Love, <br />
Mom<br />
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02899434949146448741noreply@blogger.com2