Capture Your Grief 2020

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 Seashore of Remembrance.  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. 

Please note, this is NOT my idea or my project and I am in no way attempting to co-opt it for myself.   

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 Our Little Beastie Blog has helped me put some topics together for this.  

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.   

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.   This should be helpful - not hurtful.  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.

Day 1:  Sunrise 

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.

Day 2:  Named

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?

Day 3:   Before 

Who were you Before loss?  How did you see the world?  

Day 4:  After

We are all profoundly different.  How have you changed?  How do you feel about these changes in yourself?   What has been left unchanged?  

Day 5:  Friendship

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.

Day 6:  Space

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?   

Day 7: Rights

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?  

Day 8: Seasons

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?  

Day 9:  Broken

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?

Day 10: Comfort

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?  

Day 11:  Stuck

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) 

Day 12:  Hope

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?  

Day 13:  Breathe

Take a day to take a break.   Focus on your breath and let yourself feel calm.  In 2020,  this is especially important.   

Day 14:  Support

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?

Day 15:  Wave of Light 

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.

Day 16:  Treasured

What is a treasured object(s) you have that reminds you of your child?  What are they and what do they mean to you?

Day 17:  Beliefs

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?

Day 18:  Empty

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?

Day 19: Deed

"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.  

Day 20:  Obligation

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?

Day 21:  Mantra

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.  

Day 22:  Create

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.  

Day 23: Cultivate

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?

Day 24:  Music

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? 

Day 25:  Trigger

What are some triggers that come with your grief?  What do you do when confronted with a trigger?  Have they gotten better or worse?

Day 26:  Release

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.

Day 27: Self Care

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.  

Day 28:  Love

We grieve forever because we love forever.  Share your love for your child in any way you see fit.

Day 29:  Connect

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?

Day 30:  Vision

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?  

Day 31:  Sunset

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.  

The Box

You'd think that with all of my writing, I would have worked through the more difficult moments. You'd think I would have written everything I need to write and sorted through what I need to sort by now, but that's not true. It's not even close to true. There are moments I can't bring myself to think about for more than a few seconds. There are moments that hurt so badly that I have to keep them in an armored box, far away from my conscious mind, or they will break me.

Writing and talking about her has certainly helped keep that armored box free of clutter. I've been able to move many memories out into the open that way. Some memories that used to stab merely prickle now, but there is still quite a bit of darkness in that box. There are still several memories that hulk inside there, powerful and frightening and covered in pain. Memories I keep trying to bring out into the light, but just can't. They are too heavy, too sharp, too painful. The moment my hand clasps around them, their spikes shoot through me, tearing me to ribbons.

I know people want me to be finished with grieving, and that they don't want to know about the armored box. They want to think the worst is behind me, and that there is only growth and light in my future. But the truth is, the box exists. It exists deep within me and it contains pain I am not brave enough to feel or strong enough to sort through. How it felt to sit in a hospital for hours, knowing she was gone, yet was still inside me. How it felt wondering what it was going to be like to give birth to my dead daughter. How it felt to walk into the delivery room swollen with death. How it felt to wake up empty. How it felt to hold her in my arms that night, so still and pale and silent. How the sound of my own anguish still echoes in my ears and reverberates within my soul. What it was like to roll over in my bed, knowing I had just seen her for the last time. How it felt to reach over the railing of my bed for my husband's hand in the middle of the night, knowing I would find him desperately searching for me too. How it felt to go from two to three over the course of 8 months and then back to two in less than 8 seconds. How the world seemed to fall away from us in a gray and foggy swirl, and how the two of us just continued to spin as we clung to each other in sorrow and fear. How I don't know the color of her eyes because I never saw them open. How I only know what her feet look like in photographs, but how, every day, I still see her face, her beautiful face, white and slack-jawed. How I will only ever know her face as a face of death, and how that breaks my heart more than anyone can ever imagine. What can you do with memories like these? You certainly can't live with them on a daily basis. It's just too much. It's why we all have a box.

The box stores them for me. It keeps these memories from pulling me into the darkness. It protects my heart from the onslaught of pain these memories hold. It's simply impossible to feel all of this all of the time. It would kill me.

I know I need to get them out of the box. For the past several months, I have felt the need to talk about them, to share them, to bring them out into the open. But, there are no words for them. They are so primally painful, there are no words. There is only pain and dark. There is only brokeness. There is no way I can communicate how they feel without being misunderstood, without people thinking I have succumbed to the darkness, without people seeing me as irrevocably broken. There is no way I can revisit them without bathing myself in their agony. To deal with them, I have to feel them. And I just can't. Even two years later, I am not strong enough. Even just dipping my big toe into their icy, black waters sends me reeling backwards in pain. And so I leave them there. Closed up in that armored box. I can feel them stomping around. I can hear their screams. They want out. And I can't release them. I don't know how, and even if I did, I am not sure I would want to.

Maybe one day, I'll be strong enough for what lies inside that box. Maybe one day, I'll be able to work through the blackness beneath the lid. Today is not that day. I don't expect tomorrow to be that day either. I expect that box to always exist, to always shield me from the harshest memories in one way or another.

I wish I was stronger. Better yet, I wish she was here.

Healing Words

Today, I'm pretty excited to share something with you.  I have been working on adding a page to the blog for the past few weeks.  Mostly, it's been just a jumbled mess in my head, but I finally got around to organizing it onto the computer.

Check out the "How to Journal through Grief" tab at the top of the page.  Let me know what you think.

Time Heals All Wounds

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

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

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

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

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



 

The Journal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Good Day

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday Spotlight #14

The photography project I have been working on is not quite finished.  It's more difficult than I thought it would be.  I will keep working on it and, hopefully, can have it completed by next week.   However, here is the journal assignment that goes with it:

One Year From Today

When you lose your child, it's hard to think about the future because what you want and what you can have are two very separate things.  You feel like your future has been stolen from you.  Ripped from your hands as you cry out in anguish.  Darkness decends - a thick, black curtain that keeps the future hidden.   You cannot imagine a future other than the one you had planned.  Anything else seems unnatural and insufficient.  The farther you get from loss, the more translucent that curtain becomes.   You can see what is ahead, but you aren't always brave enough to take the steps to get there.  Eventually, the curtain disappears altogether, and you can begin your hesitant walk forward.   Right now, I am still waiting for that moment.  I can see the road ahead, but I am still uncertain about it.  I still have a hard time walking that path without my daughter.  But, I am an optimist.  I have battled too much darkness in my life to surrender to this one.   So, I look ahead with positive trepidation - a fairly accurate oxymoron.  

The journal assignment asked me to think about my life one day, week, month, and year from now.   I'm pretty good at living day to day - so I cannot imagine tomorrow being vastly different from right now.  Since the remnants of Tropical Storm Chantal is sweeping this way, I imagine it will be raining.  One week from now, I will probably have spent some time with some friends, seen some babies in stores, and continued to miss my little girl.   It's when we get to the one month from now that things start to change.

One month from now, I will have started work again.  There are too many emotions surrounding this to confine to this post.  Starting work deserves several blog posts, but I'll try to sum up here.   I am nervous.  In some ways, I am even terrified of starting work again.  If I could, I would just never go back.   I am working on that on many levels, and I am hoping that by the time August 7th rolls around, I'll be ready.  But, ready or not, here it comes.  I'll make the best of it because that is what I do.  Two months from now will probably be better.   Often, anticipation is greater than the actual event.

One year from now is what I really want to focus on here.  One year from now, my goal is to be a mother to a living, breathing, healthy second child.  One year from now, my goal is to be doing the things I should have been doing for the last four months.  I am a mother now, and I am doing the best I can with what I have - which is a blog and a memory - but it is not enough.   Kenley showed me what it means to be a mother.  She opened up a chasm inside of me, which is filled (impossibly) with both emptiness and infinite love.  I can't imagine a future where that love is never able to flow to a living baby.  One year from now, I will have finished another school year, which was most likely not as bad as I thought it would be, and I will be enjoying my summer in the way that I should be now.  I will be taking my second baby on walks around the neighborhood.  I will be changing diapers and cleaning up poop.  I will be exhausted and sticky and I will love every minute of it.  No doubt, I will still be missing Kenley.  I will miss her until the day I die.  But, as many of you know, a mother's love isn't diminished by more children.  It is expanded exponentially.   I will love her more.  I will love her little brother or sister, who will grow up knowing they were not the first light to illuminate their mother's heart.  Like candles in the dark, the light of my babies will flicker forever in my soul.  Now, to be clear, I am not currently pregnant, but August officially ends my six month waiting period to start trying, and that is what we are going to do.  If timing doesn't work out quite right for a few months, one year from now, I will at least be pregnant.  Hopefully, ready to pop and bring an end to a stressful pregnancy and a year and a half of eagerly waiting for what I so rightly deserve.  

It's hard to look at the future with anything other than uncertainty.  I know all too well that nothing goes as planned, even the things you plan so carefully. I am nervous to even write all of this down because....well...what if?   What if I can't get pregnant again?  What if I miscarry?  What if my next baby is another not-so-stealthy-ninja?   You can't pat my back and tell me everything is going to be alright because we both know that isn't always the case.  But, I have to stay focused on my goal and its positive aspects.  I chose to believe the future I plan will come true.  I can't allow myself to give in to the "what ifs".  

One year from now, I will still be without Kenley.   I will still miss her and ache for her.  That will not change.   But, one year from now, I hope to be able to honor her with a sibling.   And to be the best damn mother of two I know I can be.

Gratitude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday Spotlight #12

                                 Light

I am in the second week of my photography course.  This week asked me to focus on light - in my pictures and in my life.  What does light mean to me?  My photos also were to focus around one object that means something to me.  A few weeks ago, an old friend was able to get me a ticket to Disney World and we went for the day.  While we were in EPCOT, we came across a collection of various colored owl figurines in Japan - much like those Lucky Cat figurines, where each color represents luck in a different aspect of life.  Red symbolized good fortune in heath and children.  Obviously, I needed that one.  So, my pictures this week contain that figurine in different lighting scenarios.  

      Flat Light  / Natural Light

There are days when my life seems gray and flat.  Where there aren't true shadows, but there isn't really any true color either.  I feel a blanket of dullness wrapped around me.  Not sharp, jagged pain or profuse bleeding of my soul - but a steady sense of sadness.   Heavy.  Unyielding.  All encompassing.  I search for joy in these days and I come up empty handed.  These are the days where I am the least productive.  These are the days where I can't write or paint or create at all.     

These are the days when I feel truly stuck in my grief.  Bogged down by a feeling of nothingness, these are the days when my stare is empty and my mind is blank.  These are the days when I am truly just a shell.  Human on the outside, hollow on the inside.  Sometimes, I feel like these are the worst days.  Even when I am in my greatest anguish, at least I am feeling something.   These flat days of gray are the most frightening to me.  Where I haven't only lost my daughter, but also myself.  

                                                                 Backlight                                                                   

  I often feel pigeon-holed in my grief process.  I feel like some people think I should be in one place, when I am in another.  I feel trapped inside a cage I made myself.  That's what happens when you are so vocal with your journey - people start paying close attention to your steps - and often wonder why you are taking them.  The light in this picture is harsh and glaring.  Scrutinizing.  Part of the anxiety I am beginning to feel about going back to work is a result of feeling watched.  

There is a spotlight on me now:  Mother of  Loss.  I lost my baby.  I am grieving.  How am I dealing with it?  Can I do a good job handling my grief and teaching my class at the same time?   I dread the sad eyes of well-meaning people.  I dread having to say "I'm ok" when I'm really not.  Or "No, seriously, I'm ok", when I actually am.   I hate feeling like I have to explain myself all the time.  I wish I could just magically beam how I am directly into the brains of other people.  That would solve so many problems.                                                                                                      

    Shadow

When I took this picture, this entire branch was in direct sunlight.  The shadow is my arm and hand blocking the sun.  This picture is one of protection.   I am very protective of Kenely's memory.  I want to shield her from harsh words or misconceptions.  But, at the same time, I want to share her with the world.  That is a really hard balance to achieve.    I hear other mothers of loss talk about being reluctant to share pictures of their babies - to talk about their babies - and I totally get that.  
The world does not understand that babies die.  Our grief is often swept under the rug.  People get shifty when we talk about our children, or when we are visibly upset about our loss.  So, sometimes, we hold back.  We shield ourselves and our babies by staying silent because seeing someone cringe at our grief breaks our heart almost as much as the loss itself.  I try to be as honest as I can in this blog, but I will admit, you don't read everything.  There are some things I don't share because I just can't.  It's too much for me to process - and I fear if I write it down, it won't be taken the way I intend it to be.  So, I protect her and I protect myself from the harsh glare of a world that doesn't understand.

                                          

                                                                             Low Light

In this picture, the owl can barely be seen.  She is surrounded by blur and dark.  Even though there are patches of light near her, she is not in them. She is lost.  She sees the light, but isn't sure how to step into it.  And when she does, it is still too dim.  She still can't really see in the darkness.  
This picture is the best representation of where I am right now.  I am trying so hard to work through this tangled mess that my life has become.  With all honesty, I can say that I have never worked so hard at anything in my entire life.  This is the most difficult thing I have ever done, and I imagine it will be the most difficult thing I will ever do. 
It's hard to search for light when your life is so dark.   It's hard to accept that finding light and joy will not negate your feelings of loss.   I think so many people stay in the darkness because they feel that being happy again is betraying their child's memory.  How dare I be happy again?  How dare I try to find hope and joy and light?   The only way to show my love is to commit to suffer.   It's a huge hurdle to overcome, but I am trying my best.  I want to step into that light, while still remembering the dark.  I am working on honoring her memory through things that bring me joy.  I am trying to hold on to that joy for as long as I can.  For now, light is short lived.  I am in the dark a lot.  But, every day, I try again.  Every day, I reach for the light.   One day, I will hold on to it.  One day, it won't slip through my fingers.  


In my life, light means many things.  It is a spotlight for scrutiny, but it is also a feeling of hope and joy.  Like everything in life, it has more than one aspect.  Right now, my journey is walking that tightrope between light and shadow, publicity and privacy, hope and despair.  Like always, I do my best with what I have.  Day in.  Day out.  All day long.  

Four Months

I sit side by side with my broken down soul
while she cries shining rivers of tears
Her hands are too small for the pain she must hold
Pain she feels she's been holding for years

She's tired and weary and can't catch her breath
and she bleeds from a wound that won't heal
What she thought would be hers belongs now to death
What should be a dream is too real

As I look in her eyes full of sorrow and rage
my heart breaks and splinters in two
One piece remains with me in this cage
The other is taken by you

My body is healing, my days come and go
Underneath, I am cracked full apart
Without you, my spirit crumples and folds
For now, we must share half a heart

My soul and I clutch the other's cold hand
As we stare at what is to come
A lifetime without you is so hard to stand
But it's something that can't be undone

Our only recourse is to rebuild the walls
Of this rubble that used to be strong
So we pick up the pieces, the big and the small
And we learn to sing a new song

My soul and I sing of the piece we have lost
Of what's missing and forever will be
We sing of a meadow covered in frost
We sing of a caged bird set free

We sing through our sorrow. We sing through our pain
We sing, though we don't know the words
We sing to the sunshine in spite of the rain
We sing notes that may never be heard

We are broken and bloody and losing our voice
But we refuse to give into the night
Without you, we are left with no other choice
We use our love to make our own light

Never Alone

There is a saying that goes something like, "You come into this world alone and you go out alone, yet it seems to me you are more alone while living than while coming or going."   I disagree with this statement.   When you come into this world, you are far from alone.   In fact, you are the least alone you will ever be. You are actually physically connected to another person.  You and your mother are tied together.   You shared blood and oxygen.   Not too long before your birth, her food choices affected your activity level.   Her voice echoed within her own body to reach your ears.   You were in no way alone.   

In a way, this comforts me regarding Kenley's death.   When she died, she was not alone - she was with me.   She died surrounded by warmth and comfort.   She died connected to me -  to the sounds of my breathing and beating heart - maybe even to the sound of my voice.   She did not die alone.   

The second part of that quote talks about being alone while living.   While, ultimately, we all face our challenges and successes with only our own consciousness controlling us, we are still not truly alone.  We are only alone if we specifically choose to be.   If we push others away.  If we refuse help.  If we are callous or condescending.   I have learned many things in these past few months - one of them being the nature of human beings.   We need each other.   Like a house of cards, we lean on and support each other throughout our lives.   In the early days, we depended on each other for physical survival - like food and shelter.  Although we still do that today, it's not on such a personal level.   But, we do depend on each other for moral support.  Family, friends, lovers, we all need at least one other person in our lives to keep us going.  Even though we all fight our own battles, we still share the same war.  

Sometimes, it's hard not to feel alone.  It's hard when you feel like you are the only one who really knows your pain.  When you don't think that anyone truly understands what it's like to be you.  While it's true that no one has 100% comprehension of the inner emotions of others, we all want to understand each other.  We do.  We just don't always know how to navigate the walls we all put up in protection of ourselves.  

We have to remember that everyone is really just doing the best they can.  To work through their own pain.  To understand the pain of someone else.  We are all working hard to find our path, to stay in the light, and to find others who will travel alongside us.  

And when it is time for us to take our exit, the connections we made throughout our lives are still with us.  The memories of all the people we've met along our journey swirl in our hearts and souls and wrap around us as we make our way out of this life.  If we are lucky, we live on in the thoughts of those who stay behind.  

So, in my opinion, even though there are moments where we might feel alone and deserted, we are not.  We just have to be willing to see the hands outstretched in the darkness.  We have to be willing to be one of those hands for someone else.  That quote is wrong.   

If I were to rewrite it more accurately, I might say something like this:
"We come into this world completely connected to another human being.  If we work hard enough, we will never lose our connection with others, and when we leave this world, our connection is not severed because those we leave behind carry our memory with them into eternity."  

I know it's a hard feat to accomplish - staying connected.  Feeling connected. I have learned the hard way that life isn't easy and nothing is guaranteed.  My daughter lived her entire life connected to me.  She was never alone.  Neither am I. Neither are you.   And that brings me peace.

Saturday Spotlight #11

In scrolling through my newsfeed a few weeks ago, an interesting blog link caught my eye.   It was an online photography course directed to mothers of loss.  The woman who created it did so because when she lost her baby, she searched for some sort of outlet to help her explore her emotions.   She didn't find what she wanted, so she designed her own, and now she is sharing it with others.  You can find information about that here.  

Anyway, I am completing the first week.  This week focuses on self portraits.  I was to take a few pictures of myself that showed how I felt following my loss.   Then, I am to write a letter to my daughter explaining those emotions. I've written several letters to Kenley already - and I explain my emotions almost daily in my blog.  So, what I am going to do is to post these pictures in dedication to Kenley and write her a letter telling her (and you)  why I chose to take them.   

Dear Kenley, 

It's been four months since you left me, empty and broken.  The cloud of grief that surrounds me isn't as thick as it used to be.  I can see through the haze to the outside world, but I am still cloaked in sadness.  I still miss you more than anything I could imagine.  I know for certain I always will.   You were a part of me.  A part of my body, of my heart, and of my soul.   In some ways, you still are, but it is not nearly enough.  There are still some roads deep inside me that I still do not venture down.   There are still some dark places I have yet to bring light back to.  There are still moments where I have to calm the rising storm of sobs that swell within me.   No matter what I do or how I try to heal, I am still sad.  I still mourn for you, baby girl.  I still ache for you.  I still feel sometimes that I cannot live without you.  I still feel hollow inside.  A hollow shell filled only with the sloshing water of a million tears.   I tried to capture those feelings of sorrow in this picture.  

You're in this picture too, my little ninja.  A little owl I wear around my neck at all times.   You are always, always with me.  I just wish you were here in my arms instead of a tiny charm on a chain.   I wish you were in your nursery, laughing and squealing.   I'd even love you to be screaming and crying and pitching a fit.  I would gladly have you colicky at three a.m. just to have you here.  I hate that you are gone.  I never knew how much I could love until I felt you growing inside of me.  I never knew how much a heart could split open and spill out with such raw force.   Everyone has good days and bad days, but until I lost you, I could not have ever imagined just how terrible my days could get.   The person in this picture is a patchwork of missing pieces.  She is not whole, nor does she aspire to be.   She knows that she will never be whole again.   What she strives for instead is a life where the pieces that are left come together in some sort of working order.  She aspires to make change and do good in spite of the chasm left behind.  She aspires to be the person worthy of being your mother.  

When you died, I felt like my entire life derailed like a runaway train.  Screeching wheels, ripping metal.   The moment I found out you were gone, my world split into two.   One world where I live now - and one world where I could have lived with you.  I feel like I have been torn away from the life I was supposed to lead.  Carried away against my will, my arms stretched out before me - reaching and grabbing at you as you disappear from view.   Sometimes, mostly when I see other mothers with their babies, I think about that life we should have had.   The life where you showed that cord who was boss.  The life where I get to hold you and love you.   The life where your father has his little girl.   This next self portrait is of me in those quiet moments where I think about what was supposed to happen.   The glimpse of a life I so badly wanted - and is not mine to have.  

If you look closely, you can see the reflection of my fingers in the glass.  Those faint images represent the other me.  The me I can't be.  The me who doesn't exist because you are gone.  But the me I miss almost as much as I miss you.

Every life is nothing  more than a series of defining events.  Had you lived, you would have had several milestones.   Your first everything - from tooth to kiss.  You would have gone to college.  You might have gotten married and had children of your own.  Your mama was a late bloomer.  I didn't really have very many "oh my goodness, this is huge!" moments in my life for quite a while.   One of those moments was my wedding day.   The other was your baby shower.   On both of those days, I wore the same shoes.  I have never worn these shoes on any other day.   There's really no special significance to this.   I wore them on my wedding day because they were comfortable - and to your baby shower for the same reason.  Plus, they matched.   The initial reasons are not important.  But, now these shoes symbolize the start of something wonderful.   My marriage to your father - and becoming your mother.  Even though there is sadness woven through my motherhood, I still stand strong.   I am still your mother even though you are not here.  I still love you even though you are gone.  

I don't know what the future holds for me, baby girl.  I want to think that I am creating some sort of meaning for your death.  I want to think I am making myself a better person than I was.   I am trying so hard to hold myself together in spite of it all.   I have never tried harder at anything in my entire life.  Some days, I think I am doing a pretty good job.  Other days, it's all I can do to just get out of bed.   But know, that whatever happens in my life, however much I change or grow or learn - a few things will stay the same.  How much I love you.  How much I miss you.  And how much I think about you - every day.  

I'll love you forever.  I'll like you for always.  As long as I'm living...my baby you'll be.  

Love eternal, 
Mom

Oh, It's Her Again

I have become a thorn in the side of many a newsfeeds.  I realize this.  At first, I was worried that I was posting too much about my loss.   I thought maybe people would get sick of hearing about the causes I was suddenly so immersed in - and worse - they would get sick of hearing about Kenley.   That was the worst thing I could imagine - desensitizing people to my daughter.  "Oh great, here she is again.  Posting some random link or picture."   I was careful not to be that person who posts every five minutes.  (We all have one of those Facebook friends.  The ones who post so often, we just keep scrolling past whatever random new thing they feel so compelled to share with us.)   I didn't want to be that person because I didn't want anyone to ever scroll past any of my Kenley posts.  I didn't want what I had to say about loss to lose it's sparkle from overuse.  And I also didn't want to be a constant downer in everyone's online lives.   "Oh Yay, Sarah got married!  Hey look at this adorable picture of a kitten smelling a flower!  Oh, yeah...Rebecca's daughter is still dead."   

I'm not stupid.   I suspect some of my posts, links, and pictures have been selected to be "hidden" from some people's newsfeeds based on a few clues I have put together.  I also know for a fact that certain people who used to be on my friends list are no longer there.  One person actually had the "good manners" to tell me in advance of my defriending due to it was all "just too much sadness." for them.   Ok, fine.  If you don't want to be a part of this, don't.   But, by no means expect me to hold you in the same regard as I did in the past.  (This paragraph is fairly moot since none of those people are going to read this, but it needs to be said)

For those of you who are either still my Facebook friend or who have "liked" the Kenley's Krew facebook page, you already know a few things I have become passionate about.  The most pressing one at the moment is the Return to Zero pledge drive.   The details of that can be read here. (While you're at it, go ahead and share it!)   If you have already pledged to see the movie, thank you!   If you've shared the link with your friends, thank you, thank you.   Keep it up.  We have until midnight on Thursday to get all of our pledges in for the first round.   Depending on the results, we will either get to move closer to distribution or will be shut down. 100,000 pledges are needed.   At the time of this post, 73,000 have been collected.   I am working very hard to make sure this movie gets released.  Yes, it might make people "uncomfortable" to see.   Yes, it might be disturbing.   It will definitely be emotional.   But, the story needs to be told.  The public needs to know how it feels to walk in our shoes.  

I have finally come to the point where I just don't care what people think about me or what I choose to write about, support, or post.   I don't care if it makes people uncomfortable or squirmy.   I don't care if they are tired of seeing it on their newsfeed or of hearing me talk about it.  I'm going to do it anyway.  What I have to say is important.   It is important to me, to the people who care about me, and to all of the women I have met or have yet to meet on this journey I have been forced to take.  It is important to the millions of women around the world who share this path with me.   Maybe not my exact personal details are important to them, but the fact that I am willing to be vocal about my loss - that I will not be silenced just because talking about the death of my daughter makes other people upset.  If it makes someone upset, good!   I'm glad it makes you upset.  It should make you upset.  I'm pretty darn upset myself!   And I have no intention of shutting up about it.

She Is Gone

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

She Is Gone 

By, David Harkins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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