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.  

A Day with The Mouse

Our 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?

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.  

         

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.  

      

      

From the castle, we hooked a left and headed over to Adventureland.  

       

   

 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?"   

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.   

          

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!"

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.  

        

      

         

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?

                         

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: 

Oh Bright Little Star, 

though I'm light years away from her now

I can't help but to feel that somewhow 

we're both wishing on you

I imagine your light in her eyes as she gazes up into the sky

At this moment does she realize

you are in my eyes too

 ...

Someday, somewhere I will find her

In a universe up above

Tell her, little star, I'll surround her

With all my love.

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.

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!  

Piper loved the Little Mermaid.   She loves blowing bubbles, so the entire ride had her amazed with under the sea bubbles and dancing fish.   

         

         

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.  

        

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.   

                                  

Waiting in line while Mike chatted gave me the perfect opportunity to get another picture of my girls.   

      

                                   

 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.

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?  

                  

                                   

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.  

          

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.

Right next to Buzz is an old classic - the Carousel of Progress.   

         

 
      Mike loves this ride.    Look how excited he is.  

                                        

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.  

I 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.   

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.   

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.  

Like the Carousel says, 

"There's a great big beautiful tomorrow

Shining at the end of every day

There's a great big beautiful tomorrow

Just a dream away."

         

Happy Birthday, Kenley.   We love you.

 

   

     

Three

Dear Kenley,

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.

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?   

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.  

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.

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.  

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. 

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.

I will tell it until the day I die. 

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.  

Starlight, Star bright, you're the star my heart holds tight.

Love,
Mom

 

Just a Mom

Today, three of my friends are upset because their Facebook posts about their children have been met with comments of sympathy or misunderstanding...again. This happens all the time, but it just happened to three of them at once and it made me stop and think. It made me think that a blog post was warranted. For them. For me. For all of us whose only connection to our children is through the past.
I want to clear up a few misconceptions.

Misconception 1: We are posting for sympathy.
Let me tell you, the last thing we want is sypmathy. We don't want you to feel sorry for us. We don't want you to feel sorry for our child. We aren't posting about our baby so you will feel bad because, believe it or not, our child's death is not about you. It's not about what we can get from you. We don't want "sad eyes" or tilted heads. We don't need a virtual pat on the back from you telling us it will all be okay. We aren't posting to remind you about our child's death - we are posting to remind you about their life and about our love for them. Life and Love do not need sypmathy.

Misconception 2: We are unable to handle our grief.
Honestly, this one is incredibly annoying. If we were unable to handle our grief, we would be dead already. The fact that we are alive to even create a post is proof enough we are handling things just fine. Maybe you don't think we are because some posts seem "depressing" or "morbid". Maybe you are concerned because for the last several days (or months), our posts have focused on our missing child and on how hard it is that they are gone. Handling grief is feeling grief. Unless you have given birth to your dead child, had to watch them die shortly after birth, or walked up to their lifeless body laying in their crib, you cannot make decisions regarding how we chose to handle their absence. Posts about our children do not mean we aren't handling our grief. They mean we are handling our love.

Misconception 3: We are posting because we are sad.
Sometimes we are sad, yes. However, for the most part, when we need to get that sadness out into a post, it will be in one of our loss groups where people understand it, not on our personal wall, where it will, inevitably, be misconstrued. It is possible we do want you to understand how this feels, and so we post a status in hopes that you will. But, we aren't sad all the time. Not every post is made in sadness. Not every picture we upload or quote we share is because we are drenched in sorrow. We are sad our child died, but not everything makes us sad. Sometimes, we can remember without sadness. Sometimes, we can remember with joy and love.

Misconcepition 4: We have become dark and twisted, or we are full of "negative energy".
Our outlook on life has changed. We see the world differently than we used to, differently than you do. That is true. Especially those of us who had previously been untouched by death, we see the finality of life more clearly. We take less B.S. from people and we are more likely to appreciate the current moment over a future one. Sometimes, it is hard to plan for the future because the one we had been working on was ripped away, but that doesn't mean we don't appreciate what we have. It doesn't mean we are negative and are brimming with darkness.

So, why do we post? Why do you post pictures of your children? You post about your children because you love them and because they are a part of your life. You post because you are proud of them and you want to show them off. You post because you think your kids are amazing and wonderful and the greatest kids in the world. Same here. The only difference is, the child we are posting about is dead. But, that shouldn't make a difference. We are just mothers who want to share our child with you. And since they aren't here to share, we share our feelings about that. We share the same pictures over and over because they are the only ones we have. We share quotes and images about healing and grief. We share articles about loss, links to charities, and events for awareness walks. It is our way of being a part of motherhood - our way of including our child in social media like everyone else's child is.

A question going around in your head may be, "Well, then, how do I respond to your posts?". Many people have said to me over the years that they just don't know what to say in response to some of my posts. Honestly, you don't have to say anything. A "like" will suffice. We don't interpret your "like" as anything but a supportive gesture. Please, though, don't give us frowny faced emoticons. Don't tell us we are making you sad.



We aren't looking for anything. We aren't reaching out for help. We are just being a mom.

Is This Year Easier?

Many people have asked me over the course of the last week or so, "Is her birthday this year easier than last year?" It's a really hard question to answer. The short answer is "Not really". Here's the long answer:
Like I said in her birthday post, people seem to think that life - and greif - is a linear progression. There is a mistaken belief that the further out you get from your loss, the easier it gets to handle. That is simply untrue. It doesn't get easier. The pain doesn't dull. The heartache doesn't hurt less. The emptiness left behind doesn't fill. Grief doesn't change on its own - YOU change, and as a result, you learn how to adapt to what grief throws at you.

I have compared grief to an ocean, and I still think that is pretty accurate. When you are first thrown in, you don't know how to swim at all. The waves toss you like a rag doll. Your lungs fill with icy salt water, and you feel like you are suffocating. Your feet can't find the bottom and you can't stay afloat. You are exhausted from just trying to breathe, and there are days you honestly feel like you are going to die. Yet, somehow, you don't. Somehow, you learn how to move your arms and legs in a sort of rhythm that helps you first tread water and then actually begin to swim. Your muscles becomed toned and stronger, and they are able to keep you moving through the water even on the stormiest of days. The ocean hasn't become shallower. The waves haven't become less choppy. You have just learned to swim.
Sometimes, even after learning how to navigate the waters of grief, you still get tired. Your arms and legs ache from constantly pulling yourself through the waves. Some days, you feel so weak, your swimming skills do you no good. Approaching holidays and birthdays are a major cause of weakness. You can be a strong swimmer with an effortless stroke, but as a milestone approaches, you suddenly lose the ability to swim. Your rhythm is thrown off and you realize how hard you've been working just to keep moving. It's so easy to spin out of control - to lose yourself in the churning water. Sometimes, it doesn't even take a major date to make you falter. Sometimes, your muscles give out because you saw a child at the mall who reminds you of your daughter. Sometimes, your head slips below the water because you notice a Pinterest pin that includes her initials, or you hear a certain song on the radio, or you see a rerun of a TV show you watched while you were pregnant. Sometimes, you just simply forget how to swim for no reason at all. Sometimes, your heart catches in your chest just right and you sink like a stone simply...because. The Ocean of Grief has no pattern. It is chaotic and frightening. You just have to do your best each and every day to stay afloat and, if you're lucky, to actually swim through it.
To those of you on the shore, I might make this look like it's getting easier for me. I keep my head up. My strokes have become long and lean. I am making "progress", which to you is swimming more and sinking less, but really, there is no "progress". There is only today. Today, I am swimming, but tomorrow, I may be sinking. I might swim successfully for weeks, and then sink for days. I might swim for 5 minutes and sink for an hour. I really never know how each moment is going to be until I am in it. Understanding that is the biggest key to understanding grief. It doesn't get better or easier. I just become more skilled at nagivating the waves, and so I can do it for longer periods of time without drowning, but that doesn't make it easy.
So, no, this year is not easier than last year. Next year won't be easier than this year. It's never easy.
Never.

Happy Birthday, Little Ninja

What do you do with two years of grief? How do you package it into a carefully wrapped birthday present? I have tried - and failed - to write this post for about a month. Everytime, I can't find the right words. I want to be inspirational and positive. I want to wish my little girl a happy birthday and I want to mean it. I want to feel better about February 25th than I did last year, but I don't.

I think it's natural to think of grief - and really all things in life - as linear. Everything has a starting point, an ending point, and a forward moving progression between them. Right? No! In reality, the only thing in life that is actually linear is time - and even that theory is simply still a theory. Nothing is linear. Nothing progresses from start to finish in a logical order. Relationships are intermingling paths that constantly criss-cross between intimacy and estrangement. Learning requires a back and forth weaving of information, interaction, and experience. Even career paths progress in tangles of work and opportunity that often double back on themselves and omit steps altogether. Life's start is birth and its finish is death, but the inbetween is anything but linear. I don't know why we keep putting this stipulation on grief of all things!

I think we need to stop thinking of life and all things in it as something to progress through and start thinking of it as something to simply experience. We have to stop putting judgements on ourselves and others regarding where we "should be" and just take time to focus on where we actually "are". We aren't ahead or behind. We don't need to slow down or catch up. This straight line we keep trying to keep ourselves attached to doesn't even exist. Life isn't a straight line. It's a jumbled and knotted string, and as we live it, we will return to the same point many times. We will skip over other pieces entirely. We will loop through and twist around. We will loosen knots in some places while tightening them in others. We will do all of these things in the order that makes sense to us. Sometimes, we may need help and other times, we might need to work through it on our own. But, however we decide to wade through our life is the right way, and someone who is frustrated with the way you have decided to untangle your string is simply trying to distract themselves from their own knots.

I'm tired of judging myself and of where I am "supposed to be" by now. I am tired of giving myself a hard time for still being sad sometimes. I'm tired of other people assuming they understand my knot when we clearly have different textured string. So, I'm done. I refuse to bend to the Linear Theory. This is where I am. This is the point in my string. I am untangling as best as I can just like everyone else.

Today is Kenley's birthday. She is two years old. Two! She's not a baby anymore. I don't even know how I am supposed to picture her. I am still completely devastated that she is not here to celebrate her birthday. I still cannot bring myself to "celebrate" this day where I make a cake and sing "Happy Birthday", and I am not going to let myself feel bad about that. I'm not going to spin myself into a cloud of self judgement because I have been made to feel that things should be different by now, that I should be different, that my grief should be different.


Happy Birthday, Kenley Evelyn.   

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

TImeHop Trouble

Several months ago, I installed the Timehop app. For anyone in the dark, Timehop accesses any Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter posts for that specific date for as long as you have had an active account. So, when you pull up today's Timehop, you can see your various posts made on that date for as many years prior as your accounts go. I first noticed it last summer when people started posting them as Throw Back Thursdays. It was fun to see that little bar at the top "One year ago", "two years ago", "Six years ago". For most people, Timehop was a fun way to see what they were doing way back when, a nice bringer of memories. Almost like re-reading a daily online journal.

 

I installed Timehop for one reason and one reason only. I didn't really care what I was doing a few years ago. I didn't really need to have my pictures pinpointed as being taken and posted "three years ago". I didn't have to see what YouTube link I thought was hilarious on that specific day.

I wanted to see her.

 

I downloaded Timehop specifically so I could reread posts I made about Kenley's pregnancy. So I could see photos I shared of me pregnant. It was purposeful. It was calculated. I did it for her.

 

It's funny. So many people are often so afraid of talking about our children because they don't want to remind us about them. However, we often go out of our way to remind ourselves...as if we could actually forget anyway. When the initial shock of losing our child wears off, when the white hot pain dulls and the jagged edges of our hearts start to soften, we begin to realize how we are drifting further and further apart from them. When something so central to your being becomes a memory, you will do anything to keep that memory alive, even if those actions cause you pain.

 

Every day, I search for her on Timehop. From July to the end of February, I check daily in hopes of catching a glimpse of her in the midst of the trivial. (From March to June, she's sometimes still there, but she's already been made into a memory by then. She's not alive in those posts, and while they are still special, it's just not the same.) Yet, every day, I scroll over to that yellow little app and tap my finger with my heart in my throat. I hold my breath just a little during the two seconds it takes to load. Will she be there today? It's not unlike hoping to see that cute stranger in the coffee shop that seems to follow your morning commute. You never know. You hope. You wish. You dream. But, you very well might walk away empty handed. The screen flickers to the feed. Somedays, I see simply a photo of my cousin's wedding or a status about how much I hate Survivor. And, while those are fun, they aren't the reason I'm here. That happens on the days where I scroll through the feed and I see her, my little ninja. A funny status on how much I hate being pregnant. There you are! An update on a doctor's appointment. Hello, beautiful! A photo of my swollen belly. Jackpot!

February, however, plays a dangerous game with me because I know my posts with her alive are dwindling. I know there will come a day soon when I will check Timehop and it will be announcing her death. Still, I check. Still, I seek her out. Every. Single. Day. Because she is my baby. Because she should be turning two years old one week from today. Because she's not here - but she is, even just a little bit, there.

I take what I can get.

February Fog

February has never been my favorite month. Other than my dad's birthday, there really hasn't been anything in February that I have enjoyed. Valentine's Day might be nice if they didn't set out those boxes of candy on January 1, thus confirming it's all about the cash and has actually little to do with appreciating your significant other. Also, February in Florida is generally the coldest and harshest month. I am a native Floridian and am still here for a reason. I hate being cold. Hate it. Anything below 70 just makes me grumpy. So, when February comes blowing through with winds that make it feel like 40, I am pretty crabby about it. A sweater AND a jacket? Closed toed shoes? Arg!!!! I just want February to be over so March can warm me up.

Two years ago, February gave me yet another reason to hate it. It stole my child from me. February will always be the month Kenley died. It will always be the month where everything I was was swept away, where I was broken down into nothing, and where I had to relearn how to live in a world without my daughter.

This year, February hit, and I didn't notice right away because I was so wrapped up in getting the Heartbroken Mother video finished. After I had finalized the changes, uploaded it to Youtube, and breathed a huge sigh of relief, February sucker punched me in the gut. I watched the final video as a Heartbroken Mother instead of a critical video maker, and I just fell apart. All those babies. All those mothers. Each of them with a February of their own. And then, as the video closes, my beautiful Ninja shows her face, and I see the reason behind it all. The reason February is so soul crushing for me.

There's a weird haze I walk around in during this month. A fog that clouds everything except for one thing: a countdown. That countdown is all I can see. Today is February 10th. That means that I had 14 days left with her. 14 days of being blissfully unaware that she was tangling herself in her cord. 14 days of excitement and expectations. 14 more days to organize her nursery, to make plans for her, to imagine her birthday. Tomorrow, it will be 13. Then 12...11...10....all counting down to the day where I lost her forever. To the day where the life I thought I had turned itself into a cruel and twisted reality.

It's difficult to pull myself out of this fog during these days. It's hard to ignore that countdown, which ticks in my ear, loud and looming. Every day closer to the 25th is one day closer to the worst day of my life. How do you go about your day normally when you're inevitably taking steps towards heartbreak?

I try to remember the flipside of February. It's Kenley's birthday. She deserves a birthday. She deserves to be celebrated. She deserves to be thought of with joy and love, and not just sorrow and anger. So, I try to plan events which make me think of her with happiness. I try to plan things where my heart feels full instead of impossibly empty. Last year, my wonderful photographer friend, Jeanee James, took family photos of us on Kenley's birthday by her tree and then we all went out to dinner. This year, in addition to continuing our picture tradition, I plan on making a bear at Build a Bear and inserting a heart on which I have recorded her heartbeat. I will give the bear to Piper on her first birthday in April as a way of bringing my two girls together. Thinking about doing that makes me excited for the day as opposed to filling me with dread. I think that is the key with these types of birthdays. It's important to plan something that honors your baby, but is also something you can enjoy doing.

Regardless of how I am looking forward to taking pictures and making a bear, I still don't want February 25th to come. I still don't want to countdown every day until that day. Giving that day purpose does not really distract me from the reason I have to search for meaning in the first place. Kenley should be turning two. She should be running around in a new outfit and pigtails. She should be getting a tricycle for her birthday and singing "Let it Go" at the top of her lungs. But, she's not. Instead of planning a party with gifts and guests, I am planning a way to remember her. Instead of organizing toddler party games, I am organizing a day full of "meaning" so I don't fall apart. There is no way that anything will make this okay. And this is only year two.

February sucks.

More than My Loss

Mothers who have lost a child often get lost in a vicious cycle as well. We want our child to be remembered, so we talk about them often. We post statuses of how we are feeling. We share links relating to grief or losing a child. Maybe we share informative articles about stillbirth or miscarriage or whatever information we might want to get out to the masses. However, as a result of this, our lives seem to be focused on grief and sadness and death. By being vocal, we also unwillingly create a label for ourselves. We become "The Woman with the Dead Child".


At first, we wrap this label around ourselves like a blanket. Yes! Yes, my baby died. Yes, I want you to remember her. Yes, I want to educate you on loss. This is who I am now. Deal with it! We pull in the corners and tuck them around ourselves so that all the outside world sees is us bundled beneath it. It is warm and protective. It gives us a way to identify. We seek out others who have also swaddled themselves because they are the only ones who understand what it is like to live wrapped up in loss. But, as time passes, and as we use that time to work through the onslaught of emotions, we realize that the blanket we love so much is actually kind of itchy. And stifling. So, we try to take it off. We try to unwrap ourselves, to loosen the tight corners and let ourselves breathe a little, to become more than the blanket lets us be. Sometimes, we even let it fall to the floor, but as soon as we do, someone comes along and puts it back on our shoulders. "You with the dead baby. I know someone else with a dead baby. You should talk to her." or, "You with the dead baby. Here's an article of someone else with a dead baby. You should read it." We have become associated with death and loss.


When someone says "bagel", you think "cream cheese". When they say "peanut butter", you think "Jelly". And when you hear the word "Stillbirth", you think of me. It's okay. I have done an excellent job creating that association in your brain. But, I am more than my loss. Peanut butter can be in cookies, eaten on celery, or used in a chicken stirfry sauce. Cream cheese can make mashed potatoes creamier and soups smoother. You can put jelly on bagels with honey. The point is, one can exist without the other. They do not define each other and they don't have to be so closely tied. The same is with me and loss. I am not my loss. Kenley is not "a loss". There is so much more to both of us.


I am more than a "Baby Loss Mom". Yes, losing Kenley was a pivotal point in my life. It changed everything about who I am, including my perception of the world. Loss colors my life, but it is not my life. I am more than the "Mother of a dead baby". Kenley is more than something that happened to me. She is also my daughter. She had a head full of dark hair, her mother's nose, and her daddy's mouth. She weighed 5 pounds and 1/2 ounce and was 18 inches long. She loved to kick and twist and move around, especially in the mornings. She is a person, not a loss.


This is a really difficult thing to explain because loss is all encompassing, yet I strive to not be encompassed by it. Missing Kenley and loving Kenley and wanting Kenley to be rememebered is etched into every fiber of my being. I want HER to be known, but I don't want to be just known for losing her, and I certainly don't want her to only be known for being dead. I want to be vocal and clear about how loss affects life, but I don't want to be simply associated with loss. It's such a hard balance to achieve. I think most of us are unsuccessful because if we don't bring up our children all the time, we think people will forget them. Yet, when we do bring them up, they are remembered as being lost. We remind the world they are no longer here, and then the world is also reminded of our sadness, and we are the "Baby Loss Mom" again.


For example, sometimes, as mothers do, I want to share something wonderful about my children. I can do that with Piper easily. I can post a picture of her getting her first tooth, or a video of her making silly noises. I can't do that with Kenley in the same way, and when I do post something related to Kenley, my responses from others are very different. Piper's responses vary from "She's so cute" to "adorable!" to "What a doll!". They compliment her. They show adoration for her. They make others think of "normal" mom and baby life. Kenley's responses are often simple emoticons. " :( " " <3 " "xoxo". Sometimes an "I'm praying for you" or something of the like gets thrown in too. People have been reminded that they are supposed to be sad, and so they respond accordingly. To be clear, I am NOT bashing those responses. I am so grateful that anyone even responds to Kenley posts. It means they care. I totally understand that. What I want YOU to understand, is that you don't have to be sad. Although I miss her and my heart hurts for her, while I am still sad she is gone, I am not posting those things to make you sad. I am not trying to bring you into my grief. I am not reminding you of her death...I am reminding you of her life. I am reminding you that I have another daughter who is only in my heart, but who is still special and still loved.


I have yet to find the solution to this problem. I don't know how to remind people of her without reminding them of my grief. I don't know how to talk about her without being that mom again.



If you take anything away from this very confusing blog post, let it be this:


I am a mother who has lost her child, but that's not all I am. I am also a mother who loves both of her children very much. I am a wife, a sister, a daughter, a teacher. I love to bake and share silly internet memes. While I will always miss Kenley, there is more going on in my life than mourning her. There is more to my life than loss. I have worked VERY hard to get to this point...the point where I can say that I live more in the light than the dark.


Remember Kenley, but remember she is more than her death. We both are.

Capture Your Grief Day 5: Journal

You have forgotten. You live your life unfettered by her memory. Maybe you are reminded every once in a while. A blog post in your newsfeed. An owl figurine in Marshall's. And then it's a fleeting thought of a fleeting life before you immediately think about how much things have changed. Your mind goes to Piper, a much anticipated rainbow, and your mind rests there. Because thinking of Piper is comfortng and joyful and safe. And you are not conflicted at all.
Let me set the record straight. Having children after loss is just as hard as not having them. It does not make the grief better or less painful. Rainbow babies are not signals to the end of the storm; they are simply reminders that the storm is not all there is, that the sun is still up there They are hope for the hopeless, and although a rainbow often exists because of a storm, it is an entirely different entity. One does not negate the other.
I still love and miss Kenley with every fiber of my being. Every day. Not a moment goes by where I do not think of her, of what she should be doing, of who she would look like, of the milestones she would be hitting. I still ache. I still hurt. I still cry. Probably even more so now that Piper is here. Piper is a daily reminder of where we are in life. Piper is our second chance. Because our first chance died. Every single laugh or smile, every roll over, every outgrown onesie is a reminder of what Kenley will never do. I can't even let myself get started on how Piper wouldn't even be here if Kenley had lived. That's an inner conflict I wouldn't wish on anyone. How are you happy for one when you know that happiness is a result of such sorrow? How do you chose the child to love? You can't. Yet, it seems the world wants you to. "Choose the living one," says the world. "You are alive. We are alive. Let's all focus on that. Forget about your other one. Death is sad. We don't like being sad. We don't know what to do with sadness."
You're going to say, "But Rebecca, I would never make you choose." No, not directly. Not purposefully. But, still every day, I have to choose. Is this the right time to talk about both my girls, or just the one who stayed alive? Would it be weird if after every new picture I post of Piper, I just cycle repeatedly through the four I have of Kenley? I so desperately want to show off both of my children equally, yet I know that's not possible. Piper will grow and change and interact. Kenley will forever be a black and white image of a sleeping baby. In the same dress. In the same position. Forever. She will never be more, but she is so much more. I have to choose because who she is doesn't fit in with how life changes. I have to choose because if I truly talked about her at the level I'd like, there would be an intervention. "Rebecca, we need to talk. We don't think this is healthy." You know what's not healthy? Outliving your children. Too often, the world tells the grieving to move on. Sometimes with words, but mostly through actions. Uncomfortable silences. Changes of topic. The not so subtle shift of focus to the living child.
I know I've said this before, but it can never be said enough. I have TWO children. I carried two babies. I had morning sickness and heartburn twice. I had glowing pregnancy skin twice. I felt two babies squirm and kick and flip. There is no difference between my girls, except for one. Only one of them is still here.

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Bah Humbug

I can't even begin to tell you how much I am dreading Christmas.  If I could skip over the day completely - the week even - I would do it in an instant.  I don't want it to come without her.   I don't want to wake up in the morning to a still silent house.  I don't want to have to face another childless holiday, especially this one.   

This one is the big one.  It's the first big event almost every mom immediately imagines when she is pregnant.  We picture the outfit we will shop for our baby to wear - both on the actual day of Christmas and for any pictures we might take beforehand.   We picture putting up the tree with the various "Baby's First Christmas" ornaments we have either been given or purchased ourselves.  We picture relatives coming from afar to ooh and ahh over our beautiful baby.  Maybe we are even hosting the day at our house for the first time because the baby is here and it's easier than lugging everything all over town.  We imagine how our baby's eyes will light up as we hold her close to the tree, carefully brushing her fingertips over the branches.  We imagine sitting her on our lap on Christmas morning and helping her rip open the brightly wrapped presents that have been lovingly bought for her.  We picture the laughter and the smiles, the eyes shimmering with joy, the music, the light, the family.  We construct this day in its perfection while our baby is still forming her fingers and toes inside us.  

When you are pregnant, everything your baby has yet to do is still bright and shiny inside your mind.  When your baby dies, everything goes dark.   Like Ebeneezer Scrooge's Christmas that is yet to come, fog rolls in, the lights go out, and nothing is what it was supposed to be.  Only, I don't get to wake up on Christmas morning with a second chance.  Kenley will not suddenly be alive in her crib. My Ghost of Christmas Future has come and gone without leaving me a reprieve.  My baby is gone.  There will be no Baby's First Christmas.  Not for her.  I hope Bean will get one, but there are no guarantees in life.  And there's still another year to go before that happens.

This Christmas will be hard.  I will wake up like I have every day for the last ten months to a house without my child. I will hear her absence echoing in the silence.  I won't get her dressed in an adorable dress and tights.  There will be no shiny black shoes to snap onto her wiggling feet.  No presents to open.  No new toys to play with.   There will be only an empty crib and a living room without a Christmas tree.   There will be a broken promise and a weary soul.  

As I write this, a tiny sliver of hope squirms slightly below my belly button.  A little ray of light the size of a sweet potato quietly reminds me that not all is lost - that maybe, just maybe, next Christmas will be different.  While Kenley will always be missing, I hope Bean will be here.  But, now, instead of thinking of a future with bright, shining lights, I hope with a softness that cannot be helped.  A quiet pleading.  Please.  Please.  Please don't take this one away from me too.  Please let me have this one.  Please.  Please.  Please.  

But, she's not here yet.  I still have a long way to go, and all I really have is right now.  Right now, Kenley is gone and Bean is still growing.  Right now, I do not have a baby in my arms.  Right now, life is hard and uncertain and Christmas is still coming.  The first of many I will face without her, but hopefully the last I will face with empty arms.  

Thanksgiving: No Thank You

I am having a really difficult time dealing with Thanksgiving approaching.   Halloween was tough, as I had imagined for months the costumes she'd be old enough to wear when that holiday rolled around, but it was nothing like what I am experiencing now.   As Thursday creeps closer, I want nothing more than to hide away.   I want to pull the covers over my head, snuggle in, and stay safe from the cold, harsh world.   

Maybe it's because I keep thinking about how on Thursday, I should be snapping my daughter into her highchair at my parents' house with an extra large bib secure around her chest.   How it would be her first time tasting stuffing and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie.  How I should be watching her slap her food around with glee, smearing her cheeks with a thankful feast.   

Maybe it's because I know that Thanksgiving is the doorway to the holiday season.  The threshold to a festive time that doesn't seem festive anymore at all.  It's just the beginning.   Commercials of families smiling and laughing around Christmas trees.   Advertisements for toys.  Bright and cheery songs, twinkling lights, joyful laughter.   Despite the rainbow in my belly, I don't feel joyful.  I don't feel thankful.   I feel cheated.   And not, "hey you rolled the dice twice when you were supposed to roll it once" cheated - but "hey, you stole everything near and dear to me, including the clothes off my back while you beat me with a stick" cheated.  

What I have already begun to hear from people are sentiments like "Be thankful that you still have your family and friends."   "You and Mike are healthy."   "Be happy you are pregnant again."   While I understand that those are attempts to help me feel more secure in my life, they don't help me at all. They are all true - and they are all good things - but they don't bring her back.  They don't fill the void she left behind.   I will never see Kenley eat pumpkin pie.   I will never see her unwrap Christmas presents.   Instead of ringing in the new year as a newly made family, Mike and I will count down to midnight without her.  This year and every year.   

It's the "every year" that really gets me.   The fact that this is just the beginning.  This is the first holiday season of the rest of my life where she will not be here.  That's a hard reality to come to grips with.

So, this Thanksgiving, I am not really going to bother to struggle to find things to be thankful for.  I have had 9 months to realize the wonderful people in my life.  Loss is the one thing that really makes you stop and reevaluate your life and your relationships.   I don't need the last Thursday in November to remind me to do that.  I do that every day.   No, this Thanksgiving, I will do what I have done on all the hard days before this one.   I will wake up.  I will get dressed.  And I will get through it.  I will get through Thursday and every day left of this miserable year with as much dignity and grace as I can muster.  

And if, sometimes, I have to pull the covers over my head, so be it.