My Stretched Out Heart

This year has been the worst year of my life.   I know I don't really need to explain why.   When you lose your child, especially so close to birth, you lose your future as well.   You lose every moment you should have had.  Every step they should have taken.  Every milestone they should have reached.  You lose a lifetime of memories you should have been able to make.  All that potential seems so pointlessly wasted.   You think to yourself, "why bother living now?" When everything seems like it's nothing more than a shadow, it's easy to get lost in the darkness.

My future with Kenley was stolen.   That is a fact - an unchangeable fact.  I will always wonder what could have been.   I will always watch her grow in my mind, comparing her to other children (and eventually teenagers and adults) I see.   I will always wonder if her hair would have stayed black or have lightened over time like mine did.   I will always wonder if she would have inherited her father's ability to dance - or my ability to fall down with grace.   Would she have a developed goofy sense of humor?  Would she have loved to climb trees, watch movies, and play house?   Who would she have been?

That not knowing is an ache that never goes away.  Nothing will ever change it.  Nothing will ever make it better.   It will always be a rock in my heart, rolling around in the vast cavern of what will never be.   

But, Kenley left me with more than uncertainty and fear.   She left me with more than sorrow and desperation and pain.   She left me with love.   When something breaks and then is pieced back together, it's never quite the same again.  It's looser.  Wider.  Gaping. Stretched out.   As I have spent these last few months sewing my heart back into its shape, I have noticed it's much bigger than before.   There's more room inside.  Like an old patchwork satchel, saggy and worn.   And while that means more room for fear and anxiety to creep in, there's also more room for joy.  More room for hope.   More room for love.   I have broken but I am not broken.

I have nestled my baby girl inside my heart with tender care.  She will always live within me.  My heart beats with her name.  Kenley.  Kenley.  Kenley.  Kenley.  But it also beats with another name.  A name to yet be made.  The name of a baby yet to be born.   It's still a hard concept to wrap my brain around, but there IS room inside my heart for more than just my little ninja.  There is room enough for a brother or sister still to come.   The brother or sister who WILL come.   In April.  

Enough Now

This post has been a long time coming, but I haven't really realized it until now.  My days have been really tough for me lately, and I have been trying to figure out why.  Some people would tell me it's because school is starting up and that is making me nervous.   Others would say it's the additional stress of Mike trying to find a job, or of wanting to get pregnant again.  I wanted to push it on the Royal Baby or North West.  I wanted to say it was because reality makes grief so heavy.  I wanted to say so many things.  And while all of these things surely haven't helped, it is not the real reason life has been so hard.  

It's because I have been clinging so tightly to something that doesn't belong to me.  I have been running around trying to hold on to a memory - hoping that by clutching it so close to my chest, I might be able to find the joy every other mother has.   But, I'm not every other mother.   I am the mother of a daughter who is dead.   I will never be like every other mother.   I will always be different.  My relationship with my daughter will always be momentary.

I have been shoving her in people's faces.  Every conversation is about her. Almost every facebook post.  Clearly, every blog post.  I am offended when people don't bring her up in conversation.  I have put her at the absolute center of my life and I have been spinning around her like a tornado. Maybe that's what mothers are supposed to do - put their child first - but, again, I am not a run of the mill mother.  I am a mother of loss.  You can't put death on a pedestal.   You can't redirect your life so it revolves around a ghost.  That's why everything is so heavy.   Why I feel like I am being crushed beneath a hundred elephants sitting on a wall of bricks.   It's because I am trying to hold onto something that doesn't belong on this earth.   I need to let her go. 

I need it to be okay to have an afternoon with friends where I don't talk about her.  I need it to be okay to go a few days without writing - without pulling her back to me again and again and again.   I'm not talking about forgetting about her.  I'm not talking about moving on or "getting over it".   I've already made peace with the fact that I will always miss her, always love her with more heart than I have.   What I am saying is that it is no longer healthy for me to continually and consciously focus on her death.  At the beginning, it was necessary in order for me to process what had happened and to learn to deal with my emotions.   Now, it has just become a morbid dance, where I am simply twirling madly in an empty ballroom.  I am like Miss Havisham in Great Expectations who can't take off her wedding dress.   

To illustrate my point, I found a clip from the movie Love, Actually.  Before Keira Knightly swashbuckled with Johnny Depp and Andrew Lincoln became a zombie killer, they played lovers never meant to be in this adorable independent film.  Andrew's character has loved Keira for a long time, but she has just married his best friend.   Watch the clip all the way to the end and then come back.

"Enough, now.  Enough."  he says as he walks away.  He's said what he needs to say.  He has spent enough of his time wishing and hoping for something he can't have - and now it is time for him to focus his efforts elsewhere.  He won't stop loving her, but he will stop pining for her.  He will stop clutching at a dream that isn't his.

Kenley is dead.  I love her with all of my heart.  I will love her until the day I die.  That will never change.   What will change - what has to change - is how I go about loving her.  I can't keep holding her memory so tightly to me.  I can't keep swirling every thought I have around her name.   It's killing me. I can still honor her.  I will honor her by living my life with vigor.  I will honor her by making decisions for my future and not because of my past. 

Long story short, the blog is not going to be my focus.  Not anymore.   I can't do it.  I can't keep dwelling on death.   I love Kenley too much to turn her into a martyr.  She's not a cause.  She's not a blog.  She's not a facebook post.   She is my daughter.    

I have said what I needed to say.  I have written thousands of bloody words with my broken heart and I have come to the end of the page - at least in this book.   As time goes on, as life goes on, there may be more I need to say.  I'll still post if I feel a major change in myself I need to document.  When I get pregnant again, I am sure I'll need to revisit my old stomping grounds to keep myself sane.  I'll probably update every now and then when I finish a fun project or work on a charity event.  The blog will continue, just not in the same manner is has been.  I will no longer center my life around these words, around my grief, and around her death.

I have to open up my palm and let that pink balloon float away into the bright and beautiful sky.  Fly High, Little Ninja.  Fly High.  

Saturday Mornings

I remember Saturday mornings.  So used to getting up for school at 6, I'd wake up at 8 feeling like I'd slept in.  Mike would still be unconscious next to me - often times also snoring.   The cat and the dog would have put aside their mutual distain for each other to curl up together on the floor.   And it would just be the two of us.  Mother - daughter time in the soft light of the morning.  

I'd prop myself up onto the seven million pillows I had acquired during my pregnancy and look down at the blossoming roundness of my belly.  My little ninja moved all the time.  All.  The.  Time.  But, Saturday mornings were the times I could really stop and appreciate it.  The times I could push pause on the rest of my life and focus on just one thing.  How wonderful it was to have her there, twisting and swirling in her own private jacuzzi.  

I'd push my hands around on my belly, searching for my little girl.  Pop!  She'd push back.  "Hey, Mom!  Good morning!".  She'd flutter around, wiggling, stretching, kicking.  At the beginning, it felt like popcorn popping.  Like my belly was a hot pot on the stove and tiny kernels shot around inside, exploding into softness.   As time went on, her movements developed into different kinds.  I could feel her somersault from one side to the other as she tried to get comfortable.  It was a strange shifting of heaviness.  The solidness on one side of my belly suddenly became soft as she moved over to the other.  Sometimes, as she got bigger, she'd slide a knee or an elbow alongside me - and my stomach would ripple on the outside - like a whale surfacing with its fin in the air and then sliding back into the ocean.  Other times, she'd punch or kick in a quick, sharp motion.  One spot on my stomach would jut out for just a second and then snap right back.  

She moved like this often, but these mornings were my time to pay attention to them.  I loved these mornings.  I remember looking forward to them all week.  Just one more day of work and then it's just you and me, kid!  For an hour or two until Mike woke up, I would just lay there and smile as she danced around for her Mama.  I was so in love with her, it's not even funny.  I would imagine what she looked like - how beautiful she would be.   I imagined how her chubby legs and outstretched arms would look in a few months when I changed her diapers.   I imagined her laugh, her cry, her babbling.  I dreamed of the future as my future bounced around inside of me.  Those were great mornings.  

I could lament right now about how I want those mornings back.  I could tell you, truthfully, how there are tears streaming down my cheeks as I write this.  But, I do not want to taint those golden days with sadness.  Those days are mine and Kenley's.  Those days were the days I spent with my baby, and they were the best days.  They always will be.  

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.   

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.

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

Dear Kenley

To my precious Little Ninja, 

Oh, how I miss you.  Today, I woke up crying.  When the first gray streaks of morning filtered into my bedroom and my eyes fluttered open, they were already full of tears.   My tears try to fill up the hole in my heart, but there is never enough.  Even though I cry rivers, the emptiness you left behind is too big.   Nothing will ever fill it.  

I can't believe you are gone.  I can't believe I had a beautiful, healthy baby one day, and then an empty body and heart the next.  Sometimes, I still expect to feel you move.  You had one mean left hook, you know.   Sometimes, I still expect to hear you cry from the next room.   Every once in a while, I think I might wake up from this world from which you are missing, and run to you in your crib, where you are smiling up at me.   I don't want this to be real, baby girl.  I don't want to be a mother without her child.  But I am.    You are not here, and I am left to carry on without you.  Some days, I am able to pull myself together.  Some days, I am able to take your memory and wrap it around me like a blanket, soft and warm and comforting.   I snuggle into you and my heart swells.   You'd be so proud of your mama on those days.  But, on other days, the blanket is full of holes and the world is so cold.  On those days, my darling daughter, nothing is enough to keep me warm, and my life without you is dark and broken.  I don't want you to see me like that.  On those days, Little Ninja, look away.  A mother should be strong for her child, and I am trying so hard.  So very hard all the time.  Please know that.

Today is Mother's Day, and it is already a hundred times harder that I feared it would be.  I am wracked with sobs as I write this to you.  I am so very sad you are not here with me  - that I don't get to hold you in my arms, or kiss your cheek, or inhale your sweet scent.  I am so very sad I never got to know your life outside of my belly and that I'll never get to watch you grow.  I loved you more than anything I could ever have imagined.  I loved you with a love so great and powerful that it holds me together and tears me apart at the same time.   I still love you.  I will always love you.  Until the last breath of air leaves my body, until my aching heart beats for the last time, until I grow cold and still with death, I will love you. 

I'm sorry you don't get to have the life we planned for you.   I'm sorry you'll never feel my arms around you.  I'm sorry your Daddy will never get to teach you about science and I'll never get to show you how to frost cupcakes.  I'm sorry I'll never know the color of your eyes, or what your favorite food is, or what games you like to play.  I'm sorry for so many, many things.   But, I am not sorry you existed.  Not for one second.  I am not sorry I carried you for 36 weeks just to end up brokenhearted.  Even though I lost you, I am not even a little bit sorry for the life you did have.  For a tiny sliver of my life, you were in it.  Your heart beat because mine did.  I would rather have had you and then lost you than never have had you at all.  For that, I will never be sorry.

You made me who I am.  Because of you, I am forever changed.   You made me a mother, Kenley Evelyn.  You transformed my ordinary heart into something more - something spectacular.   And even though right now, that heart is jagged and torn, it still beats with a rhythm just for you.  It always will.   One day, you will have little brothers or sisters, and they will help sew it back together, but you will always be inside it.  A nugget of light inside my patchwork heart.  Your light will shine through me wherever I go.  You will be the candle in my lantern, and I will use your flame to bring light to the darkness.  With one foot in front of the other, I walk through this life with your lantern in my hand and your father by my side.  You will always be a part of us.  No matter where we go, what we do, or who we meet, you will be there.


I love you now, always, and forever.

Love, 
Your Momma

Mother's Day

Many people have asked me what I want to do on Mother's Day.   That's a very difficult question because what I need and want changes from one moment to the next.  I've done a lot of thinking, and I have decided I don't want to do anything on Mother's Day.  I might go to the tree, but I am not going to go out anywhere else.  There is no way I could handle the sights I would see. This year, I just want it to be a regular day.  But, I do have a few things to say in regards to Mother's of Loss on Mother's Day.  

Before you read any further, take a minute to read this blog post.  Go ahead.  I'll wait...

She pretty much said it all, I think.  Obviously, that's not going to stop me from saying a few more things:  

 Women who were mothers before their loss or have had children since have a bittersweet Mother's Day.  They rejoice in their living children while still mourning the life (or lives) lost.  No one questions their role as a mother because that has clearly already been established.   Women who have no other children - women like me and many of the wonderful friends I have met along this arduous road - have a hard time with their identity as a mother after their loss.  We carried our babies.  We loved them and nurtured them inside our bodies.  We created that life and loved it beyond measure.   In the very depths of our soul, we know we are a mother.  We want to be celebrated like any other mother on Mother's Day, but, with heavy hearts, we realize this is not always possible.  It's hard to celebrate who you are when the very thing that defines you is gone.   Even though we want to claim every bit of our motherhood, we still struggle to hold it in our hands.   Like it is not entirely ours.  We know we will feel differently when we are holding our living, breathing baby in our arms, but until that day, we will always feel like a wallflower at a party.   Even though we were still invited and have every right to be there, we don't feel confident enough to dance.  Not yet.

We do not want sympathy.  We want recognition, but not pity.  We want other people to acknowledge that we are mothers and that our children were real and valued, but we don't want anyone to feel sorry for us.  We do enough of that on our own.  If you feel the need to send a message, don't send us your condolences.  Send us your love.

We want you to remember our children.  Beyond all things, above all things, we need you to remember them.  Remember their name.  Remember that they lived and were wonderful and beautiful extensions of us.   I can't speak for every mother, but I can speak for myself when I say that my greatest fear is not that this could happen again, but that the world will forget about my little girl.  Next Mother's Day, or the one after that, when I have another child, I am afraid of being known as a mother for just that child.  I am afraid that people will not think of Kenley anymore.   I know I always will, but that is not enough for me. I want you to think of her.  I want you to remember her and acknowledge her.  I can't bear for her to fade into a misty, forgotten memory. Memories are heavy, and they are easier to carry together.  Not just on Mother's Day, but on all days, remember our lost babies.   That is really the best thing you can do for any mother of loss.  Remind them that they are not alone in remembering.  

I am sure I had so many more things to say about this topic, but I just can't find my words.   I've been ruminating over this post for a few days because I wanted to get it just right. I've written some, left, and come back to this post several times.   I wanted to communicate my thoughts just the right way.   I think what I have here now is really the best I can do at this time.  Truthfully, I don't really want to think of Mother's Day and all the things I should have but don't.  Sunday should have been a day of joyous celebration for me - and for many of my new found friends.   But, it won't be.   It will be another day we have to survive.  We think about our babies every second of every day, but Mother's Day is a day the world forces us to remember what we've lost in a sea of flowers, and cards, and sappy commercials.  It will be a hard day for me and for all of the women who have lost a child.  

This Mother's Day, I will remember my beautiful Kenley Evelyn, my little ninja who made me a mother - who made this day mine even if I don't feel like it is.   I will think of my friends who, like me, are putting on a happy face in order to just get through it in once piece.   And, I will think of my mother.  I will think of the woman who was there for me for every scraped knee and bumped head of my childhood.  The woman who celebrated my successes and helped pick me up when I fell.   She's no stranger to loss either, and her strength and courage in this life are an inspiration to me.  And, that is really all I have to say about Mother's Day. 



  

Not Enough

I don't have any pictures of myself holding Kenley.   I didn't get to change her clothes or give her a bath.   I wish I had known that I could have done that.  And now it is too late.  I will never hold her again.  I will never touch her soft skin.  I will never feel her tiny fingers wrap around my hand.  All I have is the memory of holding her.   I remember how she felt in my arms, nestled into the crook of my elbow.   I remember how soft and smooth her cheeks were.  When they handed her to me, she was wrapped up in a blanket.  Her left arm peeked out of the folds and I slid my index finger underneath her palm.  I didn't know I could unwrap her from her blanket.   I remember worrying about what would happen if her blanket came undone and she spilled out.  I worried the hospital staff would be mad at me.   So, I held her as she was given - a little, still bundle.  I peeked in a little, pulling the blanket away from her neck.  I touched her chest.  But, I never touched her feet.  Or her legs.  Or her belly.  Or even her other hand.   I never even saw the color of her eyes.   I brushed my fingers over her forehead and touched her hair that fell below the knitted cap on her head.   I pulled the hat up just a tad so I could be sure she had the full head of hair my heartburn had promised me, but I didn't cup her head in my hand like I wish I had.  I didn't trace the outside of her ears.   I didn't kiss the nape of her neck.    I wish I had pulled all of the coverings away from my little girl and examined every inch of her so I could have committed it to memory.   I wish I had touched and kissed her all over.  I wish I had taken hours and hours with her.  Instead, I was weighed down in shock and sadness and I didn't know that even though death had claimed her, she still ultimately belonged to me.

Nothing makes me cry more than thinking of this.  Nothing.   I can't go back and have more time.   I can't hold her again - and so all of those things I don't know will forever be a mystery to me.   How her knees bent.  If she had any freckles or birthmarks.   What her toes felt like.   When I think of this, my breath catches in my chest, sharp and hot.  My ears burn and my eyes swell with tears. I feel a sadness beyond measure.  I have tried to write this post several times and usually only get about three or four sentences down before I have to take some deep breaths and wipe the tears from my eyes.   Remembering what she felt like in my arms only makes me ache to hold her again.   Remembering how soft her skin was only makes me want to touch her one more time.   But I can't.   Never again.  

I would give anything to have her back with me, but that is a bargain that has yet to be offered.   So instead, I am here without her, fighting the darkness she left behind.   Trying to hold it together as best as I can.  I miss her so much, I often have to completely stop what I am doing to mentally push through that moment.  She is gone, and I don't get to hold her.  I don't get to touch her or sing to her.  I don't get to hear her laugh or see her smile.   I just get to remember those brief moments in the hospital when I was too shaken to really soak her in.   And that is not enough.  Not by a long shot. 

International Bereaved Mother's Day

Today is International Bereaved Mother's Day.   You can read more about this day by clicking here.  

You have probably already seen "Kenley Around the World", and you may have even contributed a picture.  A few weeks ago, I signed up for a Mother's Day Name Event where I create children's names and take a picture to send to their mothers.  In return, I will receive pictures of Kenley's name.   All mothers participating have until the end of May to submit their pictures. 

At first, I wasn't sure how I wanted to complete these names, but I knew I wanted them to be meaningful.   I had the idea to use helium balloons since balloons are significant to me and symbolize Kenley's free and independent spirit.  I talked my wonderful photographer friend Jeanee into helping me out in her studio. All I had to do was bake her a batch of Kahlua brownies.  What a deal!    Creating these pictures presented many problems, but the two of us together were great problem solvers!    They kept twisting and turning and running into each other, causing pictures of names with missing letters. After a great deal of brain storming and even more maneuvering, we finally got it right. We rigged up a base and tied the balloons to them.  Then, we took a tiny piece of tape and stuck each balloon to the next to keep them from moving too much.   I added a pink balloon to the bunch to symbolize my little ninja.  The results were wonderful.

Before you scroll down to the pictures, let me tell you why they are so important to us.  A mother of loss only had a very small amount of time with her baby.  Some may have had no time whatsoever.  We have little or no memories of our child alive outside of our body.  While other children's growth and change can be captured on film, ours cannot.  We cannot celebrate birthdays.  We cannot send them off to their first day of school.  We cannot take them to the mall because they've outgrown most of their clothes - for the third time this month.  These name pictures are our way of keeping our baby's memory alive.   They are our way of having more than just the precious few photos the hospital may have taken before our baby was whisked away forever.  They are our way of watching our child grow and be a part of the world - the world beyond us and our own small circle.   They are our way to remember our babies and to make sure that other people remember them too.  After all, we are proud moms just like any other.   We want our children to be known.   We want people to recognize their worth and importance.  We want the world to know that we had a baby and they were wonderful!  We aren't "almost" mothers.  We aren't "used to be" mothers.  We aren't "maybe next time" mothers.  We are mothers.  All of us.  All the time.  The only difference between our child and yours is that you can hold your child in your arms and we hold ours only in our heart.    It's a good thing our hearts are big enough for such an enormous love.

Please take a moment to scroll through these pictures.   Read the names.  Remember these precious children.  Honor their strong as steel mothers by recognizing them for who they are.  Today and for always.

Megan's daughter

Danielle's son

Catherine's son

Kelly's son

Shauna's daughter

Katy's daughter

Crystal's daughter

Harmony's son

Jaimee's daughter

Naomi's son

Cassie's son

Colleen's son

Leah's daughter

My little ninja.  Always and forever.

  

Identity Crisis

If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck, right?  Well, what if it doesn't do any of those things?  Is it still a duck?
I don't know who I am supposed to be anymore.  I feel like a mother, but I don't have the luxury of actually having my baby with me.  So it is very confusing.   I don't get to do any of the things a mother gets to do.  I don't get to hold my daughter, or nurse her, or change her diaper.   I don't get to wrap her up in a sling while I run errands or push her in her stroller through the park.  I can't hear her cry, or laugh, or coo.   I'm not sleep deprived and covered in spit up.  I shower every day.  All of the things a mother does, I can't do.  All of the things that define her are out of my reach for now.  But, I still feel like a mother.   From the very core of my being, I am a mother.  I created a life.  A life who grew inside me for 36 weeks.  I sang to her.  I talked to her.  I loved her.   I rubbed my belly and smiled.  When she poked me, I poked her right back.  For 36 weeks, my body prepared this life for the world - and for 36 weeks, my mind prepared itself for the moment that life emerged.  (In all honesty, my mind had been preparing for years before that.  We've all been there, right, ladies?) 

 Before Kenley was born, I was nervous about the change that was about to occur, but I was also excited.  Elated.  I thought about all the things we would do together.  I thought about the milestones she'd achieve, the clothes she would wear, the games we would play.   I imagined reading to her every night, even before she was old enough to understand what reading was.   I imagined rocking her at two in the morning, bleary eyed from lack of sleep, but completely content with her nestled up against me.  In those 36 weeks, I created an entire life for her.  For all of us.  In those 36 weeks, I cultivated a love that until then had been unfathomable to me.  Every single time she kicked or turned, I smiled and thought to myself, "I can't believe I'm going to be a mom!"  

And I still am - just not the way I'd imagined it.  Actually, I never would have even remotely imagined it being this way.  How can you really be a mother to a baby who isn't here?   I have all of these instincts of motherhood, but no one to mother.  Kenley's death aside, something in me changed when I was pregnant and reached its pinnacle when she was born.  Something inside illuminated where before there was darkness.  The light a mother has for her child.  It bursts out of me like rays of sunshine.  I can't control it or reign it in.  No mother can.   But, she is not here to absorb this light, so sometimes the brightness is blinding.  I don't know what to do with myself.   I have all of this love and light for a child who isn't here.   I have all these desires to carry out the actions of a mother, but no baby.  For so long, I defined myself as "becoming a mother", and now that she's gone, I don't know how to redirect that identity.  I am still who I was before.  Sister.  Daughter. Wife.  Friend.  Teacher.  And now, I am a mother.   But I am also something else entirely.  Something hard to pinpoint or explain.  I don't know what I am, I don't know what to do, and I don't know where to go from here.  All I know is that, when all is said and done, the love I feel for my daughter fills me with a bittersweet joy I can't help but share.  She made me a mother.  That is a fact.  

Even though I can't quack and I don't have webbed feet, I am still a duck.  And, one day, I'll find my way to the water.

  

Initial Reaction

Whether on a keychain, a piece of stationary, or a statue on their mantle, almost everyone has something made with their initials.  I have all three.  When confronted with a bin of wooden letters, I always scoured for an R.   I'd do the same thing when coming across alphabet charms or personalized stationary.  I am sure everyone does so as well.   There is something appealing and comforting about having an item that represents who you are.   When I got married, I automatically added an M to my searches.   Now, I obviously didn't buy each and every R or M I came across, but it was always fun to look.   It was always fun to find the letter that was "mine", or "his", and it was always disappointing when they weren't in the mix.   "Awww, man!  They don't have it!"   Not that I actually planned on purchasing it, but I liked to find them.   

In the few times I have been shopping lately, I have come across an opportunity to look for letters, whether in a paper mache display at World Market, or an array of pendants at Urban Outfitters.  I skip right past the R's and M's.  As you can guess, I go straight for the K's.  It's not even a conscious decision.  I don't even realize I am looking for a K at first, but I am.  This is different from seeing owls or balloons.  Those just pop into sight.  Those sneak up on me.   But, the Ks, I seek out.   I look for them.  Automatically, I am searching for my daughter.   

The other day, a few days before the "Owl Incident of 2013", I was in Orlando with two very good friends.  We visited my absolute favorite store of all time, Anthropologie.  This store is very boho chic.  Vintage style dresses with sweetheart necklines and flowing skirts.  Eclectic jewelry. Velvet headbands.  Floral sheet sets. All girlie, romantic, and ridiculously expensive.   I love it!   While wandering through the store, a display of necklace holders caught my eye.   (Until very recently, I did not own nearly enough necklaces to warrant a holder for them, and I rarely wore jewelry anyway.   However, with so many people so generously purchasing me necklaces as reminders of Kenley, I realized I needed a place to put them since I can only wear one at a time.)  The necklace holders were personalized with an initial.  Each letter sat perched on top of a stand to hold the many chains you might place on them.  Obviously, I went right for the K.  There was only one.  I held it in my hand and debated on whether or not to buy it.  Was it weird to buy something with my dead daughter's initial?   Is that too creepy?   Too attached?  Ultimately, I realized that it was fitting to buy the K since I would use it to hold the necklaces that represent her.  So, that is what I did.   And now, all of my beautiful necklaces given to me by several wonderful friends have a happy home.

Until February 25, I had never experienced loss.  Not truly.   My mother's parents passed away when I was very young, so I do not remember the devastation of either of their deaths.  My other close family members and friends are all alive and well, thank goodness.  So, because of this, I do not pretend that I know what other types of loss feel like.  What I do know is that losing a child is like losing a piece of yourself.  A piece so enormous that you aren't even sure you'll be able to hold yourself together without it.   The rest of you caves in upon this hole, crumbling like a dynamited building, leaving your heart in rubble.  You try to take this rubble and rebuild yourself bit by bit.   But that piece is always missing and nothing else fits - and so you can never truly set yourself straight.  And you topple over again and again and again.  When I find a K, for a brief moment, I find peace.   She is with me once again, and I feel almost whole.  But, that moment is fleeting, and she slips away almost as soon as the letter is in my hand - because I realize that this is just a letter.   And a letter won't bring her back.   A letter can't possibly close the gaping hole she left behind.  Nothing can.  Not even time.  Time can erect a few support beams in the building, but those beams will always be exposed to the elements.  The walls will never be completely closed.  The hole will always be there because she will always be missing.  Always.  I try my best to find comfort in reminders, like owls, balloons, and, of course K's, but they are merely pebbles trying to replace a boulder.  No matter how many I find, how many I hoard, I will never be completely sturdy.  But, for now, it's the best I can do.

By the way, did I mention the K I found the other day was in the shape of a tree?  Because it totally was!

Four Corners

My emotions run rampant on a daily basis.  There are more ups and downs and twists and turns in my day than in Six Flags and Busch Gardens combined.  Of all these emotions, four in particular are the most prevalent.  Sometimes they hit all at once, like a gang sneak attack.  Other times, they slip in silently one at a time, and envelop me like a blanket.  No matter what, they are a part of everything I do.   My grief is like a room with four corners.  In each corner, an emotion I must confront, a challenge I must face.  My room is surrounded by windows, but right now, they are all boarded up tight, and it is dark.  As I face what is in each corner, I grow a little stronger.  With strength and time, I will eventually be able to remove the boards, letting more and more light in to chase away the blackness.  

Corner Number One
Sorrow overwhelms me.  Loss brings devastation.  Period.  My heart has been torn into pieces, and when I try to put it back together, there is one huge piece missing - leaving me hollow and broken.  When Kenley died, she took pieces of me with her.   Sorrow seeps in like radioactive slime, filling the empty spaces.  When I look through my photos of her, I trace her face with my fingers, and sorrow pours out in a waterfall of my tears.  Sorrow for the life she will never have, for the hand I will never hold, for the laugh I will never hear. I am sad for the daughter I will never get to watch grow up.  I am sad for the mother I am unable to be.  I am sad for the nursery, full of owls and sunlight, that sits empty and unused.  I am heavy and burdened with the weight of what should have been.  

Corner Number Two
Guilt consumes me.  Regardless of what people say, I can't let go of the guilt I feel.  Truth be told, I cannot remember the moment when I felt her move for the last time.  I know she was quiet on Sunday - gone by Monday.  But, did she move on Saturday?   Or was it Friday when I last felt that last ninja kick? I don't know.  I try so hard to remember, not just to ease my mind, but to have just one more moment of being conscious of her life.  I should have been paying more attention.   I took her acrobatics for granted.   I lost focus, and now she's gone.  I failed her.  I failed Mike.  I failed everyone who loved her and waited excitedly for her to be born.  I hold my guilt close.  I clutch it to my chest with white knuckles.  You can try to pry my fingers away, but they will not budge.  They will not loosen.  I should have known.

Corner Number 
Three Anger fuels me.  There are no words to express the anger I feel towards the unfairness of everything that has happened.  Of all the mothers in the world, why was it me?   Of all the babies gearing up for life, why was it hers that was taken away?  I deserve to be holding my daughter.  She deserves to live the quirky and hilarious life we would have given her.  I am angry at the universe - and I daily give it the proverbial middle finger.  I am like the teenager denied a curfew extension who sneaks out to the party anyway.  I'll show you!  I am more determined than ever to live my life to the fullest.  My anger propels me forward.  When the grief is too much to bear, my anger is what picks me up and says to me "Are you going to let it win?", and I respond with an emphatic and resounding NO!   I will not buckle to the grief.  I will not let Kenley's death be in vain.   I will push through this tunnel of death and darkness, and I will find my way to the light!

Corner Number Four
Love sustains me.  As sorrow weighs me down, guilt cripples me, and anger boils my blood, it is love that keeps me strong in spite of these others. Love for life.  Love for friends and family.  Love for Mike.  And obviously, love for Kenley.   I am surrounded by love.  It pours in from all directions, and I bask in it like sunshine.  It warms my soul and glues my broken heart back together.  I had never known a love like the one I feel for my daughter.  It was overwhelming and surprising.  I wasn't expecting to fall head over heels for my little ninja, but as soon as I knew her heart beat inside me, that is exactly what I did.   In her short 8 months of life, she showed me how strong love can be  and how strong love can make you.  I cling to it in this storm of emotion.  Love is my anchor.  It is what helps me feel joy in a joyless time.  I am lucky to have love in my room with me, as not everyone is afforded this luxury.   As long as I hold on to my love, I will get through this hell alive.  

Everyone who has experienced loss is in their own room too with their own corners to face.  Sometimes, we are able to open the window and let in fresh air.  Sometimes, we let others visit us.  Sadly, some people never muster up the courage to deal with what is in their corners, allowing themselves to be defeated, and they live the rest of their life in stifling darkness.  What I have come to realize is that I will always be in this room of grief. I will live the rest of my life within these walls.  Over time, I will let in more and more light.  I will get stronger and I will open the windows.  I will paint the walls vibrant colors and I will make myself more at home.   Friends and family will visit me and we will smile and laugh again.  But the room will remain.

Misty Watercolor Memories

Not enough time has passed for me to have experienced all aspects of my regular life not pregnant.   Almost daily, I have to stop and realize "the last time I did this, I was pregnant."  And it's hard to process those memories.   The other day, Mike and I were at the mall and grabbed some delicious chicken from Chick Fil A.   As I am sitting there, dunking my nuggets in the Polynesian sauce, I remembered the last time I ate at the food court.   I got Polynesian sauce on my shirt because my belly was in the way.  (Almost all of my maternity clothes have a permanent stain about five inches below the collar because I could not seem to get food to my mouth without at least some of it taking a nosedive onto my stomach)  As I make more efforts to get out of the house, this will happen more and more - and then it will happen less and less.   And I am not sure which is more disturbing.  

I have a very serious love/hate relationship with my memories.   Although it breaks my heart on a daily basis to remember my pregnancy, it also brings me joy to think of her alive and happy and to remember what it felt like for me to be happy.  I hate to touch my stomach and think about what I've lost.   It feels like a thousand knives dipped in boiling oil slicing through my heart.   But I love to think about the excitement I felt the first time I felt her kick.  Everyone told me it would feel like the gentle fluttering of butterfly wings.  Ha!  My little ninja didn't have that nickname for nothing.   Her first kicks felt like popcorn popping, and then eventually graduated to uppercuts to the belly button.  By the end, I thought for sure she'd be born with biceps to rival The Rock.  She was strong!   Now, rereading those words about her kicks brings forth tears of joy and tears of pain.  I guess you can't have one without the other.

Remembering hurts.   That is a solid truth.  Memories are unchangeable and bring with them a host of emotions that ache for that change.   They can not fill the hole that is left when someone you love dies.  When all you have to hold on to are memories, the emptiness of your heart can almost be too much to bear.  Your heart tries to wrap around it, to hold it close, but a memory is transparent and slippery.  It's fuzzy edged and doesn't stay in one place.  No matter how hard you try to hold on to it, it always slips away, leaving an echo of what Once Was reverberating through the darkness.  

But, remembering also heals.  For every ounce of darkness it brings me, remembering also brings me light.  I remember how I felt when I found out I was pregnant.  I remember the joy in my mother's voice when I called her on the phone.  I remember Mike's eyes lighting up with excitement.  I remember buying my very first onesie for her.  I remember what it feels like to create life...life that moves and spins and kicks.   And, of course I am sad to not have her here with me.   I will always be sad she is not here because she deserved life and I deserved to be her mother - but that sadness can not take away how happy I was.  Remembering that joy is what will help me create it again.  I never want to forget any piece of being pregnant.  I never want to forget one second I had with my daughter.  
Even though I had to stop for a few minutes just now to cry, typing through blurry vision is worth it - because I remember.  She will always be a part of me because I will remember her.  With time, the pain will fade.   The knives will dull.   But Kenley will never be forgotten. 

D-Day: Remembering Joy

Getting out of bed today was more difficult that I thought it would be.  I wanted today to be a celebration of her life, but I didn't feel too much like celebrating.  It's hard to find happiness when a piece of your heart is missing.  Once I pulled myself together, I got dressed and ready to go to the park.  While I dressed, I sang Baby Beluga.   I used to sing it to Kenley all the time.  Whenever I did, she'd flip around and kick me like crazy.  She loved it.  Today, I alternated between singing and crying, but I got through it, and I felt better.

Mike and I took a picnic lunch to the tree.  We brought a pink balloon and some other items to take pictures.  Then, we released the balloon.   I took video of the balloon release, but the computer is being finicky and not allowing us to view it.  After working out the technical difficulties, I'll post it later.  Since we only released one, there was no pack for her to break away from, but she soared high and true as usual.  The day was bright and clear, but the wind was fairly strong and whisked her away from us.  Here are the photos of our trip today.  

                   A friend of mine gave me this figurine.  It's very fitting.

                              Obviously, we must place an owl in the tree!

                                 Look at her, already trying to get away!

                                    My baby next to the playground.  :)

                               It was so windy, I had to hold the balloon in my hand.

        The balloon reads: " Always and Forever.  We love you little ninja!"

                Mike enjoyed playing with the panoramic feature of the camera.

  

Someone must have placed these flowers here.  Whoever you are, thank you!

It's been a month since she left us, and although my heart is still quite broken, finding purpose and meaning in every day helps me slowly and carefully patch it back together.  Today's purpose was to find joy in her life and to remember the joy she brought us.  Mission accomplished.