Sorry.

Things have been really busy and plus also I suck at blogging.

But I have been doing other worthwhile things with my time. So that makes me feel better.
Anyway. Here ya go. April and May still standing links.

Oh and also this is super cool. And I got to be a part of it. Which makes it even cooler.
And you can buy it now. And I think you should.

xoxo

J

Speaking of links

Here's this.

http://stillstandingmag.com/2014/03/trying/

Motherload of resources

So I was contacted a couple of weeks ago by a wonderful woman named Rebecca who wanted to list my blog in an article highlighting online resources for grief and loss. How cool, right?
I was happy to help! So I was excited to see the list when the article was posted. Holy crap. It really is a super comprehensive guide to available resources such as websites, blogs, organizations - you name it. Even cooler, she's broken the links (all 115 of them) into categories that make it super easy to navigate all of that information. Enough of my rambling, here it is!

http://www.mastersincounseling.org/loss-grief-bereavement.html

Reasons I Cry

I cry a lot. I cry when I'm happy, sad, angry, and afraid.
I cry a lot for her. For a host of reasons. And I've decided to start documenting those reasons.

Today I cried at work. I cried because I am sad that I didn't unwrap her. Although I looked at her fingers and toes, like most parents, I didn't look at her whole body. And I wish I could go back in time just to see all of her. I'd do everything over again, just for that.

I thought of that today randomly while sitting at my desk. That's grief. It's random. And it's an asshole.

Still Standing

http://stillstandingmag.com/2014/01/balance/

Forgot to post this. Life has been crazy.

Dude, February...

How the hell did you get here?
Please be kind. And gentle if you can.


I'll try not to blink. And maybe write some more.

xoxo

J

Scrooge.

The holidays suck.  I said it. They suck. From Halloween to New Year’s Day. There is just no better way to say it. ‘Tis the season, right?
But if you’re grieving, this season brings much more than costumes and Christmas trees.   It brings a great deal of reflection and pain and sadness and a host of other emotions.  I’d like to think I’ve come to terms with that. So now, my job is to try to make it suck less. I was recently asked about ideas for surviving the holiday season in grief, to which my response was simply “Vodka.”
I was half joking, but only half joking.  Because you know what? If vodka works, go for it. If doing the big family gatherings helps, do it. If it makes things worse, stay home. Host Thanksgiving if you want. Boycott the turkey all together if that works. Put up a tree, if you’d like. Be a scrooge if you need to.  
Whatever helps you survive is okay. No matter what that may be. It’s simply about survival. And I think we need to grant ourselves permission to do whatever works.

If I am still breathing, not institutionalized, not incarcerated and halfway functional come January 2^nd – I have succeeded. And that…is good enough for me.

Last year was my first Christmas after Jocelyn died. It should have been her first. It was terrible. I bought some toys for a family in need. Money I would have spent on her. I ordered an ornament for our tree. I hung it tearfully and thought of my sweet girl. She had a stocking on our mantle. It remained empty.

I did things to try to lessen the blow of Christmas without my daughter. Some days it helped. Other days, not so much.

This year, I haven’t done any of that. It’s just where I’m at. I can’t find her stocking. And that’s okay. I put the tree up because my son deserves that. I hung her ornament. I didn’t buy a new one. I’ve bailed on shopping with my family, and ordered everything online instead. From my bed. In my pajamas. And it was wonderful. Because that’s what I needed. 
I’m planning to do Christmas at home and keep it low key. And if I change my mind a dozen times in the next few weeks, so be it.  If anyone takes issue with what I need to do in order to survive, let them.

‘Tis the season for survival mode. And I’m in it.

Still standing

http://stillstandingmag.com/2013/12/change/?utm_source=feedblitz&utm_medium=FeedBlitzRss&utm_campaign=stillstandingmagazine

Still Standing

I am so honored and humbled and excited to be writing for Still Standing Magazine. Check it out.

http://stillstandingmag.com/2013/11/grief-box/

Blah

Today really sucked. It started almost immediately when I woke up. The familiar knot in my stomach. The dreadful lump in my throat. The heaviness in my chest. I looked at the clock as my brain started running through the possible scenarios and excuses that could buy me a day in bed. I rolled over and hugged my pillow tightly. As if to protest life and the coming day. I made myself get up eventually. But it didn't get better. I simply pushed through each task mindlessly. Up. Coffee.  Cereal. Makeup. Clothes. Lunch. Keys. Bye. 

It followed me to work. I cried on the way. The facade of happy, streaming down my face. Fresh with mascara and salt. Physical proof of my pain. Kind of nice actually, to see something tangible in my tears. 

I walked into work with a deep breath. Grateful to have an office where I could sit in silence. With my light off and my lamp on, the only sound was coffee brewing and music playing softly. Thank god for those mornings. I surely needed it today. But I felt no better. I was just glad to have a peaceful place in which to feel like shit. Between the emails and the meetings, the lump returned. Through everything, the knot remained. I thought of her with every passing moment. Finally the clock shed some mercy on me and the day ended. 

I cried again. I like to cry in my car. Not the wailing, hyperventilating, ugly cry. Those are best suited for the bed or shower or pretty much anywhere other than behind the wheel. But the calm, effortless cry. Where tears fall freely and with solid conviction. I stopped at the cemetery on my way home. I sat by her grave. And then I went home, where my two lives collide. The life that is and the one that should be. I cook dinner. One less plate. I hug my son. One less child. We watch his show. No sibling argues. He goes to bed. A lone goodnight kiss. 

Now I'm in bed. This day is done. It was awful. But I did it. And I survived it. And that makes this awful day, also kind of amazing. 

Come on tomorrow, please be gentle. 

The Should Haves

This is the week that Jocelyn should have been born last year. My due date was never really agreed upon, but I would have had a c-section which means it would have been somewhere around this week.
It should have been.
I should be getting ready to celebrate a first birthday. Instead her first birthday happened four months ago and was celebrated only by a pink balloon in a lonely cemetery and lots of tears.
I think the should haves are one of the worst parts of child loss.
A friend once told me that it's so complex because it's not only the loss of a baby. But it's the loss of potential. The loss of what that child would have been. This loss of what our family would have been.

It's the should haves. And they are evil.

The should haves waste no time getting started. I should be blank weeks pregnant. I should be finishing the nursery. I should be preparing for maternity leave. I should be, should be should be.
I thought (or perhaps hoped) naively, that the should haves would slack off once I passed my due date. Once I should no longer be pregnant, surely the should haves would get better.
Oh, sweets. Wishful thinking.
It quickly became she should be this old. She should be doing that. She should blank. I should blank. We should blank.
Then I thought (or perhaps hoped) naively, that the should haves would slack off once I passed all of the "firsts". Once we made it through all of her should have been first holidays. Once we survived her first should have been birthday. Surely, then the should haves would get better.

But alas, I was wrong. Again. Damn. It is now my belief that should haves are here to stay.
They may change and they may shift. But they are a permanent part of my world. There will always be something that she or we or I should have had or done or experienced.
And my mind will always go there. It will always go to that place.  I will always wonder and wish and hope. I will always think of her in every piece of my life. In every possible capacity.
No matter how much time passes, or how many times I buy a pink balloon or hang an empty stocking.

I will never stop knowing that she should have been.

And that, I guess, is simply how it should be.

Ninja Feelings : Anger

A while back I shared my opinion on feelings that just sneak up on you, seemingly out of nowhere. I call them Ninja Feelings and I generally think they are evil.
Anger is one of them. I've found that it is quite crafty. See, it doesn't only present in it's original and most common form. You know, the normal angry. Oh, no. Nothing, is normal anymore. Feelings included.
Ninja Anger comes in many different shapes and sizes. So many varieties.
For me, the most intrusive version of anger is resentment.
Resentment that quietly creeps into the corners of my relationships. And whispers lies to me about what his intentions were. Or what she really thinks. Or what they really meant.
Another common version is bitterness.
Bitterness is a tricky one. Because a part of me, and sometimes a big part, feels entitled to that bitterness. It's justified. My baby is dead. And I get to be bitter about that if I want or need to.
But, no matter how valid that bitterness may be, at the end of the day, it only hurts me.
Bitterness rusts the edges of my soul. And that is not okay.
I could keep going on about the many facets of the Ninja Anger.
Fear, anxiety, isolation, etc.

But I will leave it at this: Be on the look out for this particular Ninja Feeling. It's a sneaky, manipulative little bastard. And it will eat you alive.

It hurts.

My heart hurts. It really fucking hurts. 

There are moments that still take my breath away. Moments where I still can't believe this is all real. Moments that send me spinning back into darkness. 

I want my baby. 

Absent

It's been so long since I've written. Partially because of totally benign reasons. Work, 3 year old, life. 

Partially because I've been tired. In so many ways. I'm going to try to write more. We shall see. 

Seasons

The cemetery keeps me acutely aware of the days that pass. 

There is no room for denial. The changing seasons are the ultimate clock. Tic Toc with change so visible, so tangible, that I feel it in my bones as I drive toward the cemetery.

Summer is burial. So hot. The air is thick and I sweat. We buried her in June. And the heat accompanies my first memories as the mom of a dead baby. 

Then the leaves begin to change color. And I grow uncomfortable. Fall is my favorite season but it's changing her place. It brings cooling winds and shorter days. Darkness falls early and I have less time. As if there has ever been enough. 

Winter falls. Christmas comes. Trees are bare. Just like her stocking. Suddenly the cemetery is a different place. It's cold and it's quiet. Somber. My memories reflect a backdrop that is almost unrecognizable. And I'm reminded that time is passing. And passing quickly.

Rain falls as Spring begins. The birds begin to stir. The sun warms my tearstained cheek and things begin to feel familiar. Shit. A year has nearly passed. I don't want to believe it. It feels impossible. But the seasons make it real. 

The heat returns. With thick air and sweat. Her birthday approaches and the cemetery now matches the memories.

A year has passed. 

The first of many. 

And the seasons continue to keep count. 

Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day.
I want to stay in bed. Under my covers. Where it's safe and warm. Something about being in bed seems so protective. Like my heart can't ache quite as much as long as I'm snuggled in my bed.
I know my precious Jude is here. And I'm so grateful for him. But I can't NOT notice her absence. The void in my life. In our family. It's always there. Even in times of (almost) joy, in times of happiness - it's there. And she's not. And it fucking hurts.
So tomorrow, like so many of you, I will celebrate my mom and I will be celebrated. I will smile. And maybe laugh. But she will be missing. And my heart will hurt and my chest will ache. And my mind will consistently wander to our precious daughter, our missing piece.

Ninja Feelings: Lonliness

Grief is so many things. So much that you would expect and yet even more that could never be anticipated.
Grief is an expert at those ninja-like sneak attack emotions, one of which is lonliness. (Others include anger, fear, and anxiety. More in those jewels later)

Grief is a lonely place to be. It's alienating.
Holy shit, is it alienating.
Because at the end of the day, no matter how much they love you and want to be supportive and want to ease your pain, they cannot walk this treacherous path with you. At the end of the day, they must go home. They must leave us and go their own way, leaving the sadness behind as they return to their own lives, skipping along in normalcy.
At the end of the day, no matter what, they get to leave.
And when they do, it's just me and grief.

Pinwheels

Pinwheels are a common sight at the graves of babies. Jocelyn is no exception. She's had a pinwheel since she was buried. She has one now.
As I approached the cemetery last week, my eyes were drawn to the spinning colors spread across the grass. So many pinwheels. So many babies. So many parents living without their babies.
Babies who were denied life.

I wondered why pinwheels are so common. It only took a minute for me to come to a conclusion.
Pinwheels are a sign of life. Of movement. They breathe with the wind and they move.
In a way, the pinwheels live. Like our babies didn't get to.

And as the parents, we instinctively seek this sign of life. Most, like me, completely unaware of why.
Yet so many of us seek out pinwheels. So many of us place them by our babies.
And we watch the vibrant colors as they spin into life. We watch the movement. The wind breathes life into what once stood still.
A sign of what we cannot see.
And we watch.

Time

The speed at which life continues after the death of a child is astonishing.

Days and nights pass slowly and painfully. Time stands in quiet stillness though I beg for its merciful passing. Yet somehow the weeks, months, and years disappear with a brutal quickness. And time breezes by with agonizing ease, though I beg it to pause and remember.

I cannot believe it has been a month. Six months. A year. Ten years.

I cannot believe I am still breathing. I cannot believe I am surviving. But I am.

Sometimes I attribute this strength to her. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

And although it is hard to believe, it is important to believe.

Sometimes, the only thing that gets me through the day is the knowledge that I survived the day before. And sometimes, in those moments that steal my breath, I remind myself that there is nothing I cannot do. After all, I have buried my baby.

And surviving that is an equalizer of sorts.

There is no moment or day or year that can intimidate me with its promise of pain.

Time can come or go. Fast or slow. The fact remains that my baby died. And the ache that runs through my being will never change. It is a part of me. A part of her, in me.

And that is a beauty, not bound to time.

Missing you

I just miss her. It's strange to miss someone who was barely around and yet I feel her absence everywhere.
I feel her absence, the hole.
But I also feel her presence, the light.
Some days one is stronger than the other.

Love you, Joce.