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.
Showing posts with label Learning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Learning. Show all posts
Friday, April 26, 2013
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Broken
bro·ken (brkn)
adj.
1. Forcibly separated into two or more pieces; fractured
2. Sundered by divorce, separation, or desertion
3. Having been violated
4.a. Incomplete
b. Being in a state of disarray; disordered
5.a. Intermittently stopping and starting; discontinuous
b. Varying abruptly
c. Spoken with gaps and errors
6. Topographically rough; uneven
7.a. Subdued totally; humbled
b. Weakened and infirm
8. Crushed by grief
9. Not functioning; out of order
I am broken.
I've said it many times, to many different people, in many different contexts.
And generally those people spend the minutes after that comment trying to convince me that I'm not broken and explain to me why.
But I can't understand that either. Because I'm FUCKING BROKEN, people!
Then these same people, who are in their own denial about my brokenness, expect unbroken behavior from me. Unbroken feelings and unbroken thoughts.
They want me to be unbroken. Why? Because it's easier for them? Or maybe because then they think that they too can stay unbroken? That if life should (god forbid!) serve them the same shit sundae it has served me, that they could somehow stay unbroken too.
It's all crap. I am broken. I do not and will not ever think like I used to. Feel like I used to. I don't have the same beliefs or attitudes. I think crazy shit. I say and do crazy shit. I'm irrational. I'm unfair. I'm unreasonable.
I am broken. And that, at least for now, has to be okay.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Grief
There are a number of things that I have learned about grief in the last 9 months. Things that I didn't realize before I lived it. Things that Webster won't tell you. That people in general won't tell you. But I will.
It is all consuming.
Nothing in life after loss is spared the wrath of grief. Everything, and I mean everything, changes. Perceptions. Opinions. Emotions. Reactions.Beliefs. Attitudes. Expectations of the world around you. Of people in general, and of those whom you love. Priorities change. Those who knew you in the before may not recognize you in the after. And not just casual relationships or old friends. We're talking Husbands. Wives. Parents. Children. Sisters. Brothers. Lifelong friends. Grief has the power to change every relationship.
It is exhausting.
No amount of rest or relaxation or sleep is any match for a grieving mind. I'd write more about this one, but I'm too damn tired.
It is terrifying.
So many times I've thought and said, "what if I never get better? What if I'm never happy again?"
I still don't know the answer to those questions. And guess what? Neither does anyone else. And they tend to look at you like you should be medicated if you ask. Which leads me to number four.
It is alienating.
People share in your sadness. For a while. Then they move one. All at different paces, and in different ways, but they move on. And even those who love you and mean well don't always know how to handle the griever. They don't know what to do or say. And you know what seems to be the next logical step for most people? Just don't do or say anything. It's a matter of their comfort level. As if they could make anything worse. Please. I've buried my daughter. I can handle anything you can say. Just say SOMETHING! But the vast majority of people around you will choose silence instead. And it's lonely. We watch them move one. And we stay.
It is unique and individualized.
I'm not going to grieve like you and you aren't going to grieve like me. People told me that Mr. J and I would grieve differently. I didn't really know what it meant, until it happened. And when it happened, it was undeniable. I don't really know how to explain it other than to say that you will recognize it when it hits your marriage upside the head. I had so many moments of intense disconnection from him because we were simply in different places, with different needs, and different feelings.
It is inconsistent.
I want people. I want to be alone. I need to laugh. I want to cry. I'm tired. I can't sleep. I want another baby. I don't want anyone but her. I'm feeling better. I feel worse than ever. Today is not so bad. I hate today. Hi, how are you? Screw you. Don't talk to me. Where are you going? I could go on and on. I could stop here.
It's not all bad.
Now I'm still very much learning about this one. And I'm sure I will write more on this when I know more about it. And although I wish every moment of every day that my daughter was here - losing her is changing me. And it's not all bad. I find that I'm more grateful. I move through life a little slower. A little more observant and appreciative. It's new and still a little icky for me. I guess because it treads dangerously close to everything happens for a reason crap. Which I think is shit. But I have a dear friend who often tells me that there is grace to be found. That out of this awful, unjust, unimaginable pain - there is grace to be found. She's right. I think. Maybe. To be continued...
It is all consuming.
Nothing in life after loss is spared the wrath of grief. Everything, and I mean everything, changes. Perceptions. Opinions. Emotions. Reactions.Beliefs. Attitudes. Expectations of the world around you. Of people in general, and of those whom you love. Priorities change. Those who knew you in the before may not recognize you in the after. And not just casual relationships or old friends. We're talking Husbands. Wives. Parents. Children. Sisters. Brothers. Lifelong friends. Grief has the power to change every relationship.
It is exhausting.
No amount of rest or relaxation or sleep is any match for a grieving mind. I'd write more about this one, but I'm too damn tired.
It is terrifying.
So many times I've thought and said, "what if I never get better? What if I'm never happy again?"
I still don't know the answer to those questions. And guess what? Neither does anyone else. And they tend to look at you like you should be medicated if you ask. Which leads me to number four.
It is alienating.
People share in your sadness. For a while. Then they move one. All at different paces, and in different ways, but they move on. And even those who love you and mean well don't always know how to handle the griever. They don't know what to do or say. And you know what seems to be the next logical step for most people? Just don't do or say anything. It's a matter of their comfort level. As if they could make anything worse. Please. I've buried my daughter. I can handle anything you can say. Just say SOMETHING! But the vast majority of people around you will choose silence instead. And it's lonely. We watch them move one. And we stay.
It is unique and individualized.
I'm not going to grieve like you and you aren't going to grieve like me. People told me that Mr. J and I would grieve differently. I didn't really know what it meant, until it happened. And when it happened, it was undeniable. I don't really know how to explain it other than to say that you will recognize it when it hits your marriage upside the head. I had so many moments of intense disconnection from him because we were simply in different places, with different needs, and different feelings.
It is inconsistent.
I want people. I want to be alone. I need to laugh. I want to cry. I'm tired. I can't sleep. I want another baby. I don't want anyone but her. I'm feeling better. I feel worse than ever. Today is not so bad. I hate today. Hi, how are you? Screw you. Don't talk to me. Where are you going? I could go on and on. I could stop here.
It's not all bad.
Now I'm still very much learning about this one. And I'm sure I will write more on this when I know more about it. And although I wish every moment of every day that my daughter was here - losing her is changing me. And it's not all bad. I find that I'm more grateful. I move through life a little slower. A little more observant and appreciative. It's new and still a little icky for me. I guess because it treads dangerously close to everything happens for a reason crap. Which I think is shit. But I have a dear friend who often tells me that there is grace to be found. That out of this awful, unjust, unimaginable pain - there is grace to be found. She's right. I think. Maybe. To be continued...
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Survival Mode
When I think about the days and weeks immediately following Jocelyn's birth, I literally have no idea how we did the things we did.
I don't know how we managed to sleep or eat or sometimes even breathe.
I don't know how we managed to go to the funeral home and plan her service.
I don't know how we managed to design a headstone or attend her memorial service (Although I do remember threatening to not go and/or go in my pjs).
I don't know how we managed to even walk out of the hospital the day after her birth.
I don't know how in the hell we managed at all.
But we did. We did all of those things.
I like to call it survival mode. Some may call it shock or denial or detachment. But I like survival mode much better.
The mind, the body, the spirit - it just all goes on auto pilot.
And somehow, we survive.
We do things that are entirely unimaginable, until the time comes for them to be done. Then, it's just done.
I saw a new therapist a couple of weeks ago. (Yes, I am in therapy in case you were concerned about my mental health.)
I mentioned this concept of survival mode pretty nonchalantly.
She stopped me.
She reminded me that I need not downplay my survival. She reminded me that just walking this road each day counts as a great achievement.
She reminded me to give myself credit, where credit is due. And grace, where grace is needed.
She reminded me that it's not just being in survival mode. It is being a survivor.
It's so easy to focus on all the pain and dysfunction and negativity because those things are such powerful forces in grief. And plus hello? Dead babies are pretty fucking negative. (Remember my morbid warning? This is nothing.)
But it's so important, at least for me, to acknowledge progress in grief.
I deserve to be proud that I got out of bed. And that when I was in bed, I actually slept.
I get to consider breakfast, coffee, and a touch of makeup to be success. Because it is, damn it!
I get to celebrate the fact that I drove to work without having to pull over and do the cry/puke/hyperventilate thing.
There are no small feats in grief. Everything is a big deal. Everything counts. Everything matters.
We are survivors. When push comes to shove - we can, we do, and we will.
And we get to be proud.
I don't know how we managed to sleep or eat or sometimes even breathe.
I don't know how we managed to go to the funeral home and plan her service.
I don't know how we managed to design a headstone or attend her memorial service (Although I do remember threatening to not go and/or go in my pjs).
I don't know how we managed to even walk out of the hospital the day after her birth.
I don't know how in the hell we managed at all.
But we did. We did all of those things.
I like to call it survival mode. Some may call it shock or denial or detachment. But I like survival mode much better.
The mind, the body, the spirit - it just all goes on auto pilot.
And somehow, we survive.
We do things that are entirely unimaginable, until the time comes for them to be done. Then, it's just done.
I saw a new therapist a couple of weeks ago. (Yes, I am in therapy in case you were concerned about my mental health.)
I mentioned this concept of survival mode pretty nonchalantly.
She stopped me.
She reminded me that I need not downplay my survival. She reminded me that just walking this road each day counts as a great achievement.
She reminded me to give myself credit, where credit is due. And grace, where grace is needed.
She reminded me that it's not just being in survival mode. It is being a survivor.
It's so easy to focus on all the pain and dysfunction and negativity because those things are such powerful forces in grief. And plus hello? Dead babies are pretty fucking negative. (Remember my morbid warning? This is nothing.)
But it's so important, at least for me, to acknowledge progress in grief.
I deserve to be proud that I got out of bed. And that when I was in bed, I actually slept.
I get to consider breakfast, coffee, and a touch of makeup to be success. Because it is, damn it!
I get to celebrate the fact that I drove to work without having to pull over and do the cry/puke/hyperventilate thing.
There are no small feats in grief. Everything is a big deal. Everything counts. Everything matters.
We are survivors. When push comes to shove - we can, we do, and we will.
And we get to be proud.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Rest for the weary
Tired. Exhausted. Beat. Fatigued. Worn the hell out.
However you want to say it. It's all the damn same. And what I'm learning is that grief is a lot of work. But more importantly, it means I have to take care of me. "Take care of yourself." I've heard that a lot. But what does that even mean? And how do I go about doing this mystery thing? Where do I find time among the sadness, the responsibilities, the bills, the cooking, the cleaning, the errand running, the playing, the working, the crying, etc.
I can remember being so angry (and still am, quite often) that the world didn't stop when Jocelyn died. Not forever, although there were moments when that was a nice thought. But just for a while. It should have stopped if for no other reason than to acknowledge that she was here. It should have stopped for her.
And it should have stopped for me. For us. Time should have stood still for a while. So that I could catch my breath. So that I could attempt to process everything that was going on. So that I could pause. It should have stopped so that we could rest.
But it did not. And it has not. And it will not.
Life goes on at a seemingly absurd pace. I've tried to join in at times. And at other times I've tried to invoke my self proclaimed right to do whatever the hell I wanted and/or needed to. Perhaps THE world wouldn't stop, but MY world could. Right? Wrong. Both of these strategies failed. I was even more tired. More angry. More resentful. How dare you people waltz leisurely into Starbucks?! Don't you know my baby died?! Assholes.
What I am learning is that there is a balance to be found. Some things in my life will continue to demand participation. Work, my marriage, my son. And those things deserve participation from me. They deserve investment.
But the other piece is that the exhaustion, the hunger for rest, the need for solace? These things are very real. And they are very important.
I have to figure out how to take care of myself. I have to figure out what it means. Here is what I know so far:
I have to rest. Sometimes that means sleep. Sometimes it means stay in pj's and be lazy. But I have to rest.
I have to get up. I have to get OUT of my pj's. And do something. Even when I don't wannnnnaaaa.
I have to talk. I have to know who my safe people are. And I have to talk to them. A lot.
I have to, on occasion, be quiet. Be still. Resist the urge to word vomit all of my thoughts. And be still.
I have to make sacrifices. I have to step away from some things. Not because they are innately bad for me, but because they are barriers to peace. And I need as much of that as I can get. It's a rare jewel these days.
I have to uphold commitments. Not everything is to be sacrificed. Some things are non-negotiable.
I have to know my limits. And I have to honor them. I have to listen to my body, my instincts, my heart. I will miss out on somethings. And that has to be okay.
I have to be gentle with myself. I have to grant myself grace. This road is hard. And there is no right or wrong way to do it.
This list is evolving. Daily. Sometimes hourly. But it's a good start.
For now? I'm tired. So I shall rest. Goodnight.
J
However you want to say it. It's all the damn same. And what I'm learning is that grief is a lot of work. But more importantly, it means I have to take care of me. "Take care of yourself." I've heard that a lot. But what does that even mean? And how do I go about doing this mystery thing? Where do I find time among the sadness, the responsibilities, the bills, the cooking, the cleaning, the errand running, the playing, the working, the crying, etc.
I can remember being so angry (and still am, quite often) that the world didn't stop when Jocelyn died. Not forever, although there were moments when that was a nice thought. But just for a while. It should have stopped if for no other reason than to acknowledge that she was here. It should have stopped for her.
And it should have stopped for me. For us. Time should have stood still for a while. So that I could catch my breath. So that I could attempt to process everything that was going on. So that I could pause. It should have stopped so that we could rest.
But it did not. And it has not. And it will not.
Life goes on at a seemingly absurd pace. I've tried to join in at times. And at other times I've tried to invoke my self proclaimed right to do whatever the hell I wanted and/or needed to. Perhaps THE world wouldn't stop, but MY world could. Right? Wrong. Both of these strategies failed. I was even more tired. More angry. More resentful. How dare you people waltz leisurely into Starbucks?! Don't you know my baby died?! Assholes.
What I am learning is that there is a balance to be found. Some things in my life will continue to demand participation. Work, my marriage, my son. And those things deserve participation from me. They deserve investment.
But the other piece is that the exhaustion, the hunger for rest, the need for solace? These things are very real. And they are very important.
I have to figure out how to take care of myself. I have to figure out what it means. Here is what I know so far:
I have to rest. Sometimes that means sleep. Sometimes it means stay in pj's and be lazy. But I have to rest.
I have to get up. I have to get OUT of my pj's. And do something. Even when I don't wannnnnaaaa.
I have to talk. I have to know who my safe people are. And I have to talk to them. A lot.
I have to, on occasion, be quiet. Be still. Resist the urge to word vomit all of my thoughts. And be still.
I have to make sacrifices. I have to step away from some things. Not because they are innately bad for me, but because they are barriers to peace. And I need as much of that as I can get. It's a rare jewel these days.
I have to uphold commitments. Not everything is to be sacrificed. Some things are non-negotiable.
I have to know my limits. And I have to honor them. I have to listen to my body, my instincts, my heart. I will miss out on somethings. And that has to be okay.
I have to be gentle with myself. I have to grant myself grace. This road is hard. And there is no right or wrong way to do it.
This list is evolving. Daily. Sometimes hourly. But it's a good start.
For now? I'm tired. So I shall rest. Goodnight.
J
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)