"How many kids do you have?"
Ugh. The perpetual knot in my stomach tightens. I say one. Usually. Mostly out of self preservation. I say one. Then in my head, I apologize to Jocelyn. Because she counts. She does. I just don't always have the energy to go through all of it. And sometimes those who ask don't need the story. And sometimes, they don't deserve the story. So I generally say one. Even though I know that silence is counterproductive to awareness. Even though it literally pains me to deny her. Even though what I really want to do is climb the highest mountain and scream the loudest scream and tell the sweetest story of the beautiful baby whose mommy misses her every moment of every day. But instead, I say one as I avert my eyes. I take a deep breath as I rub my necklace.
I close my eyes and I whisper my love into the air.
Showing posts with label Ugly Truth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ugly Truth. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
The Bereaved Mother
I came across this the other day. As I read each line, a resounding "yes!" echoed in my head. Each one louder and more intense than the last.
I actually read it a few times because my I internal dialogue was so distracting. Whether you are a member of this dreadful club of bereaved mothers, or a spouse, friend, sister or coworker of a mother who has lost a child, please read this. It's important to try to understand the path we walk. It's equally important that we try to explain.
Read this.
I actually read it a few times because my I internal dialogue was so distracting. Whether you are a member of this dreadful club of bereaved mothers, or a spouse, friend, sister or coworker of a mother who has lost a child, please read this. It's important to try to understand the path we walk. It's equally important that we try to explain.
Read this.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Not so emerging.
Tonight, I am tired. I am buried in grief and pain and loneliness. I know that I will be better. I know that I am strong and resilient. And I know that I will be better. After all, I'm a fighter.
But sometimes, tonight included, I don't want to be better. I am tired of fighting.
I want to just lay down and let the pain swallow me whole.
I don't want to be resilient.
I don't want to be strong.
I want to just give in to the sadness and anger.
I want to quit trying. I want to be content in misery.
I wish I could lay down and give up.
I wish I could welcome resentment and bitterness with open arms.
I wish I was content to let this grief swallow me whole.
But I'm not. And I can't.
So tonight, I will take a hot shower and crawl in bed.
And like it or not, I will try again tomorrow. It's in my blood. In my soul. A gift from Jocelyn, no doubt.
Like it or not, I will fight again.
But sometimes, tonight included, I don't want to be better. I am tired of fighting.
I want to just lay down and let the pain swallow me whole.
I don't want to be resilient.
I don't want to be strong.
I want to just give in to the sadness and anger.
I want to quit trying. I want to be content in misery.
I wish I could lay down and give up.
I wish I could welcome resentment and bitterness with open arms.
I wish I was content to let this grief swallow me whole.
But I'm not. And I can't.
So tonight, I will take a hot shower and crawl in bed.
And like it or not, I will try again tomorrow. It's in my blood. In my soul. A gift from Jocelyn, no doubt.
Like it or not, I will fight again.
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...
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Fear
I spent the weekend in the hospital with my almost three year old son. He was rushed to the ER with respiratory distress and damn near coded. The ER staff was amazing and stabilized him quickly. Long story short we ran a hundred tests over the next two days and came home last night. With very few answers. And follow up appointments to try to figure it out. He is doing well and acting like his regular crazy self.
But the fear. Holy fucking shit, the fear. It's paralyzing. I watched as nurses swarmed and surrounded him. And I thought I was going to lose him. I thought I was going to bury him next to my sweet Jocelyn. Obviously I didn't. And I'm not. But man.
Now that things have settled down, it's left me thinking about the fear in general that follows loss.
It's so intense. An intensity that I never knew in the before. It carries with it, an expectation of worst case scenarios. So vivid. So real.
Because these scenarios are not simply imagined. They are remembered.
We have lived worst case scenarios. The innocence that protected us once upon a time, has been brutally shattered. We no longer say things like, "Oh my god, I can't imagine" when we hear horrific stories of death. Because we can imagine. More than that, we can remember. We know.
When medical crisis hits, there are no thoughts of panic asking what are we to do. There are no moments of uncertainty. At least not for me. I knew exactly what we would do if we lost him. And my mind went to the cemetery. To the empty plot below my daughters.
And that? That is really fucked up.
But the fear. Holy fucking shit, the fear. It's paralyzing. I watched as nurses swarmed and surrounded him. And I thought I was going to lose him. I thought I was going to bury him next to my sweet Jocelyn. Obviously I didn't. And I'm not. But man.
Now that things have settled down, it's left me thinking about the fear in general that follows loss.
It's so intense. An intensity that I never knew in the before. It carries with it, an expectation of worst case scenarios. So vivid. So real.
Because these scenarios are not simply imagined. They are remembered.
We have lived worst case scenarios. The innocence that protected us once upon a time, has been brutally shattered. We no longer say things like, "Oh my god, I can't imagine" when we hear horrific stories of death. Because we can imagine. More than that, we can remember. We know.
When medical crisis hits, there are no thoughts of panic asking what are we to do. There are no moments of uncertainty. At least not for me. I knew exactly what we would do if we lost him. And my mind went to the cemetery. To the empty plot below my daughters.
And that? That is really fucked up.
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