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.

10 months

I don't even know how to begin this post. I can't really process the fact that so much time has passed. 10 months. I think about the day she was born and the events that followed her quiet birth. My heart aches and my mind spins. 10 months. Almost a year. What's next? 2 years? 5? 20? I can hardly believe it.
But the amount of time seems irrelevant because every day feels the same. I love her the same. I miss her the same. I hurt the same. The thing that really gets me about the passing time is that it never stops. Time just keeps ticking despite the heartache. Despite the desperate need to pause and catch my breath. Time stops for no one. And it's just so unfair. Basically what I'm saying is that time is an asshole. And I wish I could punch it in the face.

The Letter

(This is the letter that Mr. J and I wrote to Jocelyn that is buried with her)


Dear Jocelyn,

Hi. It's mom and dad. We don't know how to write this letter. We are sorry that you were so sick. We are sorry that we couldn't fix it. We wanted to so badly. We would have done anything, given everything to fix it, to make you all better. To save you.
This world is a crazy place where things are unfair and unjust and sometimes, unimaginable. But you don't have to live in this place. You don't have to ever know the hurt and pain in this world. We would gladly bear those burdens daily to keep you protected from them. And we probably will.
But you, sweet girl, have never been and will never be a burden to us. You are such a blessing, a gift. We are so lucky to be your parents and we will always cherish the short time that we had together in this world.
We hope that you play freely and joyfully wherever you are, until we come to meet you.
Know that not a moment will pass that you are not loved and missed and remembered.
Your big brother is crazy. He would have given you hell. So you may want to keep an eye on him. On all of us, even.
You are so loved, Jocelyn. You have been since the moment we learned of your existence and you will be forever.
We also promise to work hard to allow your short life to be the blessing that it is. To not become bitter or resentful, but to embrace gratitude for you always.
We'd like to write forever, to fill countless notebooks, to avoid saying goodbye. I'm sure that we will write many more letters in the days, weeks, months, and years to come. But this letter has to stop somewhere.
We won't say goodbye though, not ever.
We will continue to know you, feel you, and love you forever. With more love than words could ever express.

Mommy and Daddy