I haven't had much time to write recently.
Life seems to be spinning so fast, and I can barely stop to catch my breath.
The world keeps turning and while my heart is still broken over the loss of my little girl, its a different kind of pain.
I mentioned her the other day, in a conversation with a woman I barely knew. She asked if I had any children and I said that I did, a daughter. She asked me her name and I said it was Mia and I didn't mention that she had died and I walked away from that conversation feeling both like a liar, for refusing to admit that my daughter was dead, and feeling comforted because for the first time I got to mention her name and talk about her the way any other proud mama would gush about their baby, and it wasn't surrounded by pain and sorrow like the conversations usually are when I bring up my daughter.
Life continues and I am learning what it means to live again and it's hard to believe that it was just over a year ago that I had her with me, that Cam and I were sitting around the table barely understanding how to love each other again.
I never thought I would be here, and when I heard those other baby loss mama's talk about how the pain never really went away but it changed forms I would laugh.
I had just buried the love of my life and my child and how dare anyone tell me that I would ever feel anything besides stabbing pain.
But I did. I do. My conversations are centered around things other than the loss of my family. I get to talk about things like love and I get to stress out about things that need to get done and try to do a load of laundry before breakfast because I forgot to do it again and I'm out of underwear. And I get to do those things and be normal and then I get to come home and see Mia's memorial shelf and see the pink notebook I keep filled with letters to them and I get to fall into bed and say "I'm doing it, my loves. I made it through this whole day without feeling so sad and I'm living life again and while I don't think of you all the time you are always with me and I will always love you."
And sometimes it feels like I'm living a double life, the one where I miss my family and grieve over them and the one I live with everyone else where I keep my personal life personal and go out for drinks with new friends I met at work who don't know my story yet and don't know about Cam and Mia.
And sometimes I feel guilty about that but mostly I just feel like I'm moving forward in my grief.
And it's hard, to feel like I'm moving on and being happy without them, but I know that they will always be with me, and I am forever changed because of having loved them.
Saturday, 28 September 2013
Tuesday, 10 September 2013
One Year Later
One year...
How is that possible? It feels like only yesterday I was sitting in that hospital room, receiving the news that I thought would end my world. That my Mia was gone.
I was broken. Something inside of me snapped.
For months I crumbled, continuing my darkest decent.
It was in December when I decided I didn't want to live anymore.
It was in February when the strings inside of me broke and I was sitting in a pew at my church and sobbing.
Ever since that day in February, things began to change.
And now I'm here, a year later, something I didn't even imagine possible at month one, or six months.
And I'm doing ok.
Of course I think about how things could have been different, but I have days now when I can think clearly and realize that it was never not going to be like this.
The journey of losing Mia has made me a different person than I would have been if she was here. Maybe I would have liked that person better, but I'm not here.
Instead of changing diapers, I'm going back to school.
Instead of scheduling birthday parties and play dates, I'm scheduling counseling appointments and trips to the grocery store, where I buy enough food to feed only one.
Mia's death broke me, but her life saved me. Because of her short, beautiful existence, I am a different woman than I would have been otherwise.
I'm stronger, and gentler. The impact of her short life is making ripples, spreading out.
She makes me beautiful. She makes me strong. She makes me a mother.
And yes, even though the pain of losing her has been unspeakably awful, and while I would have given anything for it not to have happened, her short life forever changed mine, and I am grateful. I wouldn't change a thing.
So here I am, one year later, blessed.
I love you, baby girl. The light of your life will not go out, and your life forever changed mine.
How is that possible? It feels like only yesterday I was sitting in that hospital room, receiving the news that I thought would end my world. That my Mia was gone.
I was broken. Something inside of me snapped.
For months I crumbled, continuing my darkest decent.
It was in December when I decided I didn't want to live anymore.
It was in February when the strings inside of me broke and I was sitting in a pew at my church and sobbing.
Ever since that day in February, things began to change.
And now I'm here, a year later, something I didn't even imagine possible at month one, or six months.
And I'm doing ok.
Of course I think about how things could have been different, but I have days now when I can think clearly and realize that it was never not going to be like this.
The journey of losing Mia has made me a different person than I would have been if she was here. Maybe I would have liked that person better, but I'm not here.
Instead of changing diapers, I'm going back to school.
Instead of scheduling birthday parties and play dates, I'm scheduling counseling appointments and trips to the grocery store, where I buy enough food to feed only one.
Mia's death broke me, but her life saved me. Because of her short, beautiful existence, I am a different woman than I would have been otherwise.
I'm stronger, and gentler. The impact of her short life is making ripples, spreading out.
She makes me beautiful. She makes me strong. She makes me a mother.
And yes, even though the pain of losing her has been unspeakably awful, and while I would have given anything for it not to have happened, her short life forever changed mine, and I am grateful. I wouldn't change a thing.
So here I am, one year later, blessed.
I love you, baby girl. The light of your life will not go out, and your life forever changed mine.
Sunday, 1 September 2013
For baby Emily (And her mama)
My friend lost her baby this morning. Her husband emailed me this morning. If anyone should deserve to be rewarded with a happy newborn, its this girl. I'm still not convinced she's not superwoman.
She named the baby after me.
Sweet baby Emily, I want you to know you are loved. So so loved. Your tiny life mattered. Your days were predetermined and your life fits into His great plan.
She named the baby after me.
Sweet baby Emily, I want you to know you are loved. So so loved. Your tiny life mattered. Your days were predetermined and your life fits into His great plan.
Tuesday, 30 July 2013
What's new
I haven't slept in days.
I went to bed early last night only to play Angry Birds on my phone and toss and turn until well after midnight.
The insomnia is new.
Unfortunately the hole in my chest is not new. The feeling like I am breaking apart, that's not new.
Seeing her in the faces of everyone I meet, that's new.
Staring at walls for hours on end and walking into rooms and forgetting what I came there for, that's new.
Wearing the same shirt for days on end, that's not new.
The pile of unwashed dishes in my sink is new, and the laundry that I haven't done in days.
What's not new is the way my heart stops... and then starts again every time I think of her. It's just for a moment, not very noticeable to anyone but me, and only when I'm paying attention.
The self destruction is new. Or just back now after an absence.
Feeling like I don't want to breathe, that I don't want this to be my life, that's not new.
I went to bed early last night only to play Angry Birds on my phone and toss and turn until well after midnight.
The insomnia is new.
Unfortunately the hole in my chest is not new. The feeling like I am breaking apart, that's not new.
Seeing her in the faces of everyone I meet, that's new.
Staring at walls for hours on end and walking into rooms and forgetting what I came there for, that's new.
Wearing the same shirt for days on end, that's not new.
The pile of unwashed dishes in my sink is new, and the laundry that I haven't done in days.
What's not new is the way my heart stops... and then starts again every time I think of her. It's just for a moment, not very noticeable to anyone but me, and only when I'm paying attention.
The self destruction is new. Or just back now after an absence.
Feeling like I don't want to breathe, that I don't want this to be my life, that's not new.
Sunday, 7 July 2013
Saying goodbye
Today was hard...
Sometimes these days come out of nowhere and they hit you over the head, unexpected like. It's easy to forget what these days feel like.
Its not like I'm hysterical or that I find it impossible to get out of bed today, I just feel heavy. It's hard to explain.
This morning I went to the bus station and said goodbye to some good friends of mine who are leaving on a trip. A trip Cam and Amelia and I were supposed to be on. But Cam is dead and Amelia is dead and I'm not going. and that sucks.
With everything in me I want to go but with everything in me I want to go under normal circumstances. I want to go with Cam and with my baby girl.
So as I said goodbye to my friends today, I stood there with tears streaming down my cheeks, not at all anticipating how hard this was going to be. Standing there with my backpack, that should have been me. I should have had Mia on my hip, her favorite blanket and pacifier in my backpack. I should be wondering about whether or not she'll sleep through most of the long bus ride. Instead I don't get to worry about any of those things and to me, today, that seems unspeakably cruel.
***
I'm leaving in a week, for a vacation to the ocean. I thought I knew where I wanted to scatter Mia's ashes but lately the idea of taking them with me and scattering them in the ocean sounds more and more like what I want to do. I'm not sure if I'll do it yet. I'm not even sure if I'll pack the little jar containing her ashes in my suitcase, squished between my sundress and my bathing suit. But I'm open to the possibility. The idea of letting go doesn't sound as unbearable as it did in those early days, 10 months ago.
***
Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing. I tend to get that feeling when I write here, which is why I was avoiding it for quite some time. I thought I was ready today but as I stare at this page and everything I've written I wonder if I am. Reading it all, it makes me feel so incomplete. lacking. like a liar because I write all these extravagant things and I write thoughtfully and in the end its simple.
I'm just a girl who lost her baby.
Sometimes these days come out of nowhere and they hit you over the head, unexpected like. It's easy to forget what these days feel like.
Its not like I'm hysterical or that I find it impossible to get out of bed today, I just feel heavy. It's hard to explain.
This morning I went to the bus station and said goodbye to some good friends of mine who are leaving on a trip. A trip Cam and Amelia and I were supposed to be on. But Cam is dead and Amelia is dead and I'm not going. and that sucks.
With everything in me I want to go but with everything in me I want to go under normal circumstances. I want to go with Cam and with my baby girl.
So as I said goodbye to my friends today, I stood there with tears streaming down my cheeks, not at all anticipating how hard this was going to be. Standing there with my backpack, that should have been me. I should have had Mia on my hip, her favorite blanket and pacifier in my backpack. I should be wondering about whether or not she'll sleep through most of the long bus ride. Instead I don't get to worry about any of those things and to me, today, that seems unspeakably cruel.
***
I'm leaving in a week, for a vacation to the ocean. I thought I knew where I wanted to scatter Mia's ashes but lately the idea of taking them with me and scattering them in the ocean sounds more and more like what I want to do. I'm not sure if I'll do it yet. I'm not even sure if I'll pack the little jar containing her ashes in my suitcase, squished between my sundress and my bathing suit. But I'm open to the possibility. The idea of letting go doesn't sound as unbearable as it did in those early days, 10 months ago.
***
Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing. I tend to get that feeling when I write here, which is why I was avoiding it for quite some time. I thought I was ready today but as I stare at this page and everything I've written I wonder if I am. Reading it all, it makes me feel so incomplete. lacking. like a liar because I write all these extravagant things and I write thoughtfully and in the end its simple.
I'm just a girl who lost her baby.
Thursday, 4 July 2013
Right Where I'm at 2013 - 9 months 3 weeks and 3 days
I know this is a bit late. I know other baby loss mama's and daddy's are done this post and maybe no one even cares what I have to say anymore.
After all, it is early July and the sun is shining and melting away the remains of winter on my heart. It is a season for beaches and eating raspberries from the pail and bare feet.
And yet, when I left this blog for a time, back when I was only beginning to see signs of spring in my heart, I was asked by a dear friend of mine to return every once in a while.
So I'm making good on my promise and returning (Though no promises on how long I'll stay, Jen!)
***
It's July and even though it's sunny and flowers are popping up out of the garden in my backyard, today is not sunny. Today it is raining and windy and I spent the day in bed with a good book; a book about loss, love and two woman. One is a mother who lost her son, the other a woman whose husband left her. I can relate to both of these women. I am both of these women. My daughter is dead and my lover is gone and I am the shadows of these women.
When I started this post, preparing to title it, I wrote down 8 months. It took me a minute before I realize it's been nine months, will be ten in six days. Has it really been that long without her? How have I gotten from there (a grieving, sobbing, hysterical woman who wouldn't get up off the bedroom floor) to here (a somewhat less hysterical but still grieving woman who wanders through life but still periodically returns to the bedroom floor). I don't understand how its been this long. It feels like just yesterday and also like forever ago and I know this is cliché to say. Its supposed to feel like this, I think, its time. And yet I am still stuck in a state of disbelief.
***
I haven't scattered her ashes yet, in case you're wondering. I thought about it. I know where I want them to be. I feel more ready than I did a few months ago, when I first considered the idea. I have everything all planned out, which feels vaguely morbid. And yet something doesn't feel quite right and so her ashes continue to sit on my shelf in a little jar tied with a pretty pink ribbon.
***
I talked to her last night. In my busy life its so easy to push past it, to nod to her presence as I run past her memory, doing what needs to be done. Its easy to say, "Good girl. Good Mia. Good staying still and being quiet while Mommy gets her work done." But in the last few days the missing her has become something fierce and so I will sit and acknowledge her. So I was talking to her last night and I was asking her things like why she is here and who she was and why me.
I don't think I have all the answers yet. She doesn't seem to want to answer me and I can picture her in my head, a spicy little girl, giving me the silent treatment. But I believe she came to me for a reason: to teach me about love, and to help me find my voice, and also to help me learn to live again. Maybe its just me but I think my dead daughter saved my life.
***
It will be 10 months soon. 10! double digits! I am approaching it carefully, like I imagined I would approach her tenth birthday, with a great deal of nostalgia and wistful longing. And while I am excited for 10 months, then 11, for the first year to finally be over, I am content to sit in this single digit stage for just a little while longer.
I love you, my sweet.
***
And that's where I am today. I'm doing ok. I'm speaking my truth, even when its hard, something my daughter taught me, and her father. I'm telling her story and his story and my story, and how they all intersected, and talking about life and love and connection to groups of people. I haven't gone far yet, but I hope to. Some days, after sharing her story, I am so exhausted. I run a warm bath and step into it and think about everything. I don't feel worthy of love, of her story, of his story, of my story. And even if I say it a million times it won't bring back my loves. Their legacy isn't in my story, but in me. I am the monument of their lives. And so I will live and love and speak for them. They are woven into the fabric of my being and I have to trust that.
There's dinner to be made tonight and laundry to be done and a house to be cleaned for my brother's birthday tomorrow. But I think I'll sit here for just a moment longer and read about a mother who lost her son and a woman who lost her lover, and find myself woven into the pattern of them.
We are all connected.
After all, it is early July and the sun is shining and melting away the remains of winter on my heart. It is a season for beaches and eating raspberries from the pail and bare feet.
And yet, when I left this blog for a time, back when I was only beginning to see signs of spring in my heart, I was asked by a dear friend of mine to return every once in a while.
So I'm making good on my promise and returning (Though no promises on how long I'll stay, Jen!)
***
It's July and even though it's sunny and flowers are popping up out of the garden in my backyard, today is not sunny. Today it is raining and windy and I spent the day in bed with a good book; a book about loss, love and two woman. One is a mother who lost her son, the other a woman whose husband left her. I can relate to both of these women. I am both of these women. My daughter is dead and my lover is gone and I am the shadows of these women.
When I started this post, preparing to title it, I wrote down 8 months. It took me a minute before I realize it's been nine months, will be ten in six days. Has it really been that long without her? How have I gotten from there (a grieving, sobbing, hysterical woman who wouldn't get up off the bedroom floor) to here (a somewhat less hysterical but still grieving woman who wanders through life but still periodically returns to the bedroom floor). I don't understand how its been this long. It feels like just yesterday and also like forever ago and I know this is cliché to say. Its supposed to feel like this, I think, its time. And yet I am still stuck in a state of disbelief.
***
I haven't scattered her ashes yet, in case you're wondering. I thought about it. I know where I want them to be. I feel more ready than I did a few months ago, when I first considered the idea. I have everything all planned out, which feels vaguely morbid. And yet something doesn't feel quite right and so her ashes continue to sit on my shelf in a little jar tied with a pretty pink ribbon.
***
I talked to her last night. In my busy life its so easy to push past it, to nod to her presence as I run past her memory, doing what needs to be done. Its easy to say, "Good girl. Good Mia. Good staying still and being quiet while Mommy gets her work done." But in the last few days the missing her has become something fierce and so I will sit and acknowledge her. So I was talking to her last night and I was asking her things like why she is here and who she was and why me.
I don't think I have all the answers yet. She doesn't seem to want to answer me and I can picture her in my head, a spicy little girl, giving me the silent treatment. But I believe she came to me for a reason: to teach me about love, and to help me find my voice, and also to help me learn to live again. Maybe its just me but I think my dead daughter saved my life.
***
It will be 10 months soon. 10! double digits! I am approaching it carefully, like I imagined I would approach her tenth birthday, with a great deal of nostalgia and wistful longing. And while I am excited for 10 months, then 11, for the first year to finally be over, I am content to sit in this single digit stage for just a little while longer.
I love you, my sweet.
***
And that's where I am today. I'm doing ok. I'm speaking my truth, even when its hard, something my daughter taught me, and her father. I'm telling her story and his story and my story, and how they all intersected, and talking about life and love and connection to groups of people. I haven't gone far yet, but I hope to. Some days, after sharing her story, I am so exhausted. I run a warm bath and step into it and think about everything. I don't feel worthy of love, of her story, of his story, of my story. And even if I say it a million times it won't bring back my loves. Their legacy isn't in my story, but in me. I am the monument of their lives. And so I will live and love and speak for them. They are woven into the fabric of my being and I have to trust that.
There's dinner to be made tonight and laundry to be done and a house to be cleaned for my brother's birthday tomorrow. But I think I'll sit here for just a moment longer and read about a mother who lost her son and a woman who lost her lover, and find myself woven into the pattern of them.
We are all connected.
Monday, 3 June 2013
Living my truth
I haven't written here in days, weeks, maybe even months.
I find I don't know what to say. As I opened up this little blog for the first time in a long time today, I felt the obligation to write something.
Not something about my dead baby, or my dead baby's dead daddy, but about my life.
My life, the one that's not dead.
My life is good. It's filled with good, happy things. There's someone with whom I think I could possibly be in love with (But we're taking it VERY slow). I'm considering maybe scattering Mia's ashes at the end of this month, when I take a trip with my family up the mountain. Right after she died, I knew that was the place I wanted her ashes scattered and as the time approaches I'm not sure if I'm ready to let go yet, but we'll see.
My life is good. I'm good.
I don't know how often I'll be poking around this little space anymore. As I'm walking into my life (The one where, despite all odds, I am very much alive) I am learning to live in my truth. My truth is this: my baby died. Her father died. And I survived this.
And I carry this truth with me, out into the world, and as I carry it I find myself needing this space less and less.
So this is goodbye, for now. Hopefully, Lord willing, I'll be back again real soon.
Until then, know I am thinking about all of you, and sending my love
Go and live your truth
I find I don't know what to say. As I opened up this little blog for the first time in a long time today, I felt the obligation to write something.
Not something about my dead baby, or my dead baby's dead daddy, but about my life.
My life, the one that's not dead.
My life is good. It's filled with good, happy things. There's someone with whom I think I could possibly be in love with (But we're taking it VERY slow). I'm considering maybe scattering Mia's ashes at the end of this month, when I take a trip with my family up the mountain. Right after she died, I knew that was the place I wanted her ashes scattered and as the time approaches I'm not sure if I'm ready to let go yet, but we'll see.
My life is good. I'm good.
I don't know how often I'll be poking around this little space anymore. As I'm walking into my life (The one where, despite all odds, I am very much alive) I am learning to live in my truth. My truth is this: my baby died. Her father died. And I survived this.
And I carry this truth with me, out into the world, and as I carry it I find myself needing this space less and less.
So this is goodbye, for now. Hopefully, Lord willing, I'll be back again real soon.
Until then, know I am thinking about all of you, and sending my love
Go and live your truth
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)