Ten years ago, I was a different person. I was just dating my now-husband, I had no kids and I had no major tragedy in my life. I was a young woman in grad school, seeing a guy who I was in love with but wasn't yet sure of where it would go. I had friends and I saw them often. We did things together, we texted, we emailed. We were great about staying in touch.
When I got married, things maintained the same way for a while. I still saw my friends, maybe not as often, but I still felt close with them. We still talked and gossiped. We still made an effort to see each other. When I was expecting my first baby, we tried to maintain. But things would come up. I wouldn't be able to go to something because I wasn't feeling well--pregnancy hormones really mess with you. Every now and then I'd notice I wouldn't be invited to something. When I was, I'd feel somehow like I had missed something. I began to feel like I was the outsider to the Single, Kidless Friends Club.
When I was expecting my second child, it was a lot of the same. It did become harder for me to go out with friends, but it wasn't because I didn't want to. It was because I couldn't get a sitter, my husband couldn't get home early enough, we were all battling our twentieth cold of the season. Or I was just plain tired. A toddler and a pregnancy--a sweet combination, but a very exhausting one.
Then we lost him. My world crashed around me. My friends--nearly all of them--were reaching out to me. Many offered to visit or send meals. Only some did. That's understandable. Friends who had been close friends for many years, dating back to junior high, suddenly were checking on me every day and sending their love, or calling and spending two hours on the phone while I sobbed. Some friends who had been close friends for a good ten years offered their condolences, but slowly disappeared. I didn't mean to be so self-consumed, but the inevitable fact was that my grief was all-consuming. Losing a child is. It couldn't be any other way. Ask any parent.
Mom friends gathered around me to lift me up and help me find laughter and joy again. Other friends simply disappeared from the radar. An occasional email here and there, but basically not a lot of effort on their part, and unfortunately not mine either. I didn't have energy for any kind of effort. The energy required to take care of my first-born was more than enough to suck my depressed and still healing body dry.
I tried not to resent any of this, but I did. I tried to be above that and recognize that I wasn't giving very much either and that perhaps they just didn't know what to say or how to act around me anymore, but I wasn't. It's only truly now that I am beginning to feel like a normal person again. Just shy of two years after losing my son, I feel myself finally feeling joy again. My heart still hurts on a daily basis, but now it is balanced by laughter--genuine laughter--and that helps me survive much better than it did when the laughter was always still overcome with the the idea that I would never be happy again.
To those friends who have drifted from my life: I still love you and I still value our relationship. I'm sorry that I was not the friend you wanted me to be over the past couple of years. I hope you can understand that I simply had nothing to give. Even if I had tried my hardest, I wasn't going to be fun to spend time around. There would always be that dark cloud. Always. To the friends--long time and new--who came to my rescue: I hope you always know that you saved me. You kept me afloat. You made me laugh and you cried with me. You saw me at my worst and still loved me. I will always remember that and I realize what special people you are.
At the end of the day, I feel my life beginning to be full again. I am sad for what is essentially the loss of my old friends. I guess that's an inevitable part of life. People drift. People change. I've changed, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I can't change what happened to Christopher, but I am eternally grateful for the lessons he left with me. I may not be the person I used to be, but my sons--both of them--have made me a better person than I ever imagined possible.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
A Year of Growth, A Year of Hope
In the early days after we lost Christopher, a friend of a friend reached out to me and told me to allow myself to feel whatever I needed to for the first year, to grant myself the liberty to feel and act however I need to in order to process and heal. I did that. I'm sure I did that longer than I needed to. But I have to say that it might have been the most productive piece of advice I was given because it allowed me to "just be" in my grief, to let it happen and that whatever direction it took, that was okay. Eighteen months later, I am of course still grieving, but it has become a kind of drive in my life, and that's a good thing.
The process of grieving is up and down, and sometimes very unpredictable. I felt a release after we celebrated Christopher's first birthday. We got through, and we are still here. Not only that, we are doing alright. But feeling that release and feeling a weight lifted does not mean the tears don't sneak up on you when you least expect it. Celebrating Christmas this year with my husband and Charlie, I wanted to take them to a place in my hometown where I would go and be in awe of the Christmas spirit. The beauty of it. The cold winter air flowing in your open car windows as you sip hot chocolate and stare at hundreds of homes fully decked out in Christmas decor. It was better than I remembered. Christmas Tree Lane has a soundtrack, and as the three of us were driving in a line of cars, enjoying the lights and each other, the song "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole came on. I lost it. There with Charlie in my lap, I chided myself for not keeping it together and enjoying the holidays with the beautiful people I am blessed to spend it with. My husband asked me, simply, "Why?" Why would I want to keep it together? Christopher is our son and he can't share in these simple joys with us. Why shouldn't I be sad? And he's right.
Being a mother of a three year old, I spend so much time keeping up with preschool, my work days (it's a co-op), groceries, house work, appointments, etc. It's easy to fill that time so I don't have to acknowledge my sadness. Don't get me wrong. Christopher is in my thoughts every single day, but so often I try to tell myself that I accept what has happened and I'm okay. And honestly, I am okay. But I am also sad. If I quiet my mind and be with my thoughts (and my heart), the tears come. Always. Inevitably.
This year, 2014, is a year of acceptance, looking forward and being grateful. In 2013, I wanted all those things and tried to attain them, but in reality, the loss was still much too raw. It still is raw, but I have grown. In January of 2013, we were given the green light to try to conceive again. We were told it was okay to start trying then, but the doctor would prefer we wait until May. We figured I wouldn't get pregnant right off the bat, so we went for it. Summertime came and we were still trying, becoming more and more frustrated. Charlie was conceived so quickly, and so was Christopher. Why wasn't it happening this time?
As I was reminded by several friends that so many people conceive while on vacation, I convinced myself that this was what we needed to do. I presented my case to my husband that we needed to get away--truly get away-- from everything and he agreed. My husband, the most frugal and practical man on the planet, agreed. That was shocking because financially, it was not the time we should have been planning any kind of vacation, but emotionally, we needed it. We needed time together, time away from responsibilities and obligations. It was just what we needed, and Charlie was quite the hit on our cruise ship in his tuxedo and slicked back hair (and he ate up every second of it--love that kid!). Two weeks after we came home, we were settling back into life and it was time again to wonder, stress, obsess over whether or not I was pregnant.
Always eager, I started testing earlier than I should have. Two home pregnancy tests said negative. A couple days later, I took another one and...pregnant! I screamed like a little girl (and anyone who knows me, knows that I am not *that* kind of girl), and then I cried. I sobbed loudly and shamelessly. I cried for Christopher. I cried for this baby that we had been trying for. I just couldn't believe it. I called my doctor and scheduled the first appointment. I joyfully headed back into life feeling so uplifted, so hopeful. Despite having first-hand knowledge that happiness can be ripped away from you in a second, I was ecstatic that we finally had this joy in our lives. I told friends and family.
Then one Friday night, the bleeding started. My heart sank. I had never experienced a miscarriage, but I knew that's what it was. Deep down, I knew. I spend the night watching it, and the next day as it continued to get worse, I took myself to the ER. I had to know for sure. And it was confirmed. Decreasing hcg levels, and absolutely nothing detected on the ultrasound. I told the nurses--and I told myself--that it was okay. We had been through worse. We'd be okay. For a few weeks, I went around in that daze, convincing myself that I was happy to know that I could at least get pregnant again, that there wasn't so much damage done to my uterus when it ruptured with Christopher.
But the anxiety and stress over this kind of secondary infertility is cumulative. Now, not only had we lost a pregnancy, but we had to wait yet again for my body to heal before we could start trying again. We had always wanted a sibling close in age to Charlie and now we could just see the years between Charlie and his younger sibling increasing. And there was absolutely nothing we could do about it. I had spent the last year fighting nature and being angry that nothing was happening how we wanted it to. But how do you let go of the dreams you've mapped out for your family?
Then something hit me as we approached the new year: all this stress over conceiving is not helping anyone. Acceptance. Acceptance. I have to accept what I can't change. All I can do is continue to be hopeful, remind myself that Charlie will love his younger brother or sister no matter what the age difference ultimately is, and know that it'll happen when it's right. I have to accept that. Some days, that's easy to embrace. Some days, it's not.
Today, as I played with my sweet little boy who is home sick from preschool, we laughed together, snuggled, had a little dance party and even had a teeny tiny bit of a food fight (the most hysterical thing in the world to a 3 year old, apparently), I feel blessed for the wonderful things in my life. I couldn't ask for a sweeter or funnier little boy. He kills me with his affection and silly sense of humor. I am so lucky to have a husband who hurts as much as I do, but still manages to be my rock and my best friend. I am grateful for the wonderful friends I have in my life--new friends whose hearts are open and gracious, and old ones who have loved me unconditionally for years. I love you guys. All of you.
So while the sadness is always there and there won't be a day in my life that I don't miss my sweet Christopher and mourn the dreams we had for him, there is a new joy in my life and I am very, very hopeful that this year, no matter what may come, my life is exactly where it should be and I am grateful for that.
The process of grieving is up and down, and sometimes very unpredictable. I felt a release after we celebrated Christopher's first birthday. We got through, and we are still here. Not only that, we are doing alright. But feeling that release and feeling a weight lifted does not mean the tears don't sneak up on you when you least expect it. Celebrating Christmas this year with my husband and Charlie, I wanted to take them to a place in my hometown where I would go and be in awe of the Christmas spirit. The beauty of it. The cold winter air flowing in your open car windows as you sip hot chocolate and stare at hundreds of homes fully decked out in Christmas decor. It was better than I remembered. Christmas Tree Lane has a soundtrack, and as the three of us were driving in a line of cars, enjoying the lights and each other, the song "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole came on. I lost it. There with Charlie in my lap, I chided myself for not keeping it together and enjoying the holidays with the beautiful people I am blessed to spend it with. My husband asked me, simply, "Why?" Why would I want to keep it together? Christopher is our son and he can't share in these simple joys with us. Why shouldn't I be sad? And he's right.
Being a mother of a three year old, I spend so much time keeping up with preschool, my work days (it's a co-op), groceries, house work, appointments, etc. It's easy to fill that time so I don't have to acknowledge my sadness. Don't get me wrong. Christopher is in my thoughts every single day, but so often I try to tell myself that I accept what has happened and I'm okay. And honestly, I am okay. But I am also sad. If I quiet my mind and be with my thoughts (and my heart), the tears come. Always. Inevitably.
This year, 2014, is a year of acceptance, looking forward and being grateful. In 2013, I wanted all those things and tried to attain them, but in reality, the loss was still much too raw. It still is raw, but I have grown. In January of 2013, we were given the green light to try to conceive again. We were told it was okay to start trying then, but the doctor would prefer we wait until May. We figured I wouldn't get pregnant right off the bat, so we went for it. Summertime came and we were still trying, becoming more and more frustrated. Charlie was conceived so quickly, and so was Christopher. Why wasn't it happening this time?
As I was reminded by several friends that so many people conceive while on vacation, I convinced myself that this was what we needed to do. I presented my case to my husband that we needed to get away--truly get away-- from everything and he agreed. My husband, the most frugal and practical man on the planet, agreed. That was shocking because financially, it was not the time we should have been planning any kind of vacation, but emotionally, we needed it. We needed time together, time away from responsibilities and obligations. It was just what we needed, and Charlie was quite the hit on our cruise ship in his tuxedo and slicked back hair (and he ate up every second of it--love that kid!). Two weeks after we came home, we were settling back into life and it was time again to wonder, stress, obsess over whether or not I was pregnant.
Always eager, I started testing earlier than I should have. Two home pregnancy tests said negative. A couple days later, I took another one and...pregnant! I screamed like a little girl (and anyone who knows me, knows that I am not *that* kind of girl), and then I cried. I sobbed loudly and shamelessly. I cried for Christopher. I cried for this baby that we had been trying for. I just couldn't believe it. I called my doctor and scheduled the first appointment. I joyfully headed back into life feeling so uplifted, so hopeful. Despite having first-hand knowledge that happiness can be ripped away from you in a second, I was ecstatic that we finally had this joy in our lives. I told friends and family.
Then one Friday night, the bleeding started. My heart sank. I had never experienced a miscarriage, but I knew that's what it was. Deep down, I knew. I spend the night watching it, and the next day as it continued to get worse, I took myself to the ER. I had to know for sure. And it was confirmed. Decreasing hcg levels, and absolutely nothing detected on the ultrasound. I told the nurses--and I told myself--that it was okay. We had been through worse. We'd be okay. For a few weeks, I went around in that daze, convincing myself that I was happy to know that I could at least get pregnant again, that there wasn't so much damage done to my uterus when it ruptured with Christopher.
But the anxiety and stress over this kind of secondary infertility is cumulative. Now, not only had we lost a pregnancy, but we had to wait yet again for my body to heal before we could start trying again. We had always wanted a sibling close in age to Charlie and now we could just see the years between Charlie and his younger sibling increasing. And there was absolutely nothing we could do about it. I had spent the last year fighting nature and being angry that nothing was happening how we wanted it to. But how do you let go of the dreams you've mapped out for your family?
Then something hit me as we approached the new year: all this stress over conceiving is not helping anyone. Acceptance. Acceptance. I have to accept what I can't change. All I can do is continue to be hopeful, remind myself that Charlie will love his younger brother or sister no matter what the age difference ultimately is, and know that it'll happen when it's right. I have to accept that. Some days, that's easy to embrace. Some days, it's not.
Today, as I played with my sweet little boy who is home sick from preschool, we laughed together, snuggled, had a little dance party and even had a teeny tiny bit of a food fight (the most hysterical thing in the world to a 3 year old, apparently), I feel blessed for the wonderful things in my life. I couldn't ask for a sweeter or funnier little boy. He kills me with his affection and silly sense of humor. I am so lucky to have a husband who hurts as much as I do, but still manages to be my rock and my best friend. I am grateful for the wonderful friends I have in my life--new friends whose hearts are open and gracious, and old ones who have loved me unconditionally for years. I love you guys. All of you.
So while the sadness is always there and there won't be a day in my life that I don't miss my sweet Christopher and mourn the dreams we had for him, there is a new joy in my life and I am very, very hopeful that this year, no matter what may come, my life is exactly where it should be and I am grateful for that.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
A Turning Point
When we first lost Christopher, I felt guilty any time I took joy in anything. I felt awful if I laughed with Charlie or had a carefree weekend afternoon. It was unfair to Christopher to be enjoying life without him. I would catch myself having fun and shut myself down. It didn't feel right for a very long time.
It's still hard, and the sadness still comes through quite a bit, but these days it feels unfair if we don't celebrate life. I feel like he would want us to be happy--of course he would. Somehow as we passed his first birthday, I have felt more at peace with my life as it is. There is nothing I can do to change it at this moment, and I still miss my son every day, but I feel his presence more with me...in a peaceful way instead of a sad way.
Last month, we took our first real family vacation, not only since we lost Christopher, but actually since we had Charlie. We truly disconnected from everything at home--all the routines, all the anxiety and emotions that surround us every day--plopped ourselves on a big ship in the Caribbean, and we reconnected with each other. What a joy it was to just be. There were no stresses, other than the occasional two year old meltdown. We had an opportunity to truly have fun with each other, and there were occasional quiet moments when we wished Christopher could be there with us, but I now feel like he is with us all the time and that reminds me that our family is as whole as it can be. That is not a resignation, but a step forward in being at peace with what my life is. And being at peace with my life is how I feel I can honor Christopher.
I have really felt him with me lately, and that really brings me joy. While we still haven't gotten around to doing the "things" I wanted to do to keep his presence in our family--like a photo collage, a scrapbook--other things have organically happened and they bring a more spiritual presence to our home. That's more valuable and fulfilling than any project I could ever dream of. And I suspect he will somehow guide my life in a way I can always honor him and all of my children. Because for a while, my life was about all that I lost. Now I see that it is about all that I have.
It's still hard, and the sadness still comes through quite a bit, but these days it feels unfair if we don't celebrate life. I feel like he would want us to be happy--of course he would. Somehow as we passed his first birthday, I have felt more at peace with my life as it is. There is nothing I can do to change it at this moment, and I still miss my son every day, but I feel his presence more with me...in a peaceful way instead of a sad way.
Last month, we took our first real family vacation, not only since we lost Christopher, but actually since we had Charlie. We truly disconnected from everything at home--all the routines, all the anxiety and emotions that surround us every day--plopped ourselves on a big ship in the Caribbean, and we reconnected with each other. What a joy it was to just be. There were no stresses, other than the occasional two year old meltdown. We had an opportunity to truly have fun with each other, and there were occasional quiet moments when we wished Christopher could be there with us, but I now feel like he is with us all the time and that reminds me that our family is as whole as it can be. That is not a resignation, but a step forward in being at peace with what my life is. And being at peace with my life is how I feel I can honor Christopher.
I have really felt him with me lately, and that really brings me joy. While we still haven't gotten around to doing the "things" I wanted to do to keep his presence in our family--like a photo collage, a scrapbook--other things have organically happened and they bring a more spiritual presence to our home. That's more valuable and fulfilling than any project I could ever dream of. And I suspect he will somehow guide my life in a way I can always honor him and all of my children. Because for a while, my life was about all that I lost. Now I see that it is about all that I have.
Another Step Forward
One thing I know for sure, though: I may not cry at his first day of preschool, kindergarten or even high school. But when he leaves for college, I better buy stock in Kleenex. My boy leaving home is entirely another story!
Thursday, July 25, 2013
The lessons my son has taught me
1. You'll grow as a person in ways you never imagined. You may look back at who you were before and recognize how much more appreciation for life you have now.
2. You will see more good in others than you ever dreamed possible.
3. Many of those you expected to be there for you will step up to the plate, and then some. People you barely knew or never knew will be there to hold your hand through the difficult times.
4. Some people you thought would be there for you, will not be. You may find yourself confused at the complete indifference those who you thought would care might show you.
5. Some people don't know what to say, and that's completely fine. You realize that a simple acknowledgement--even saying "how are you doing?" or "I don't know what to say, but I'm here for you"--will mean so much.
6. You will learn to let people do things for you and learn the true meaning of gratitude.
7. Life is unfair. Maybe things happen for a reason. Maybe they don't. Any way the cards fall, you can't do anything to change what has already happened. You'll find peace in learning to let yourself simply experience your feelings, then learning how those feelings can make you a better person.
8. Your heart will implode with grief one day and explode with gratitude for all the love around you the next day.
9. Time will play tricks on you. A year will feel like an eternity, yet it will feel like just yesterday you were immersed in the darkest days right after losing your child.
10. The moment you feel like you have your bearings, your feet back on the ground, something sets you off again--a song, a picture, a flower or gentle breeze that makes you feel your child is with you.
11. You may think you are being selfish, wanting people to acknowledge your child and wanting to talk about it. You are not. It's a balancing act to want to be a "normal" person again, and being a grieving parent.
12. Whether you lost one child or many, your first or your last, you are still a mother or father to that child. Whether they took a breath outside your womb or not, that child was real and still is. It is a challenge to find ways to incorporate a child who passed away into your family life and whatever you do, however it feels right, you're doing the best you can and no one can ask anymore of you.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Lessons
I am 35 years old. I would say that the majority of my life was pretty blessed. I lost my grandfather when I was 8, but I was only 8 and didn't fully comprehend what it meant to lose someone. I lost family pets here and there over the years, and those times were sad, of course, but nothing compared to what I would experience several years later. I would say that up until last year, I lived life fairly unscathed.
Then July came and we lost our precious boy. September came, and my mom received a new liver, but processing the joy in her gaining her life back along with the sadness of a young woman who was able to give that gift to a handful of people because she lost her life...it's just so conflicting. When we met the family of this woman, it was incredibly bittersweet. There was so much sadness, but the joy in seeing their daughter/friend/sister live on and give life to others was apparent. You could see that immediately.
Earlier this week, I learned that a friend had suffered a brain aneruysm. She was a fellow July mom who gave birth to a beautiful little girl. Just yesterday, I learned that my friend had passed away. She was much too young. She had a young baby, just 8 months old. Things like this aren't supposed to happen. I can't even begin to imagine how her husband is processing this. He must wonder how he's going to honor his wife and make sure his daughter knows what a beautiful person she was. He must think about how much his daughter will miss, and also all the joys of his daughter growing up that his wife will miss. I think about these things often and would feel absolutely robbed if something were to happen to me and I couldn't watch my son grow up.
I'm not sure it's necessary, but I will say that I've never actually met this woman in person. When I was expecting Christopher, I became part of a Facebook group for women expecting in July 2012. I will admit that, at first, I was a bit skeptical of advertising that I was part of a Facebook group, thinking that it somehow equated to MySpace or something not very nicely looked upon. What I learned was that there was a group of absolutely amazing women who grew to love each other, support each other, answer each others embarrassing pregnancy questions, support each other through the aches and pains...and the early deliveries, the happy deliveries. Out of a group of more than 300 women, I was the only one who carried to term and lost their baby full-term. I was not the only one who suffered a loss, or suffered some kind of seemingly insurmountable obstacle before or after birth. Struggles or not, all of these women are strong, funny, supporting and loving.
When I lost Christopher, the outpouring of love and support was amazing...beyond amazing. I mean, I can't even begin to say how much these women kept me afloat in my most horrible time. They collected money for us that we were able to use toward Christopher's memorial, many of them took part in a balloon release on the day of his service and I have pictures of nearly every single one of them. It's beyond words and my heart still swells at the amount of love these women and their families sent to my family, and to my little boy. Several of the women sent me messages, or even sent me meaningful items I have placed at a makeshift altar of sorts for Christopher. One of these gifts came from this woman who passed away. She comes from a family who works with stained glass, and she made a beautiful glass collage of pictures of Christopher, as well as a few ornaments. These are the only pictures we have up of Christopher, even still. We also learned from this woman's mother that she was an organ donor--her gift of love lives on in the lives she will save.
It is not lost on me at all that there are a lot of similarities or connections between what happened to me and what has happened to her. I somehow feel a connection to her and her family. Since last July, I have learned that so many people suffer tragic losses, but don't speak about them. Perhaps it's from fear of making others sad. I am guilty of that. Perhaps they don't want pity. I am guilty of that as well. But sometimes I want to tell the world that I had a beautiful boy who was only with us for a few days, not because I do want pity or want to make others sad, but because he was my child, my son, we had hopes and dreams and plans as a family. I want to honor him by sharing these things. He has taught me that life is so fragile, and my friend's passing has not only reinforced that notion but has also taught me that we are not guaranteed a tomorrow. It's part of being human to take things for granted, but tragedies like this make it easier push away the trivial annoyances we normally harp on, and instead focus on the joys and love we have. You don't have to look very far to see that the world is full of people who are generous and loving. I am lucky to know so many of them, and saddened that one of them has left us. Things like this aren't supposed to happen.
While the news of her passing has sort of resurrected some of my own grief, it is mostly empathy I feel for her and her family. I am sure they are trying to make sense of all of this...and there is no sense to it. Just an ending, and a time of figuring out how to carry on without her in their lives. I am so heartbroken for them.
To my friend: Rest in peace. Know that your baby girl is in the loving hands of your family. We will think of your generosity and love often. And...one small favor: could you give my baby boy a big hug and kiss from his Mommy?
Then July came and we lost our precious boy. September came, and my mom received a new liver, but processing the joy in her gaining her life back along with the sadness of a young woman who was able to give that gift to a handful of people because she lost her life...it's just so conflicting. When we met the family of this woman, it was incredibly bittersweet. There was so much sadness, but the joy in seeing their daughter/friend/sister live on and give life to others was apparent. You could see that immediately.
Earlier this week, I learned that a friend had suffered a brain aneruysm. She was a fellow July mom who gave birth to a beautiful little girl. Just yesterday, I learned that my friend had passed away. She was much too young. She had a young baby, just 8 months old. Things like this aren't supposed to happen. I can't even begin to imagine how her husband is processing this. He must wonder how he's going to honor his wife and make sure his daughter knows what a beautiful person she was. He must think about how much his daughter will miss, and also all the joys of his daughter growing up that his wife will miss. I think about these things often and would feel absolutely robbed if something were to happen to me and I couldn't watch my son grow up.
I'm not sure it's necessary, but I will say that I've never actually met this woman in person. When I was expecting Christopher, I became part of a Facebook group for women expecting in July 2012. I will admit that, at first, I was a bit skeptical of advertising that I was part of a Facebook group, thinking that it somehow equated to MySpace or something not very nicely looked upon. What I learned was that there was a group of absolutely amazing women who grew to love each other, support each other, answer each others embarrassing pregnancy questions, support each other through the aches and pains...and the early deliveries, the happy deliveries. Out of a group of more than 300 women, I was the only one who carried to term and lost their baby full-term. I was not the only one who suffered a loss, or suffered some kind of seemingly insurmountable obstacle before or after birth. Struggles or not, all of these women are strong, funny, supporting and loving.
When I lost Christopher, the outpouring of love and support was amazing...beyond amazing. I mean, I can't even begin to say how much these women kept me afloat in my most horrible time. They collected money for us that we were able to use toward Christopher's memorial, many of them took part in a balloon release on the day of his service and I have pictures of nearly every single one of them. It's beyond words and my heart still swells at the amount of love these women and their families sent to my family, and to my little boy. Several of the women sent me messages, or even sent me meaningful items I have placed at a makeshift altar of sorts for Christopher. One of these gifts came from this woman who passed away. She comes from a family who works with stained glass, and she made a beautiful glass collage of pictures of Christopher, as well as a few ornaments. These are the only pictures we have up of Christopher, even still. We also learned from this woman's mother that she was an organ donor--her gift of love lives on in the lives she will save.
It is not lost on me at all that there are a lot of similarities or connections between what happened to me and what has happened to her. I somehow feel a connection to her and her family. Since last July, I have learned that so many people suffer tragic losses, but don't speak about them. Perhaps it's from fear of making others sad. I am guilty of that. Perhaps they don't want pity. I am guilty of that as well. But sometimes I want to tell the world that I had a beautiful boy who was only with us for a few days, not because I do want pity or want to make others sad, but because he was my child, my son, we had hopes and dreams and plans as a family. I want to honor him by sharing these things. He has taught me that life is so fragile, and my friend's passing has not only reinforced that notion but has also taught me that we are not guaranteed a tomorrow. It's part of being human to take things for granted, but tragedies like this make it easier push away the trivial annoyances we normally harp on, and instead focus on the joys and love we have. You don't have to look very far to see that the world is full of people who are generous and loving. I am lucky to know so many of them, and saddened that one of them has left us. Things like this aren't supposed to happen.
While the news of her passing has sort of resurrected some of my own grief, it is mostly empathy I feel for her and her family. I am sure they are trying to make sense of all of this...and there is no sense to it. Just an ending, and a time of figuring out how to carry on without her in their lives. I am so heartbroken for them.
To my friend: Rest in peace. Know that your baby girl is in the loving hands of your family. We will think of your generosity and love often. And...one small favor: could you give my baby boy a big hug and kiss from his Mommy?
Sunday, January 13, 2013
The Year of Gratitude
There are moments in your life that are so significant, you become forever changed as a person. Six months ago, I experienced the worst side of that when we lost Christopher. I didn't know who I was, where I was going, what to do. All I knew is that I had Charlie, my husband, my family and several amazing people to carry me through. I can't say I'll ever be healed from my loss, but there are certainly more days now when I can see the beauty and good in everything. I'm not sure where I would be right now had it not been for the incredible people who loved and supported me. Some days were pretty dark, and I was (and am) so lucky to have people to catch me when I was spiraling down. I know I've said it before, but I can't even begin to express how blown away I was and still am by the goodness and love in people. The people I knew would be there for me, stepped up repeatedly and without fail. Amazingly, people I never expected--some I never even knew--reached out to me and let me know that it was going to be okay. I am forever indebted to all of these people for everything they gave me, how they guided me through the worst times. I am finally feeling almost ready and healed enough to give back somehow.
Shortly after we lost Christopher, my family experienced another life-changing moment. In late September, my mom got a very important phone call. She had been on the recipient list to receive a liver transplant for about 18 months, after having suffered from Hepatitis C for more than 35 years. There was a bittersweetness to the phone call. On one hand, my mom was going to get a new lease on life, a new liver that was clean from the virus that had nearly destroyed her own. On the other hand, because she needed a whole liver, that meant that someone else's life had ended. We found out several weeks later that the donor was a 22 year old girl. A young life, ended too soon. Yet, she gave life to others. The ultimate gift. That was all so heartbreaking, but somehow abstract until yesterday, when we met the donor's family.
My mom, dad, my husband, Charlie and I met with them--all 15 of this family...and apparently that was the shortened list! What beautiful, loving and humble people. Each one of them was a special part of this girl's life and we were so blessed to meet them and to be welcomed into their family. I wish I could say that I can't even begin to imagine the pain this woman's mother must be suffering through, but unfortunately I can. But, I know I can't imagine the depth of pain--she spent 22 years with her daughter, watched her grow and guided her into a beautiful young woman who was so full of life. Nothing I went through even compares. To see that they are able to honor this woman's life and meet the people whose lives she saved is brave and loving. This family is an inspiration. No one should ever have to experience losing a child, sibling or friend at that age, and to see how they have continued to celebrate her, motivates me to be a better and more loving person.
Once again, I have been inspired by those around me. Our paths crossed out of pure tragedy, but I am grateful to know them, and I grieve for their loss. I hate that the beauty of life becomes infinitely more when you know what it's like to lose it, but I can't change any of it and I will try to make the most of it by giving back. Last year was a year of loss and sadness. This year will be the year of gratitude and love.
Shortly after we lost Christopher, my family experienced another life-changing moment. In late September, my mom got a very important phone call. She had been on the recipient list to receive a liver transplant for about 18 months, after having suffered from Hepatitis C for more than 35 years. There was a bittersweetness to the phone call. On one hand, my mom was going to get a new lease on life, a new liver that was clean from the virus that had nearly destroyed her own. On the other hand, because she needed a whole liver, that meant that someone else's life had ended. We found out several weeks later that the donor was a 22 year old girl. A young life, ended too soon. Yet, she gave life to others. The ultimate gift. That was all so heartbreaking, but somehow abstract until yesterday, when we met the donor's family.
My mom, dad, my husband, Charlie and I met with them--all 15 of this family...and apparently that was the shortened list! What beautiful, loving and humble people. Each one of them was a special part of this girl's life and we were so blessed to meet them and to be welcomed into their family. I wish I could say that I can't even begin to imagine the pain this woman's mother must be suffering through, but unfortunately I can. But, I know I can't imagine the depth of pain--she spent 22 years with her daughter, watched her grow and guided her into a beautiful young woman who was so full of life. Nothing I went through even compares. To see that they are able to honor this woman's life and meet the people whose lives she saved is brave and loving. This family is an inspiration. No one should ever have to experience losing a child, sibling or friend at that age, and to see how they have continued to celebrate her, motivates me to be a better and more loving person.
Once again, I have been inspired by those around me. Our paths crossed out of pure tragedy, but I am grateful to know them, and I grieve for their loss. I hate that the beauty of life becomes infinitely more when you know what it's like to lose it, but I can't change any of it and I will try to make the most of it by giving back. Last year was a year of loss and sadness. This year will be the year of gratitude and love.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)