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.
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