Amazing Grace

For months now, I've been trying to find the meaning of the word "grace." Not in the sense of someone who moves elegantly, but in the "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound" sense.

I saw a wall hanging in a store that said something like "Grace is when God gives us what we don't deserve and doesn't give us what we do deserve." That, of course, just made me plain ol' angry. Really? God gave me what I deserve when he let my daughter leave me at the age of 29 months?

This to me is right up there with people who believe that good acts are truly the only path to salvation, "good acts" generally meaning attending church regularly and trying to convince others to believe exactly as you do. Anyone who knows me (or has read this blog) knows that I'm not Christian, I'm not strictly anything, and at this point I'm not really sure what I believe.

Oddly enough, I've been singing Amazing Grace to my daughter pretty often lately. I find it soothing, and it somehow seems appropriate to sing to her before I lay her down for the night. I sang it to her earlier tonight, in fact. And then I sat down and started looking for the definition of grace.

When I was helping her get into her pajamas, I had a sudden memory of her older sister, could see her face, her whole self as though she was the one I was changing. The memory was so clear, the sadness and grief hit me like I was being stabbed in the heart. And then I read to my daughter, turned off the lights, and held her against me to sing to her.

She started singing. Mind you, the only words my daughter says are hi, Mama, and Dada, so when she sings it's more of a humming. She's been singing her babysong since she was about 6 months old. She used to do it often, but lately it's a rarity. Tonight, she sang and sang and sang, a whole concert of baby song. And I actually smiled. Then I thanked her (aloud) and sang Amazing Grace to her.

When I tried to find a good explanation of grace, I found many references to the idea of good works and salvation. But the ideas that made the most sense to do have to do with the idea of grace as a gift from God. A gift that like any other, can be accepted or rejected. But it is what it is--going to church doesn't make it a bigger gift, it only can perhaps make you more aware of it. What grace is meant to do (according to what I read) is help you through the acts of free will and circumstance which are out of your (and God's) control (because I still believe God doesn't will or control everything). And in receiving this gift, you try to live a life of conscience, of a conscious awareness and effort to do good.

My understanding of all this is still a bit foggy. I guess really, my baby sang to me, and while she sang, the first thing that crossed my mind was, "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound," and that drove me to try to understand it. I'm still trying, and I like this path better than the others I went down a while ago.

Still sensitive

I know I haven't posted in quite a while. It's not that I haven't had anything to say but rather that everything is churning around in my head and heart again. I cried every day for 2 weeks starting on my daughter's birthday. Then I got to a point where I felt like if I kept falling apart I'd never be able to pull myself together. That's not good for me or the baby I'm now 10 weeks along with.

Yup, that's right, a new baby is on the way. We were "trying" but it was a bit of a surprise because it happened in a month when I was gone for quite a while. This baby is due towards the end of July. I didn't find out the gender the first two times, but this time I think I need to know, to prepare either way.

It's been so hard, the emotions I have anyway coupled with the hormonal turmoil of being pregnant. I actually feel much better than I did in the first trimester of my other two pregnancies--less moody, not quite so exhausted or hungry, and still able to do everything pretty well (I never get morning sickness). But seeing pictures of my daughter lately has been really hard. And I keep imagining how it will be when this baby is born. There are pictures of me in the hospital last time, sitting in my bed with my firstborn, who had come to meet her new sister. I picture doing all that again, but with two different children, and I feel absolutely ill. There should be three children in all the pictures starting after mid-July of 2011, but there just won't be.

I went to see the latest Harry Potter movie the other day. Towards the end, a character is killed. I've read all the books and knew that would happen, but somehow I just couldn't stand to watch Harry holding this character in his arms as life slowly fell away. It brought back so many memories of trying to save and then saying goodbye to my daughter. I was crying and crying at the end. We sat in the theater for a while, then went out to the car and I broke down again.

As always, I somehow pulled myself together by thinking about my strong, feisty toddler who has demanded my mental and physical presence throughout everything. My husband I both have lots of pictures of her on our cell phones, and we shared those and talked about her.

I feel almost as though I have to think and talk about my firstborn less to get through this pregnancy. But when I do, I feel worse. Maybe I just have to accept that this is going to be hard, that I can't control the hormones any more than any other emotions, and that I might again be very sensitive for a while. I knew this would be tough. I didn't quite realize how, though.

There's nothing like a baby. Just smelling my girl's hair still brings a sense of instant peace.

Happy Birthday to my girl

She would have been 4 years old today. I refuse to be sad. I miss her, wish she was here, am angered that she will never get any older. But today, I will celebrate that she was born, that she was in my life, and that I will always remember my girl.

Why is the second year after losing someone harder? My explanation--the every day is easier if you choose to live it. I looked outside myself and once the fog cleared, found reasons to keep going. Now I can get myself going without always needing someone (e.g. my crying, hungry baby) to get me started. The big events--her birthday, death anniversary, etc. still smack me in the face though. On those days, I can't distract myself enough. It's NOT just another day, it is (or should be) a special, happy day and it's just not.

Today, I want to remember my girl. So here are 10 things I'd like you to know about her.

1. She loved thunderstorms. The thunder itself was her favorite, but she also loved rain and lightning.
2. She loved all animals, but dogs most of all. And they seemed to love her too.
3. She loved food. She wasn't a big meat eater (I thought she'd be vegetarian someday, like me) but otherwise she just loved to eat.
4. She was super-flexible. Her nanny videotaped her doing the "leg trick," in which she would sit in a chair and put both legs straight up with her feet near her ears.
5. She knew 3 languages--English, ASL, and a dialect my grandmother taught me. And she would translate for anyone who didn't understand the language she was using at the time.
6. She was good at sharing. I never once hear her say "mine" and if another child wanted the toy she was playing with, she would just hand it over and move on to something else.
7. She would make meals in her play kitchen, serve them to us, and then blow on them to cool the food before she'd let us eat.
8. She'd recently discovered apple and blueberry crisp ("trisp") and it was her favorite dessert.
9. When I was pregnant with her sister and not walking around much, she would pick things up off the floor for me, make sure I had my pillow when I sat at the dining table, and sit beside me on the sofa looking at magazines.
10. Red was her color. Her nursery was red, and she looked beautiful in red.

I wear red today in her memory. I'm tearing up writing this, because I miss her. I'm having a "somebody tell me what to do day" and fortunately a friend called at 8:30 this morning and already took care of that.

Miss you, love you, my big girl.

Second Birthday

I've heard from some people that the first year after losing a loved one is the hardest. All those "firsts" you go through--the first birthday without her, first Halloween, first death anniversary. I made it through those. It's been over 18 months since my daughter's death, so I've made it through two of some things.

Her birthday is on Monday. She would have been four years old.

All week, I've been looking forward to getting the DVD of the movie Eclipse, to curling up on the sofa under a blanket with a bowl of popcorn and relaxing with my husband after a long November. But thinking about this last night, I remembered that I had planned to start movie nights with my daughter when she turned three. We'd never really let her watch TV until she was over 2, and even then she was never all that interested. But a movie night, my girl sitting on the sofa with me and her dad, I thought that was something she would enjoy. The first movie I planned to show her was Mulan, because I think of that as one of the more...feminist Disney movies.

She never saw it. We never had a movie night. Thinking about that got me started thinking about all the other things she hasn't done.

Lately, I've been worrying about my toddler trying to get out of her crib. She's never actually tried, because it's just not her nature and also she slept in a sleepsack until she was around 15 or 16 months old. My older daughter climbed out of her crib at 15 months and again at 20 months. That was one of the reasons we moved her into a bed a couple of months after she turned 2. In my mind, that is one of the reasons she is no longer with us.

I don't know what to do about her birthday. Because it's on a Monday, I'm not really planning anything on that day. Knowing how I feel now though, we may end up having to go to dinner just to distract me. Friends have offered to be here on that day, or whenever we want. But I just can't even figure out this year what I want to do.

I don't want to observe it, because she's not here. She's not getting any older. She won't be here to blow out a candle, see the balloons, or open presents. I can't do nothing though. I have to acknowledge and celebrate the day she came into the world, as I always tell others they should do on the birthday of someone they love.

The conflict and confusion I feel is tearing me apart. I'm exhausted from the events of the past month, year, year and a half. Right now, I'm just hoping I can once again hang on by my fingernails and make it through the day.

Identity

Right after I lost my daughter, I remember saying over and over that I didn't want to be "that woman, the one who lost her daughter." I know I literally meant I didn't want to be a woman who lost her daughter, I wanted to be the woman who had all the children she'd given birth to, alive, healthy, and one day, grown-up. A friend of mine looked at it another way, a way that I didn't consciously consider at the time but probably did already have in mind. I didn't want to forever be looked as that poor woman whose daughter died. I've lived my life to be so much more and felt so reduced to that.

But then, how could I not? How could this one event not weigh upon every thought, action, feeling, moment of my life forever onward? My friend said that this would define me, but that I could choose in what way it defined me, and to what extent.

I don't know that I have chosen it, other than that I made the choice in those first hellish days to get out of bed and get through each moment as best I could. Forget one day at a time, I lived 10 minutes, or even a moment at a time. There were moments when I couldn't escape the memories of her death, and all the events that followed.

As time has passed, the times when I am haunted by those memories have become fewer and further between. Other parents who'd lost children told me I would one day feel guilty about that. And of course they were right. I feel disloyal--as though not feeling horrible is somehow a betrayal of my daughter. It's no longer something I try all day to escape from. It has changed--it's this strange nagging feeling, like a pebble in my shoe that I can put out of my mind when I'm otherwise occupied. But then I get up and am walking around on that pebble, and am thrown back into all the realities of her death. I see her again, see the EMTs trying to save her, see the funeral home...

I am thankful that those memories have faded somewhat while at the same time that I have lost some connection to my daughter. Her birthday is coming up. Last year, my husband and I invited lots of people to a park where we used to take her. We did a balloon release there, and then most of the people came back to the house. It was almost like a real birthday party.

This year, we're thinking we might just have a couple of families, the ones who knew her best, over and have a belated Thanksgiving feast/birthday celebration. I was reading another blog (http://thebigpicturelawyman.blogspot.com/2010_11_01_archive.html) in which a mother talked about not wanting to mark her daughter's birthday or death anniversary the same way as time passed. I'm beginning to feel the same way, and it's definitely affecting my identity.

Thus far, all I know is that my identity continues to shift. Someone who never saw me when my daughter was alive probably wouldn't think I was all that different from when we last spoke. So in some ways, I have come back to myself. The people who were with me and continue to be here for me know that I'll never be the same.

As always, I do believe that I have a choice in the matter. My identity is a combination of what's happened to me and what I decide to do with that. I wish sometimes I didn't have to make those choices, or work so hard. I have to believe it's all worth it, especially when I look at my daughter, who rode to her sister's memorial service in the back of a limo with me but seems completely normal.

Baby Born and the Waves That Keep Crashing Over Me

Baby born in winter's sleep
Snowflakes fall, snuggle deep

Baby love, a year old today
Up with the sun, ready to play.

These are the first and last pages of a book I read to my daughter. I bought it when I had my first daughter. It tracks a baby born in winter through her first year. I hadn't read it for a while, because it always made me cry. I tried tonight, and found that the last page still makes me cry.

It's a fact, my daughter is gone. Daily life doesn't bring despair. I am, as I thought I would be, used to her death. It's horrible and yet a relief. I almost have to convince myself that she really was alive, that I really did live through that horrible day when she died. But I am relieved that I can't feel every moment of that day, and can't feel the way I did then.

The past week has been tough. Two days after I found out about my mother's breast cancer returning, my dad went to the hospital. He fell a couple of months ago and didn't tell anyone he'd hit his head. His speech was slurred, he was sleeping a lot, having memory problems, and even started dragging his foot. My mother finally convinced him to go to the hospital. Turned out he had a massive blood clot. They operated twice and he finally returned home two days ago.

I spent several days in limbo, trying to find out whether I needed to fly out right away or not. My brother, single and living much closer to our family, flew out the next morning. For me it was of course a matter of trying to figure out what to do with my daughter, whether my husband could be out of school for a couple of days, and whether we could even get a ticket for the day we needed it.

So Sunday night, we'll be flying out to see my parents. I am so relieved my dad isn't in the hospital. I hate hospitals. When I was 17, my mother was in a very bad car accident, and I suppose the trauma of seeing her there stuck with me. About 6 years ago, a friend of mine was in a bad accident, and while our husbands convinced me to go see her, they were both stunned when I burst into tears waiting to be let into the ICU.

I said goodbye to my daughter in the hospital. My friend (the one in the accident) tells me that doesn't even count as a hospital visit, really. But the mere thought of walking into a hospital makes me very anxious. So I am grateful I likely won't have to do that.

And yet I am still wondering, how often are the waves going to come crashing over my head? How many more times? I learned years ago to never say things can't get any worse, because they always can. They have been even worse (at times) in the past 18 months than I've written here.

I am still here though, still plugging along, and I guess that's all that matters. And if the only thing that has brought me to tears recently is Baby Born, then I guess I should consider myself fortunate.

Learned Helplessness

Yesterday morning I ran a 5K, my second, both in support of the Susan G. Komen foundation that funds breast cancer research. Last night, I learned that my mother's breast cancer is back. Tonight I talked to her and she's supposed to have a mastectomy. She wants to have both breasts removed, but my father is against that.

She had breast cancer 10 years ago and thought it was all over. She wants a bilateral to avoid all those fears, all those possibilities that it could come back. My father doesn't want her to do this. Both times, the lumps were small, and the first time, she had radiation, a lumpectomy, and more radiation. Her youngest sister also had it, but her case was much worse. It required chemotherapy, mastectomy, and more chemotherapy.

My first thoughts were of that race. I ran in their honor, and to help raise money so my daughter and I never have to face these types of decisions. When I run, I feel positive, energized, like I'm doing something strong and positive.

Hearing her news, I felt weakened. I remember reading about psychology experiments on subjects who couldn't control their lives and environments. A quick Google search shows that Seligman is apparently the big name in learned helpnessness.

I used to say, things have to get better because they couldn't get any worse. But I learned over and over again that that wasn't the case. Not only can things get worse, they usually get worse in ways you would never imagine.

Now all I can wonder is, how many times will circumstance, biology, accident, chance attack me? How many times can I get steamrolled before I finally decide to just stay on the ground?

Caffeine and running. For now, those are my antidepressants. Those and other people. I foresee needing lots of all three in the near future.

In My Daughter's Eyes

When I was pregnant for the first time, I was considering staying home with my child after s/he was born. After 3 weeks of not working, I realized that wasn't something I was cut out for. I remember sitting on the sofa, holding my tiny baby and crying. I apologized to her for not being able to stay home with her, and wondering aloud what I would do. I didn't want to put her in daycare. I returned to work when she was 3 months old, and as I told my husband, I just couldn't imagine handing her over to some person, saying "Here's my tiny, defenseless person," and then having her be in one crib out of four or more 8 hours a day, 5 days a week.

In the end, we hired a nanny. I got to work from home and spent nearly every day of my daughter's (and her sister's) life with her. I am so grateful for that.

During those days when my girl and I were home alone, me recovering from an unexpected c-section with no family nearby and my husband working long hours, I would sometimes hold her and dance. A CD I often played was one by Martina McBride.

When my daughter passed away, I put one of the songs from that CD (She's a Butterfly) on the DVD played at her memorial. It contained pictures of her from throughout her life, and that song is the first one that plays. At the memorial, I was happy to see those pictures, and the songs I'd chosen fit so well. In the weeks that followed, we showed friends and family who weren't at the memorial that video and others.

After a while, I couldn't stand to see the memorial DVD, or any other videos of her. I also couldn't listen to that CD. I haven't listened to it since she passed away even though I liked most of the songs on it. It just reminds me so much of her, and of us dancing together, first with her in my arms, and then both of us standing in the old house together.

Last week, I heard a song from that CD, In My Daughter's Eyes, on the radio. I immediately wanted to change the station, but held strong and listened. And the first thing I thought of was my toddler. Somehow, I suddenly realized that the line "She was sent to rescue me" was about her, not my older daughter.

Well, it could be about either. They have both rescued me, from myself, and from other things. But in this case, my younger daughter has rescued me from the numbness, the shock, anything about her older sister's death that might have kept me from living. For her, I get up and don't just survive, I live. I run, I fight, I'm here writing. The whole song, suddenly made me think of her.

And it made me cry. I cried because I missed my big girl. I cried because I sometimes fear the weight of the world is on my baby girl's shoulders. And I cried because I felt as though suddenly life was what came to me first, before the death that has seemed to surround and drag me down for the past 18 months.

Sensitive

I've been away, both figuratively and literally. I was out of town last week with my daughter. My first trip ever alone with a child. We both did really well. I thought I'd post while I was gone, but it was nice to get away from pretty much everything about real life, so I barely went near a computer. Before that, I was swamped with work, and life, and couldn't pull my thoughts together.

A year ago, being alone with my daughter for long stretches of time (e.g. on a plane) would frustrate me, make me incredibly impatient, and at times I'd even scream at her. It was a horrible combination of sadness that my other daughter was gone, and anger at myself for not being more present for my younger child. Somehow, I don't feel or react that way these days.

Early on, a friend gave me a book, a sad story in which about half the characters are killed, but told me not to read it. She said I was "sensitive," and to wait a while. Which I did. I couldn't figure out what she meant by that word.

Now, I realize that many of the things that made me sad or angry before don't affect me, at least not the way they used to. It's like the desensitization that supposedly occurs for teens and violence. Watching one violent movie after another tends to make us more aloof towards actual violence. Being sad and angry day after day, seeing other children my daughter's age, coming across her pictures or clothes, all of this seems to have gradually desensitized me.

As I've said before, I do think this is a choice, like many other things. If I'd chosen to preserve her room the way it was before, to stop working and try to live in the past, then I probably would still be sensitive. As another friend said, we're just not equipped to live in "alt" forever. We can pretend only for so long. I admit, I do sometimes imagine her with me, walking along beside the stroller as I push her sister through a store. But it's a brief flash, a wish, a daydream. It's limiting myself to only that which I believe has made me less sensitive.

Having said all this, there's a part of me that wishes I'd started blogging much sooner. It was of course hard to function at all for a very long time. But I wish I had something from then that would show me, show you how much things have changed.

There is one thing. I was keeping a baby journal for my second daughter during her first year. Just after my firstborn died, I wrote a very brief entry there and in my personal diary. One of these days, I'll look them up and post or summarize them. I've always believed there's value in looking back, to see how far you've come, especially when you felt you could barely take a step.

Desensitization. The word has been absolutely ringing in my ears lately.

The Yellow Brick Road

In a March post about Stages of Grief, I described the stages as a spiral. I've been thinking lately about my reluctance to participate in the three groups I belong to and it's led me to thinking about this path I'm on as a spiral. At first, I imagined myself falling off a cliff onto a new path, but now it's more like a tornado picked me up and dropped me somewhere else entirely.

Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I started out in the middle of a spiral. When she first gets on the yellow brick road, it's a tight spiral, and she walks it surrounded by all the people there cheering for her because her house fell on the witch. As she keeps walking, the spiral opens up and takes her away from them.

This is exactly how I feel--like the spiral slowly took me away from all the people that surrounded me. Or at least it took me away from near-constant surveillance, from the phone calls and visits of people making sure I was still alive, had gotten out of bed, and fed myself and my baby.

Slowly I've moved back out into the world, back to work, back to stores. The first time I left my house (to go to breakfast with friends and family) I nearly fell apart. I looked around the restaurant and saw so many people, but my daughter's face wasn't among them. And while I hated my house (because that's where she died) I also felt as though by leaving it, I was leaving her.

I'm at a point now where I feel safe in more environments, but I'm still not quite on the open road. I almost want to run back to the center of the spiral sometimes. And I guess I do--I choose to be with the friends who gathered around me during that time. I was at one friend's house and there were several other women there from the group we all belong to. A couple of them have girls my daughter's age and it pained me so much to be there with them, and not see my daughter playing with them.

So for a while, I avoided them. The women and their children. Now I'm back to seeing the mothers, but am still avoiding the daughters. And so it goes, with that group and the others.

I'm planning a tentative step towards one, maybe seeing one of the groups in about 10 days. We'll see how that goes.

I Remember

There is more power and meaning in the words "I remember" than you probably realize. I can clearly recall being very young, maybe elementary school age, and being impressed and touched when someone said to me "I remember" some fact about me. It takes interest to learn something about a person, and then of course you have to care enough to store that information and be able to recall it later on.

This power is more obvious in a new relationship. If a boyfriend gives you a movie, says "I remember you said you wanted this," you're happy that he paid attention and remembered. If a friend takes you to a new restaurant, says "I remember you like this type of food," it's also impressive.

As time goes on, you don't learn as many new facts about people. My husband knows my favorite color is blue, that I'm a vegetarian, that I love rocky road ice cream. So while it touches me if he brings me something blue, makes me a meatless meal, or eats rocky road with me, it's not quite the same as it was before. It's paying attention to new things--remembering that I have a meeting at work that I'm dreading, asking how my book club went--that impress me now.

I've been hearing "I remember" a lot lately. Some of it is "I remember the day after your daughter died, you were surrounded by people helping with the baby because we were all afraid you might collapse." Other people have repeated back to me things I've told them, some of the ideas I've been sorting through about free will and why bad things happen.

The strangest thing, in a way, is people telling me things they remember me doing years ago. One friend told me she remembered when I told her I was pregnant with my first baby. She had experienced miscarriages and I felt awful for her. I didn't want her to find out from someone else, as though as I was hiding the pregnancy, so I made it a point to tell her. She remembers that.

Another friend, someone I went to high school with, recently emailed and told me a lot of his good memories of growing up involve me. He seems concerned about how I'm doing, wants to check up on me. Just that simple phrase, expressing that he remembers me, really showed me he cares.

My point? I wish everyone would find something they care enough to pay attention to and commit to memory. I feel there's less and less of this as technology takes over. We can be in touch with 200 Facebook friends, but how much do you really know about them?

Living for our children?

Someone told me today, that basically I shouldn't live for my child because she may one day disappoint me. I can't stop thinking about it. It actually really annoys me, because first of all, I already know that, and second of all, it doesn't mean I should do any less for my daughter now.

As I've said, the need to take care of her, rather than leave her to the care of others, is what got me out of bed and literally gave me a reason to live after my older daughter died. And really, before she died, I lived for my firstborn. I scheduled my life around. What parent doesn't? At the very least, you need childcare before you can do anything else, and have to make sure your child is fed and gets enough sleep.

My goal is to raise my daughter to the best of my ability, show her that she has choices, try to teach her to make good ones, and then let her go. I wouldn't say my parents have done that. They STILL try to tell me what to do. My father, just a couple of weeks ago, said something to the effect of "You never what might happen!" I politely told him that I was the last person who needed to be reminded of the unexpected, that in losing my daughter, I've expected more of that than he has. Which for once stopped his lecture or whatever it was.

Still, can't get this out of my head. The man who said it to me reminded me that I have a life, and that I should live it. I think I have come to that feeling now, though after losing my daughter, I felt like my life didn't matter. I'm running my first 5K on Saturday. I've never been much of a runner, but I've gotten into it (OK, more of a jogger, really) and actually enjoy it now.

I'm doing another run next month. A coworker signed up to do it for me, though she initially said she doesn't like exercise. When I asked her why she changed her mind, she said she's doing it because she can. That really stuck with me, and is why I decided to run this other race. One day, I may not be able to. My body, my mind, my heart might give out on me someday, but today, they're all working, and I plan to use them.

I feel anyone who doesn't give their heart and soul to something is probably lost. Some people give their all to their jobs, others to their faith, and others to their families. I'm trying to give my all to my daughter, and to myself. And to the man who tried to point this out to me, thanks, but I'm already there.

Randomness

While I was traveling last week, I started reading Rabbi Kushner's When Bad Things Happen to Good People. He lost his son to progeria when the son was 14 years old. I've read about half the book now, and it seems his view is that contrary to popular belief, God does not control absolutely everything. There are random occurrences in this world, good and bad, and something like a child dying can be considered one of these.

Initially, I liked his idea. I hate thinking that my daughter was supposed to die young. I can't stand believing that God meant for her to die in a horrible accident, or that I was always meant to live my life without her. But I'm a bit unsettled by the idea of a God who is not all-powerful.

If you watched Star Trek: The Next Generation, then you're familiar with the character called Q. He is omnipotent, can be anywhere, anytime, and do anything. I always thought of Q as sort of a god. He is, however, not always benevolent in the way we believe God to be.

All I can think of now is that we are supposedly created in God's image. Well, which part of his image is that? Is God sometimes mean? Is he not omnipotent? Is he forgetful? I don't know. I guess I need to read the rest of the book. I'm curious to see how the rest of Rabbi Kushner's explanation is laid out.

It does in some way agree with the few things I've come to realize on my own. That we do have free will, that some things do happen which probably aren't according to any plan but are instead the result of that free will, or circumstance. The part I have trouble with though is that then what role does God play? What am I supposed to have faith in? A God who keeps me strong through any horrible thing that happens?

I saw a wall hanging recently that said something like "Grace is not getting what we deserve, and getting that which we do not deserve." It made me angry. Did I deserve to lose my daughter? What part of that whole tragedy did I not deserve? Faith, grace, these are ideas I continue to struggle with.

Reboot

I've known a couple of people who've lost children, one just before and one just after I did. Both couples went to Europe just afterward. That wasn't an option for us, but we did travel cross-country and stayed with my family for a couple of weeks.

After my daughter's memorial, we had visitors for a few weeks. My brother stayed with us a few extra days, then we went and stayed at a vacation home owned by some friends for a few days. Then my college roomate came to visit. She had planned the visit months before, intending to see the new baby and help with my older daughter. She extended her stay by a few days and got us through that tough period. All of these activities helped fill up time, keep us from sinking into dispair.

Then for a couple of weeks, it was just us. In our now-quiet house. My younger daughter was about 3 months old, and still slept a lot. We were so used to having a 2 and a half year old around, taking her to the park, to see friends, we didn't know what to do with ourselves in our empty, quiet house. So we went to visit my family, and when we came back, I started work again. I had been off for 12 weeks--6 before her death, and 6 after--all technically maternity leave. It was a strange few months, but somehow traveling helped make the adjustment.

As I've posted before, losing my daughter was like being swept off the path I was on and being dumped on another, with no way to even look back at the old one. Getting away was, for me and maybe for the other couples I mentioned, sort of a reboot. It cleaned the slate in some tiny way, allowing me to stand up on the new path and continue on.

Four days from now, my daughter will have been gone for 16 months. I'm feeling weary. I haven't cried, had any flashbacks, or felt the rage I had a few months ago. I'm just tired. I do all the "normal" things--work, participate in social activities, take care of my toddler, and so on. But I know I have a diminished capacity. I'm a little slower at seemingly everything, and there are many things I just let slip by that I wouldn't otherwise.

I'm wishing for another reboot, something that will give me a new burst of energy. After my daughter died, and the business of her death (memorial, people in our house, etc.) was over, I felt like I almost literally had to pick up my family and keep moving. I feared if I didn't, I, maybe we, would all break down and never recover.

So in a way, I have been running, carrying at least my child and perhaps my husband with me for a long time now. Through it all, I've had this feeling of disbelief (denial, I suppose) that I know just can't go on forever. The disbelief of losing my daughter has changed into disbelief that I am living without her, but it's almost equally exhausting.

Outwardly, I doubt anyone who knows me or sees me would know I'm exhausted. Honestly, even finding time for me (working full-time, with a toddler and a husband who's in school and working) is a bit of a task. And of course I do EVERYTHING with the shadow of her death over me, over every thought I have. How do I escape it? I don't know that I can. I suppose it's like a diabetic who is always diabetic. Medicine helps ease the symptoms, but they're always there.

I could use some rest. Any ideas?

Predestination and forgiveness

I've often believed things happen for a reason, that there are no coincidences. People will tell you so, especially when it's something BAD that happens--a promotion you didn't get, first date who never calls again, a house you make an offer on and lose to a higher bidder. The intent usually is to convince you that it wasn't within your power to stop the bad thing from happening.

It is true that in life there are many things humans can't control. But if there is such a thing as predestination, God is a cold, cruel entity. This isn't the exact line, but captures the basic meaning of a passage from The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society. It captured my eye right away. I don't think I've ever heard anyone say that. I tend to agree with the idea.

If you believe things happen according to some sort of divine plan, then it is easy to let go of things you can't control, to forgive yourself when things go wrong. But to me it's impossible then to believe in a kind, loving God. It doesn't matter if somehow my daughter's death results in some sort of good. There is to me no personal evil worse than what I felt the day she died.

I have managed to forgive myself for the things I could have done to prevent her death. It was an accident, and like any other accident, the result of a series of random occurrences and circumstances that if minutely altered could have meant a different ending. In a similar vein, it's difficult for me to believe that losing her and all the pain my family has suffered in the months since was someone's intent.

It's easier for me to believe that there are forces in this world that we can't know or understand. Various things happen for various reasons. Maybe there is a partial plan, but there are also free will, circumstances, and the actions of others. The butterfly effect--one little thing done differently here in the U.S. can change what happens to a random person somewhere in China. I tend to believe that's true.

So, maybe some things happen for a reason. Other things just happen. We have to release and forgive ourselves.

About God--I've never believed in God as sort of an elevated human (in accordance with many religious traditions). I can't imagine anything resembling a person actually controlling things, holding the reins of all of our lives. I tend to believe in some sort of energy that exists in the world, something we can't see, hold, or describe.

My ideas about how and why things happen, randomness plus plans, I suppose they fit with my idea of "God." Which apparently I know feel the need to put in quotes, because many people might read this and object to my...blasphemy? Not sure. It seems those of strong faith can manage to renew it even upon experiencing evil. Some lose their faith completely. I'm somewhere in the middle--my faith was vague at best, and while it's somewhat clearer now (as far as my ideas about how/why things happen) it's also even more vague with respect to the details.

Forgiveness--you have to forgive yourself. And to me, part of that is realizing that I really can't control everything, can't control MOST things.

Death goes on

'"Life goes on. What nonsense, I thought, of course it doesn't...dead now and will be dead tomorrow and next year and forever. There's no end to that. But perhaps there's an end to the sorrow of it. Sorrow has rushed over the world like the waters of the Deluge, and it will take time to recede. But already, there are small islands of--hope? Happiness? Something like them, at any rate.'

I just finished reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. It's a nice little book, nothing I'm overly excited about, but the passage above really caught my eye. It describes exactly how I feel. I believe in an earlier post, I mentioned that losing my daughter is like being on one path, and then suddenly being dropped off a cliff onto other. There's no way to climb back to my previous path, I can't turn around, and don't know where I'm going. I've had to let go off what I had already seen on that path (to some extent) and what I thought I would see as I kept walking.

I do think the waters have receded a bit. I remember telling a friend in those days between my daughter's death and the memorial that while sadness overshadows everything, it doesn't mean that the good things aren't good. My baby girl's first time rolling over, the first time she said Mama, all of it is still so good. I only wish her big sister could be here to see it all too.

Early on, I remember a few people using the word "heal." I considered that word for a long time. Other people said "move on" but I knew that wasn't right. Move forward was somewhat better, but both reminds me of the idea that "life goes on." Healing means that you get better. You're never exactly as you were before.

I have scars and stretch marks from my two pregnancies and c-sections. Most people have never seen them and never will. Just as most people never met my daughter and never will. Is that healing? A slight amoung of sadness that exists as some sort of physical manifestation that I can live with. That's how I think of it for now. The scar is still not formed--I still have open wounds, raw emotion, and it can all be irritated at any time, by the oddest of things.

Still working on healing. Death goes on, hopefully eventually the waters DO recede.

Back under the bus

A good friend of mine was run over by a bus several years ago. She was about 7 and a half months pregnant at the time. She has some hearing loss, various aches and pains, and other physical scars from the accident.

I admit, I never thought about the emotional scars she has until I lost my daughter. This friend has been there for me in ways I never imagined anyone would. She seems to know just the right thing to say when I call, unable to speak because I'm crying my eyes out. This is because she's been there, experienced loss and trauma.

I am, I believe, on a relatively even keel most of the time these days. There are obvious things that can upset me--seeing a picture of my daughter, seeing a little girl who resembles her but is here while my daughter is not--but for the most part, I'm able to steel myself against these assults.

Every now and then, something happens that I'm not expecting and can't brace myself against. Yesterday was such a day. I was working, and got a phone call that upset me. I just couldn't distract myself and get back to work. I called my friend, and several others, and finally the first friend called back. And of course said the right things.

I told her I wasn't sure why I was upset. I don't avoid my feelings, it's just easier to at least be able to pull them out and examine them at a semi-convenient time, hopefully when I'm alone or with someone I trust. She said I'd been going along with my day when suddenly this was thrown at me. In her words, I was "back under the bus."

I've learned from her that gradually the assaults on my senses and defenses--flashbacks, sudden breakdowns, wanting to scream--will decrease. And they have already, I feel much differently than I did a year ago. But every now and then, something comes at me that I'm not ready for and don't know how to handle.

My friend has told me a few times that every now and then, someone or something will remind her of the accident and suddenly, she is back under that bus. I understand that feeling. Sometimes it's more like a train--I wait for it to end but it just keeps coming and coming and I can't make it stop or get out from under it.

Distraction. Sounds like a bad thing, but really it's not. Yes, I do experience my emotions and go with them at times. I don't believe I'm supposed to get lost in despair though, and that's where distraction comes in. I talk to a friend, play with the baby, go for a walk, clean, just do something to get my mind moving. So far, it's helped.

I hope someday to get to a point where nothing puts me back under the bus. I doubt that will ever happen. Knowing that the occasions will at least become fewer and farther between does at least give me something to look forward to.

Statute of Limitations

A few weeks ago, I found myself wishing that I, like my husband, had put my fist through a door the day our daughter died. I also wished that at her memorial, I had broken down crying, screaming, completely out of control with all the emotions I felt. Recently, I've realized that I wish I'd done these things then because I feel I can't do them now. Or ever.

I had lunch with a friend I've had for over 25 years. I described this feeling to her, and she told me that today, or 10 years from now, if I feel like putting my fist through the wall in anger or despair over losing my daughter, it's fine. There is no statute of limitations on grief, she told me.

This is absolutely true. It doesn't run out, it doesn't go in a particular order or within a set amount of time through the five stages described by Kubler-Ross.

Later that day, I talked to another friend, told her about the statute of limitations. By then, I'd had time to think about it, and told this friend that while I understand I will always grieve, I know there are times when I can't show it. At work, I have to work. I could openly grieve and work and sometimes, for a while, it would probably be fine. Eventually I'd stop getting my work done and probably get fired.

This is Real Life (because losing a child isn't?). In Real Life, I have to work, earn money, support my family, stay in touch with the now. According to the book The Survivors Club, being able to sort of turn off your sorrow and despair are what help you get through.

That makes sense. If I had put my fist through the wall, as my husband did, or disassociated as my grandmother (who was visiting at the time) did, who would have called emergency services? Who would have called two women to come help with the baby? Who would have planned the memorial?

People experience shock in different ways. My shock made me oddly quiet. I am not a quiet person. I am outspoken, assertive (aggressive at times), bold, and brave. But shock made me so quiet, so still I nearly passed out. If I'd been angry, yelling, crying, screaming, I don't think I would have made it through those days. I would have run out of energy.

So now, maybe it's my time to grieve in ways others already have. My remaining child is 16 months old. I weaned her around her birthday, so now I can cry whenever I want. But not whenever--if I cry around her, she touches my face, seeming to be puzzled by my tears. This is a reminder again, that while there's no time limit on grief, there are some limits. I have to stay in the present, keep moving forward while taking the time to grieve and to remember. This is what keeps me alive and more than just surviving.

Feng Shui

When we first moved to this house in November, we had the top of the bed against one wall, between two windows. I ended up getting hit by light from another window, and from the bathroom (which has no door) so I had my husband move the bed to another wall. This put us right beside the door that goes out into the hallway.

The bed stayed there for months. The past week or so, every time I got into bed, I think to myself that something isn't right. I thought maybe the pillow needed to be replaced, or the sheets, or maybe we need to paint the room.

Two nights ago, the dam finally burst. I went to bed (my husband was studying) only to wake up a short while later and frantically start scribbling in my diary. More on the diary later...

My husband came in, and immediately held me. And I told him the bed didn't feel right, I couldn't sleep there. He asked if I wanted him to move it, and I said yes. At first, I couldn't decide where to put it. Eventually I told him to move it back to where it had originally been. And he did. He lugged the king-size bed back to the other spot. And I slept better than night than I have in a week.

Part of the reason I didn't want the bed there was because in our old house, where my daughter died, the bed was against the wall between two windows. But somehow, it was important to me to be able to see the door and I actually wanted the bed to be positioned similar to how it was in our old house.

Feng shui--apparently a Chinese art which helps balance the energies of a particular space to ensure fortune, health, luck, etc. I kept thinking about feng shui while my husband was rearranging our room. I kept thinking there was no way I could ever balance the energies of my room. We have a beautiful house, twice the size of our old one. And all I can think is that if she was still with us, we wouldn't be here.

We just got a new TV. My parents bought it for us. Our old one was admittedly on its way out, but it certainly wasn't a NEED. And looking at it also reminds me that we wouldn't be here if my daughter was still with us.

I had an appointment with my therapist last week. She said that the first year of living with grief is just feeling and trying to get through each day. The second year, recovery requires that you process what you've gone and are going through. This means talking about it with a therapist, or friends, even if you know what they'll say or even if they say nothing. It means pulling those feelings you've shelved down so you can examine them and truly feel them.

I thought about that for days after the appointment. I had lunch with a friend on Sunday. I didn't want to go--was feeling so emotional about so many things, I thought I'd rather just be alone and I cried the entire 45 minute drive. But once I got there, we started talking. I told her what I've been going through, what the therapist said, and she listened and was so good.

At some point, she mentioned that I might want to write things down. I've known this friend since I was 12 years old and she knows I've kept a journal since I was 8. She suggested that writing it down might make me feel less like I had to remember everything, because then it was there whenever I wanted to look.

So that night, when I sat up in bed feeling all wrong, I was writing "I remember" over and over again. I've done this twice now--written about the events surrounding her death--and it does make me feel a bit better, just as talking to my friend over lunch made me feel better.

My feng shui, balancing of energies, I doubt it'll ever completely happen. I'm trying my best to do what I can with my space, my memories, my feelings, to get there.

Fear of commitment

I belong to a few different (formal) groups. These are groups that have semi-regular members and meetings, which I joined years ago. One group is entirely online and consists of a forum in which I'm actually a moderator.

I've been avoiding these groups in various ways. In the online group, I've become a lurker. I'm still listed as a moderator, but I don't post or moderate anything. The two local groups I would say I participate in minimally. I see members of the groups outside group events, and I do go to occasional group events. I realized recently that I go out of my way to only participate in smaller group events though.

It's almost as though I fear being in a large group. I have this strange idea that I have less control over the conversation and not knowing what will be brought up makes me nervous. At one group meeting recently, we were discussing a book that most of us in attendance had read. The story was about a boy whose twin sister had disappeared, father had left, and mother was living in a haze of drugs and alcohol provided by a local bigshot.

The other women there were mothers, and all agreed that they could see themselves turning into that mother. I felt...crazed. I am living that life but have not taken that path. I did speak up and say that if that mother had one friend who had told her to clean herself up, get out of bed and take care of her son, she might have had the strength to do so. It was so odd though, everyone there acted as though I didn't know what I was talking about. I can't even describe why I was uncomfortable, I just was.

I tend to speak less than I used to in group gatherings. I know it's partially because I just have less to say--my input isn't that important on many topics. And it seems to take a lot of energy to speak.

So overall, I avoid groups, and speak less when I'm in them. And if anyone asks "How are you?" I wonder, do they really want the answer? These days, I mostly say, "I'm doing OK" or "I'm hanging in there." Which is true, I no longer feel like my skin may fall off my bones from despair. But even when the salesgirl at Target says "Have a good evening!" I still think, "How can I? My girl is still gone."

And this type of thought is what has led to my fear of commitment. I want the freedom to be sad if I feel like it, to be happy if that's where I am at the time. It seems there are certain people and particular situations in which that's possible. The circle I'm comfortable in has widened over time, but it's certainly not what it used to be. I suppose it's a slow expansion which will never quite take me back to where I was.

I think that's OK--I'm not that mother who kept her daughter's room completely intact, like a museum or like I was forever waiting for her turn. Nor have I done anything destructive to myself or anyone else. I realize I could still go crazy, often wonder if/when I will, but if limiting my exposure to people, places, etc. helps me get through the day, then hey, so be it.

Just breathe

I can't tell you how many times I've heard that in the past 15 months, or how many times I've told myself "just breathe." I was driving somewhere earlier this week, and heard this guy on the radio. Apparently he won some contest 15 or so years ago, which has made him semi-famous. He sang live on the radio show (which apparently is in NY?) and I loved the words to the song. Surprisingly, I also loved his voice, which isn't the case with most people singing live on the radio.

His video features people looking for work, and he's created a website to help them. Watch it or not, but definitely listen to the words. It's at breathe4jobs.com. Today is one of those days where I'm telling myself, "Keep breathing."


she's fine, most of the time
she takes her days with a smile
she moves like a dancer in lights
spinning around to the sound
sometimes she falls down

breathe, just breathe
take the world off your shoulders
and put it on me
breathe, just breathe
let the life that you live
be all that you need

she likes New York at night
she dreams of running away
shine on, bright like the sun
when even the sky turns gray
i need you to hear me say
i need you to hear me say

breathe, just breathe
take the world off your shoulders
and put it on me
breathe, just breathe
let the life that you live
be all that you need

let go of the fear
let go of the doubt
let go of the ones
who to try to put you down
you're gonna be fine
don't hold it inside
if you hurt right now
then let it all come out

breathe, just breathe
take the world off your shoulders
and put it on me
breathe, just breathe
let the life that you live
be all that you need

breathe, just breathe
take the world off your shoulders
and put it on me
breathe, just breathe
let the life that you can
be all that you need

Speechless shopping

I was telling a friend recently that I feel guilty for not talking to my toddler more when I take her out. Some of it has to do with not wanting to upset the apple cart--if we walk into a store and she's fine, then I'm not going to do anything to change that. If she's fussing, then I'll talk to her, show her things, find a way to distract her.

The other thing is, stores are full of things I wish I could show my older daughter, things she never got to see and never will. I'm literally rendered speechless as I look at the volume of things she never will see. And then I look around and see so many children, moms with their daughters, a little girl with her sister, and I'm even more stunned.

I don't know why this is happening to me now. I get so sad and so angry when I go out. It's worst when I'm shopping, because I see so many things, and so many other parents with children. If I'm at a restaurant with friends or family, then I'm occupied, and while I do think about the foods she never got to eat, the experience is somewhat more limited.

The past few weeks, I've actually come out of stores nearly in tears and/or enraged. I'm not angry AT anyone. But I admit, I often look at parents and think, "Why do you get to have that child (or those children) with you while my girl is gone?"

I have no solution, no way to overcome this feeling. For now, I try to focus on my toddler, to show her as much as possible, just as I did with her older sister. And maybe it's mostly in silence, but I'm trying.

And I remind myself that anyone looking at me would never know, might look at my toddler and think the same--how come I get to be with her, while their child is gone. It's a reminder that I never know what others have been or are going through. A reminder to be compassionate and kind, to myself at least, and to others when possible.

Keeping the suitcase closed

I haven't been to the therapist in a while, a few weeks now. And I'm not sure I'll be able to go for a couple more weeks. Part of me wants to go, and part of me doesn't.

When I first lost my daughter, I forced myself to think about her--both old memories and the events surrounding her death--constantly. As the year went on, I realized I sometimes need to put my memories aside in order to function (see my earlier posts on the subject). Now, there are days/times when I would really like to just pretend it didn't happen.

Going to the counselor makes that impossible. I've actually found myself getting anxious when I drive to her office lately. It's as if I'm in a relatively comfortable groove, and going to see her pulls me out of that. Or maybe I just fear it will, because we don't always address the grief or trauma directly.

I guess you could say I'm taking a brief from grief work. But someone told me I shouldn't completely do that. I've been thinking about that for a couple of days. Basically, she suggested that if I'm not going to the therapist, I should read some of my books on grief, post daily to my blog, write in my journal, do something so I'm not completely leaving it behind.

I'm not sure what I really want. Maybe that's what I'm doing--trying to figure out what I want. Between being busy at work and my toddler not sleeping lately, I am exhausted. And that makes it harder to know what I want (besides sleep). Sometimes thoughts of my daughter are comforting. Other times everything makes me miss her, makes me sad, angry, and exhausted.

So I think actually it's a question of figuring out what makes me feel better for now. If today I need to post here, I will. And if tomorrow I need to work like a madwoman, I will. I have learned that choosing to never open your suitcase can be really, really bad. That's what the people who never move forward do. I don't have that option--I have another child I choose to live for, live with, and for her, I must move forward.

Just one person

In an earlier post, I talked about how it felt as though it took a village to get me through the days and weeks following my daughter's death. It seemed as though it took that many people to think of all the things that needed to be done, and because everyone was in shock, it took the energy of a village to overcome the sadness, to keep all of us moving through each day.

Today, I don't need a village. I was telling a friend recently about a couple of old friends of mine who've all but disappeared. One moved to another state, so I can understand that maybe our relationship is down to the occasional card or email. The other, I'm not sure what happened. It saddened me to think that these two people are out of my life.

I remember reading somewhere (letter to Dear Abby, maybe?) about a person wondering how to help a depressed friend. The person asking was given numerous suggestions, one of which was to always return a call from that person. Seems like just good manners to me. If someone calls, I always try to call back within a day. It's even more important to return a call to someone who at times can feel completely unmoored.

I don't feel alone--that's something someone said recently when I mentioned my friends who've disappeared. I do feel like it's harder to get help than it was initally. And I don't mean help as in come babysit my child, or listen to me cry and scream, I mean just chat with me, tell me what's going in in your day and help me hold on to reality.

A year ago, no one would have told me they were busy when I called. Being busy is these days a reason to do or not do just about anything. Busy becomes very different when you've literally looked death in the face. Believe me when I say I KNOW what's important. You would think everyone who'd lived through this with me would too, but that's not the case.

I read in the book The Survivor's Club about John Kevin Hines, a man who survived a jump from the Golden Gate Bridge. In the book, he talks about how alone he felt, and how a kind word from just one person, even a stranger, would have kept him from jumping.

I understand that feeling. A drowning person only needs one person to pull her out of the water. And it doesn't matter whether she's offered a hand, a hook, or a flotation device; all of these will keep her afloat.

I have one friend who tells me to call anytime, and almost always answers when I do. If she doesn't, she calls back usually within an hour or two. I have another friend who calls regularly. We don't often talk about how I'm feeling, and I don't usually call her when I'm having an absolute breakdown. But the regularity of her presence and our relationship is a comfort.

Now mind you, I'm not expecting everyone I know to drop everything whenever I call. My point is more that maybe everyone should think about what busy means. If you were to die tomorrow, what would you regret? What if the person calling you died tomorrow?

The one thing I can say that brings me peace is that my last words to my daughter were "Love you." And she said the same to me.

Exhaustion, a form of acceptance

I woke up at 6:30 this morning to work out. At a little after 7, I suddenly realized that I had wondered whether the baby would wake up before I finished my workout, but hadn't thought about her older sister at all. And then I felt strange. And guilty. And sad. Because she's fading from my thoughts. Of all people, I should ALWAYS remember her, and I didn't.

So I thought about her, but couldn't summon the sadness or anger I often feel. Honestly, I felt tired even trying to get angry. Anger really is exhausting. Sadness isn't necessarily easier. I do think anger comes more naturally to me anyway.

Being too tired to be angry or sad, I just gave up. I didn't try to be either. I did remember how she used to come into the room while I worked out and would grab my headband and put it on her own head. She would also try to use my equipment. I remembered all this in sort of a meditative way--it came into my head and went out all on its own.

So maybe this is acceptance. Being just worn out from being angry and sad. My grandmother told me recently that I need to just accept that my daughter is gone, that life will be easier if I do. She has a good point--I certainly can't change what's happened. But I still feel as though acceptance means giving in to something, like if I accept her absence, I'm somehow saying it's OK that she's gone.

It is NOT OK. My daughter should have gotten to grow up--to go to school, to learn to drive, to have her first kiss. I'm sure the anger, like the tears, will come up again. For now though, I think I'll go with my exhaustion and "accept," at least for today, that she's just plain gone and those things will never happen.

The path you walk

Everyone walks his or her own path in this life. It's easy to look back and see where you've been. Sometimes we look forward to things ahead of us. At other times, we look ahead and don't see anything at all. Realistically, even the things we look forward to are things we imagine on our paths--we don't really know where we'll go.

There are times probably everyone wishes they could go back to an earlier time, a part of the path that was enjoyable. You can't ever really go back, but I realize now that some things can be restored. If you get a divorce, you could remarry your ex. If you sell a house, you can one day buy it back.

There's no going back for me, absolutely no way to bring my daughter back. So instead of continuing on the path I was on before, one where I looked forward to her future, I've fallen down a cliff onto a new path. I can't climb back up, and it's sometimes so dark I can't see what's in front of me. I do often look up, trying to see where I've been, but that is so hard. I can't tell you how many times I tell my husband, let's go back to the old house, as though that would restore everything.

Living "one day at a time" takes on new meaning when you're faced with crisis. For many people, it's a way to keep from being overwhelmed. There are times when I find myself living one minute at a time. One thing that helps is remembering that even though I can look back at my path, I can't walk backwards. And I can't really see or know what's ahead of me.

A favorite reading, from an anonymous author:

There are two days in every week we should not worry about, two days that should be kept free from fear and apprehension.

One is yesterday, with its mistakes and cares, its faults and blunders, its aches and pains. Yesterday has passed, forever beyond our control. All the money in the world cannot bring back yesterday. We cannot undo a single act we performed. Nor can we erase a single word we've said--yesterday is gone.

The other day we should not worry about is tomorrow, with its possible adversities, its burdens, its large promise and poor performance. Tomorrow is beyond our control. Tomorrow's sun will rise, either in splendor or behind a mask of clouds, but it will rise. And until it does, we have no stake in tomorrow, for it is yet unborn.

That leaves only one day--today. Any person can fight the battles of just one day. It is only when we add the burdens of yesterday and tomorrow that we break down. It is not the experience of today that drives people mad, it is the remorse or bitterness of something that happened yesterday, and the dread of what tomorrow may bring.

Let us, therefore, live one day at a time.

I had some practice with this before losing my daughter. I did it in the extreme the day she died and in the days and weeks that followed. Now, over a year later, I have to remind myself that I can and should still do this. The remorse, bitterness, and dread of yesterday and tomorrow could easily drive me crazy. I have to focus on this part of the path, one day at a time, one minute at a time, to keep walking.

Burning the pink rose candle

The day I lost my daughter, I couldn't imagine living without her. Which meant I couldn't imagine living at all. My baby girl, she saved my life by forcing me to eat (to breastfeed her) and made me get out of bed (to get her when she woke) and I love her for that. Initially, I also resented her. Not that it was her choice to be alive, or to need a mother. I wished I could just disappear.

I've heard so many words describe parents who've lost children. Victims, recovery, survive. I don't really like any of those. Here's why.

Erma Bombeck was a columnist who was famous for her humorous columns, mostly relating to being a mom and wife. She passed away in 1996. One of her columns, written many years before her death, outlined what she would do if she could start over. One of the things she mentions is that she would burn the pink rose candle, instead of seeing it get melted and ruined.

I read the column years ago, and at the time, saw it as a push to live every day as though it was your last. Thinking about it again today, I also realized that life should be lived as though it will go on forever. Hug your friends, enjoy them, show them how much you love them. Eat cottage cheese, AND eat ice cream--do what's healthy for your body and fun for you. Burn the rose candle--what on earth are you saving it for?

Getting back to my daughter--I know that at least for now, everything has sort of a gray haze over it. The happiest of events are colored by the fact that my firstborn isn't here to enjoy them. But that isn't what I want my younger daughter to remember. I want her to feel just as important, valued, and in the end, happy as my older daughter.

I always say a child's reaction to injury is half what actually happens and half how the adults react. So I try to react to what I think is probably the greatest injury our family will ever face in such a way that she isn't left in a gray haze. And maybe someday, the fog will lift. It certainly feels better than it did a year ago. Burning a pink rose candle may be one way to bring light into the dark.

Asking Why

I was talking to someone the other day about asking why. Why did my daughter die so young? Why did she die at all? Why me? Is there life after death? If so, what form does it take? Do we all die when it's our time? Is there such a thing as an untimely death?

I've asked myself these questions and many others over and over again since my daughter died. There was a point when I thought that if I could decide what the answers (MY answers, at least) were, I would find some sort of peace. Eventually, I stopped asking because I wasn't coming up with any answers.

Two conclusions--first, no one can prove to me that a person dies at the time s/he is supposed to and second, I can't know what the afterlife is or isn't until I'm there. Thinking about it was only making my head hurt.

Do I lack faith? Yes, probably. I know there is more to this world, this life than what can be seen with my eyes and proven by hard science. Isn't that faith? I question everything though. Losing my daughter didn't strengthen my belief in these things that can't be seen. Then again, it didn't really weaken it.

In talking to this person just a day or two ago, I finally realized that even if I had definitive answers to all of my questions, I would still be angry and sad. My daughter would still be gone, and in the end, that's all that matters.

So I've made a tentative peace, with faith, with questions, and the lack of answers.

Chemical exhaustion

I've been wondering when this exhaustion, this feeling of being absolutely worn out will pass. Or IF it will. My therapist told me today that the feeling is chemical, physical, related to serotonin levels, which are affected by loss, grieving, and all the other stress I've faced. In most people, healing happens (physical, emotional, etc.) but that isn't always the case.

I was looking for more information, and found an article on complicated grief. It's interesting, I feel like I half fit the description. My longing to see my daughter again is so strong, I can feel it, see it, taste it. But I don't think grieving has stripped me of my humanity, as the article describes. It is hard to be interested in things. Maybe that's not a bad thing--I've always tended towards being a control freak, towards only participating in things I can do really well, or am really interested in. Maybe now I can sit back and let some of the world go by.

Would that be considered healing? I have no idea.

Now I have it in my head that when I finally feel at least somewhat rested after a good night's sleep, healing will have begun. I suspect, however, that this may take several more months, or even years. My daughter's death has become oddly abstract, as has her life. It took a lot of energy to change paths, to go from imaging the future with her, to imaging a future that includes her in my past, her death, and her absence from my future.

I'm still doing that. How do you let go of an imagined future? I think once I figure that out, I can call it healing. The day she died, I knew that only time would really make any difference. That's not entirely true--other people, things they've done and said, and things I've done or tried to do have helped. Counseling has helped. Just participating in life has helped.

But everything happens over time, so once again, hopefully over time, my chemical imbalance will be taken care of somehow.

Gathering my thoughts

I realized this morning that I really am quite scattered in a variety of ways. Losing my daughter was like carrying a stack of books and papers and suddenly running smack into someone who knocks everything out of your hands. Most of the time, someone who does that is courteous enough to help you pick things up. Not so in this case.

Initially, I left the jumbled pile where it was and fled. Literally. We (as a family) traveled all over the place--to a friend's house 40 minutes away, to another state--just trying to get away from our house that no longer held a young child's sounds, activities, and things. I didn't know how to pass the time.

When I returned to work, I was forced to start picking up the pieces. I'd like to think I had help. Friends who listened to me when I was freaking out about being in that house, having to think straight, missing my daughter, or just needed to vent all helped. Eventually, I got to the point where I was carrying some of my stuff again. It was still jumbled, but at least I had a grip on it.

This morning, I was thinking that I've probably managed to pick up most of the pieces. There's still a pile on the floor, but maybe I can leave some of it there. And what I'm carrying around is still a jumbled mess, but like my desk, I'm usually able to sort through the junk and find what I need. For now, that has to be good enough.

No more dreams or nightmares

I'm back home after being out of town for several days. It's a relief--I have my baby back in sight and am at least a tiny bit less anxious. But it's also a disappointment. I realized this morning that resuming my routine means it's reality. I can't imagine that I'll come home and both my girls will be here.

I didn't even realize I was hoping that until this morning. My husband asked why I would imagine that, and I told him because I WANT to. I WANT that to be reality.

Being away made reality attack me, but it also made my imagined life a possibility. I guess when you're not home, it can almost be whatever you want it to be.

In the movie Akeelah and the Bee, Laurence Fishburne coaches Akeelah to win the national spelling bee. He's an odd, isolated character in the movie. It turns out his young daughter died years earlier. He says at one point that he needs structure and predictability. I didn't realize what he meant until I went away. The lack of structure made my thoughts go haywire.

Returning to structure and routine are, well, somewhat disappointing. But leaving reality isn't an option (not to me) so given a choice, structure and routine are the best form of reality I can hope for.

I want to know!

So many of my friends have supported me in a variety of friends ever since I lost my daughter. They've done everything from driven me to appointments to just been there when I didn't want to be alone. And now that over a year has passed, I'm trying to repay them.

To me, paying attention and remembering things about people are among the highest of compliments. If you actually remember a story I tell you about work, or where I'm going for a conference, it shows me you care enough to pay attention and store it in your memory.

I confess, my memory has been really bad since my daughter died. In the first few weeks, I couldn't remember anything, and that was OK since there were so many people around helping out. Now, since I choose to continue to live life (not just survive) I'm forced to remember everything from when and what bills to pay, to when my daughter's playdate is this weekend.

Friends seem...reluctant to tell me things. Some seem to not want to tell me anything. Maybe they feel they should just listen and that anything they tell me would be overwhelming, or unimportant. It's not true--my friends, their trials and tribulations, vacations, children's accomplishments--all of it is important, and I want to know!

The caveat is, my memory still isn't great. If you tell me you're going to the beach in July, I'll probably ask you several times where and when you're going, remembering only that you're going somewhere later this summer.

I'm working on it and hope to get better. In the meantime, just know that I (meaning, anyone who's lost a child or suffered trauma) want to be involved and informed about others' lives, and be gentle to me if I have trouble remembering everything.

Fears

I'm away from my baby for the first time since she was born. She's 14 months old, weaned, toddling, and signing, so it's not as if she NEEDS ME. Her father, the nanny, and others can take care of her at this point. And I'm not afraid that something will happen because I'm gone. I've learned that even if I'm there, I can't necessarily prevent things from happening.

What I fear is that something will happen to her, and unlike my other daughter, I won't be around to say goodbye. I know of other parents who've experienced that. I know that for me, losing my other daughter is the only thing that could be worse than what's already happened.

In the book Survivor's Club (which I just started reading), it seems many of the people survived incredible situations because they had someone to survive for. My baby girl is my reason. But when I think that she doesn't need me, I guess it gets that much harder to hold on. My daughter died and the world didn't stop. It kept right on moving. And because of my baby, I decided to keep moving with it, to keep her moving. Without her, it's really tough.

My husband suggested I bring her and the nanny, but I didn't want to do that to either of them. I know now it probably would have given me some peace. Someday though, I have to let go. I might as well start now.

What the Body Remembers

I think this is a title of a book. It's come to mind many times in the past few months. Initially, everything reminded me of my daughter and her death, and everything upset me. After a while, it was the predictable things that upset me--a pair of her shoes that hadn't been put out of sight, seeing a mother with two girls--and then I got used to those. I was able to brace myself.

Now, I don't always know what will upset me, what will remind me of her or her death. I do know that it's not limited to one sense--sight, sound, etc. I was at the therapist's office a couple of months ago. The therapist had me doing a relaxation exercise where I tensed up each area of my body and then released it several times. When I tensed up my neck and shoulders, I suddenly remembered that the day she died, my neck got really stiff. And suddenly, I was back at the moment when that happened.

I almost stopped and said, I can't do this. But I wanted to try, so I stuck with it, tried to focus on the instructions, and it passed. Now I know that even though I felt numb at the time, I experienced her death, that day, everything with all of my senses. And that explains why I can be doing almost anything and suddenly burst into tears. A sight, a sound, a smell, the way the air feels on a cool day can remind me of her or that day.

I've gotten one piece of great advice from my counselor to help pull myself out of those memories. Focus on the present, by reciting facts like my name, the date, my address, and if possible, touch something and concentrate on that texture. It really helps.

What I still haven't figured out is whether I'm supposed to keep pulling myself out of the memories. Sometimes I do let myself go with them, until I feel such despair that I fear if I don't stop remembering, I will literally go insane. I do at least know that it's not always conscious. I have to live my life, and I can't avoid anything I fear might bring up memories. I don't even know what all of those things are.

The good news--my body also remembers holding my girl, when she was a baby, a toddler, and a big girl I had to hoist above my pregnant belly which held her little sister. Sometimes I forget those things too, but pictures and video of her help. And at times, even that makes me sad, but holding on to her in these ways is never a bad thing.

Go easy on yourself (AKA Responsibility)

I've been trying to figure out how to go easy on myself. My counselor told me I'm hard on myself, which is true. I have high expectations of myself and this probably spreads to my expectations for others. It's really tiring. I've been trying to figure out how to go easy on myself.

I think it comes down to me not taking so much responsibility. I generally take responsibility for everything, even things that probably aren't my responsibility. I pay my bills on my time, I went to school (lots of school) like I was supposed to (according to my family, society, etc.), I teach my children manners, I recycle...on and on. To me, these are all signs of responsibility.

Responsibility is exhausting. Specific to this blog, I keep thinking of the responsibilities I have in relation to my daughter's death. A therapist once told me that you can't change something you don't take responsibility for. If I take responsibility for it, I can convince myself that I could have changed something, done something just a little differently. As I said, this is exhausting.

With respect to other things/situations, it's the same. If you take responsibility and think you can change someone or something, you exhaust yourself trying to make things better.

So for now, I've decided to back off on taking responsibility. For everything, anyway. I'm going to work on letting go of things I can't control. My plan is to take this to the semi-extreme, at least for the weekend. So far, just thinking about this has made me feel a little better. This should be the practice of focusing on myself, listening to my needs. I did this in the extreme after my daughter's death. It gets easier to be hard on yourself once you're out of crisis mode.

For a weekend, I can pretend I'm in crisis mode and let go of responsibility.

A couple of weeks ago, I saw a man I work with who lost his son just before Thanksgiving. He's always been a strong personality, in the middle of everything (as his job dictates), loud and in charge. But when I saw him this time, I noticed a change. He looked...quieter. Subdued. I don't know if someone can LOOK quieter, but that's the word that comes to mind.

And I wondered if I look quieter. I know I am quieter--don't participate in discussions (with friends or collagues) as readily. Even if I have something to say, I'll wait and see if anyone else says it, and then speak only if I feel the thought really needs to be expressed.

It's as if losing my daughter has led me to measure my words, movements, even thoughts. Or maybe there's so much going on under the surface that I try my best to keep the outside under control.

I wonder too, whether I seem so different to people who know me. Losing my daughter changed who I am, just as having her changed me. My one hope is that it didn't make me a lesser person, somehow. I fear my younger daughter getting a lesser version of me. As always, I believe some of that is up to me, is a choice I can make. The experience of losing my daughter has affected me in some immeasurable, unchangeable way though. I wonder if anyone can see or hear that.

The Second Year

I've heard from other parents who've lost children that the second year is sometimes harder than the first. I thought it was mostly because the shock wears off and you start to feel everything more intensely. I'm not sure that's it though.

I thought I'd be relieved at getting through the anniversary of my daughter's death. Like it was a milestone of accomplishment. Instead I feel worn out. I think back to all of the things I've gone through in the past year--losing my daughter, planning her memorial, moving, traveling, other things I don't care to share--and all while nursing and caring for an infant. It's exhausting. More than I did in the 5 years before.

How on earth do you recover from that? By recover, I mean get your strength back. I feel like I had the strength to get through the past year. Where do I find the strength for the next one?

To forget

I realized today that neither my parents nor my in-laws called, sent cards, or even mentioned the anniversary of my daughter's death. My brother-in-law did call, as did many of my friends. All I can think is that it's easier for them to not think about it. As I wrote previously, what I wanted was for my daughter to be remembered. It's painful to think that they don't want to remember her. I know for my mother-in-law, the memories lead more to the painful ones for now than the joyous ones.

And I think maybe that's what grief is for. If you can grieve, a little at a time, in whatever way works for you, eventually you can come around to those good memories and try to put those into their own suitcase. I believe that's what therapy and the company and understanding of my friends is doing for me. My mother-in-law put away all of the pictures of my daughter after her death. She doesn't like to even hear her name because it makes her sad.

It makes me sad to think about pretending she never existed. I'm not going to force our families to talk about her. They are of the generation (and perhaps cultures) that don't believe in talking about things. Just hide it and move on. But that's not me. So I'll let it go. Friends are the family you choose. My chosen family did call, did talk, and for now, they're the ones I'll remember her with.

The day after

A couple of people asked me what was the worst thing that could happen on the one-year anniversary of my daughter's death. Initially, I would say reliving the event. Then I realized that I actually fear something else bad happening on the same day. I have another child, and my worst fear now is losing her.

The night before, I had trouble sleeping. I wasn't upset, and didn't have trouble falling asleep. I woke up at the slightest sound, however, and couldn't fall back asleep. Oddly enough, I wasn't exhausted in the morning.

On the first anniversary of my daughter's death, I got tons of phone calls and emails. During the day, my daughter was here, along with the nanny and her boyfriend. When they left in the afternoon, I did feel a bit strange, but phone calls kept me company. When my daughter woke up, we left the house. In the evening, friends brought dinner over and kept us company until bedtime.

I thought I would want to pretend it was just any other day and hope it passed quickly. My worst fear was that I would remember all of the things that happened a year ago and in the weeks that followed.

On that day, I realized my worst fear was that no one would remember all that had happened. I want my daughter to be remembered, and I guess I want others to remember all we went through (together). For me, that means she will never be forgotten.

Thank you to everyone who called, emailed, and thought about us yesterday. We made it, and I couldn't have done it without you.

Anticipation and anniversaries

On the anniversary of a happy occasion, you remember the occasion, try to recreate the feelings, and are excited to be celebrating again. On the anniversary of an unhappy occasion, well, I suppose you mostly try to pretend it's not that day.

Objectively, I know nothing will happen on the one-year anniversary of my daughter's death, May 21, 2010. But subjectively, I'm anxious, and I find myself remembering the events of that day and the week or so afterward, when I was just trying to get through each day without losing my mind. And as I've said before, this time I'm doing it without the cushion of shock.

I had a session with my counselor today. She asked me to revisit some of those memories, to just let things come up. It was horrible--I was right back there, reliving everything. When I think about my daughter, remember things she said and did, places I took her to, I'm watching it all like a movie. The good thing is, my counselor had me envision the events as though I were watching them on a stage, and I was able to remove myself.

That doesn't take away the memories or change what happened, but as she's told me before, it helps make them more like a black and white movie instead of color. I still have the feelings, but they're not quite as intense.

I have to get through the next two days, and then it will be May 22. I will be safe.

Tired

One of the grief books I read said that a parent who loses a child requires so much energy to just get out of bed in the morning and remember that the child is gone, that everything else is exhausting. I've found this is true for me. But maybe I'm not as exhausted as some, or maybe in a different way.

Getting out of bed was a struggle for a long time. If I stayed in bed, I could almost convince myself that she was still in her room asleep. After moving out of that house though, it was impossible to think that. I do still wake up every morning and remember that she's gone, though it's not always the first thing I think of.

And I am tired. Not so tired that I can't work. I had to go back to work last July. The first few months were really tough. I couldn't concentrate, and I hated still being in that house all day (I work full-time from home). But then we moved, and I got more into what I was doing, and working got a little easier.

There are still days when it gets tough. Like today--I'm having trouble concentrating, keep thinking about my birthday tomorrow and the anniversary of her death a week from today. Sadness and anger really wear me out. So I think I'll try some yoga, and sleep in, and maybe curl up somewhere and read a book.

That, I think is part of recovery. Giving your body, mind, and heart time to rest.

Breakeven

I've been hearing this song on the radio a lot. It is, like many others, about a romantic breakup. But parts of it really speak to me, so I'm pasting them here. The song is Breakeven, by Script.

They say bad things happen for a reason
But no wise words gonna stop the bleeding
Cos she's moved on while I'm still grieving
And when a heart breaks no it don't breakeven even... no

What am I gonna to do when the best part of me was always you,
And what am I supposed to say when I'm all choked up that you're ok
I'm falling to pieces, yeah,
I'm falling to pieces, yeah,
I'm falling to pieces
(One still in love while the other ones leaving)
I'm falling to pieces
(Cos when a heart breaks no it don't breakeven)

Guilt

Several months ago, a man who'd lost his teenage son told me that one day, I would feel guilty for not thinking about my daughter. He's right. On the rare occasion when I find myself doing something mundane and not feeling the intense pain, I suddenly feel bad. I also feel bad sometimes having fun with my baby. After all, how can we have fun when we're missing someone so important, and lived through something so horrible?

The other reason I feel guilty is because I fear she'll be forgotten. I've already forgotten her. Not the little things she did or said, not the way she looked or sounded, but the true essence of her. After she died, we tried to keep the smell on her clothes, in her sheets, but it eventually went away. It's the same with her essence--who she really was, what it felt like to hold her--I remember these things, but can no longer conjure up the feelings at will.

How do you get rid of the guilt? Well, the man told me one other thing, probably because he realized that I would one day need to know. If my child could talk to me, she would tell me not to feel this way. She wouldn't want me to feel bad at all (she actually cried when she thought I was sad) and she wouldn't want me to keep from having fun with her little sister.

I'm human, and I can't help feeling sad or guilty. I do try to picture my daughter talking to me, and I'm pretty sure she would try to make me smile. And I do, as much as I can.

It takes a village

It takes a village to raise a child, according to an old African proverb. It's true--raising a child is much easier when you have help. I learned this when family and friends came to my aid the day my firstborn died. I still had a baby to care for. I had mostly taken care of her on my own, with the help of my husband and a nanny, since all our family lives out of state.

That day, I could barely take care of myself. Both my girls were breastfed, and the younger was even more resistant to a bottle (even of expressed breastmilk) than her older sister. So I kept nursing her. When she'd get hungry, whoever had her would bring her to me. I'd nurse her, then hand her off. She'd sleep happily in the arms of a female friend or family member, or nestled against the chest of a man.

I felt bad for not being there for her for many days, but grateful for all the help. With that, I realized that it's taken a village to raise me, too. Well, not raise me, exactly, but to get me through the day.

Keeping busy has helped me keep going. And I kept busy by talking to other people--on the phone, in person--we were driving and flying all over the place for the remaining weeks of my maternity leave. Once it was over and I went back to work, I still needed others to get me through the day. I couldn't travel, but was still on the phone, got emails, and visited people often.

Now, nearly a year later, I still think it takes a village. To raise a child, and to get through life. It's harder to say we need that unless we're faced with crisis. But once you are, if you can ask for and accept help, I think your chances are that much better of getting through the tough days.

A friend told me early on that I should just let others know that I needed to be told what to do. Initially, that was completely true. I had to be told to get dressed, to eat, to drive somewhere. And now, as I approach my daughter's death anniversary, I'm feeling that need again. I don't think there's anything wrong with that. It's odd for someone who's so self-directed, independent, and capable to ask others to tell her what to do, but I'm fine with it and even looking forward to it in some ways.

My baggage

I've been thinking more about what I wrote in my previous post about my baggage, the suitcase I can choose to open or not. I know there are times when I can't think about my daughter at all, almost any memory causes pain. But I don't want to associate her life with her death forever. Thinking about her death IS bad, it was a horrible event, with a tragic, unchangeable result. Her life, on the other hand, was beautiful and special and I shouldn't necessarily associate it with her death or want to avoid it.

So now I'm thinking I've got not one but two suitcases. Maybe even several. But two that relate to my daughter. One carries her life, the other the events surrounding her death. And I can choose to open one, both, or neither.

I've done this literally--in my closet, I have two boxes containing her stuff. One is full of clothes, books, toys and other things that are so HER that I know I'll never let my other daughter use them. The other contains items related to her death--the shorts she was wearing, the cards from her memorial, the clothes I wore to her memorial. I never open that box, and I don't think I ever will. But someday, when my other daughter asks about it, at least it's there for her to see if she wants.

I guess that's the purpose of everyone's baggage--it has to go with you so you don't forget. It's part of your experience, who you are, how you respond to life. But you don't have to open it up and use the things within it all the time. I suppose this goes back to what I've said about choices. This is one of my choices, and choosing to keep one or both of my suitcases closed sometimes helps me get through a day.